Writers are alchemists, turning mere words into gold, weaving tapestries of imagination.  Whether etching sonnets or code, the love of writing is a compass, guiding us through the labyrinth of existence. It whispers, “You are here; you matter.” And so, we write—because within these sentences, we discover echoes of our own souls.

My love of writing started in high school.  My problem is I’m never satisfied and always too critical of myself to ever let anyone read my musings.  And when I would win an award in high school, I would be so embarrassed that I would do anything I could to disguise my works or just avoid everyone, hahaha.  Recently I went to a high school reunion and low and behold, someone had one of my short stories and a couple poems out on a table with other students works that had been written in 1973 and 1974.  And when I re-read them I was amazed at myself.  Then somehow my older sister came across some of my poems and said she wanted them and praised me again.  I don’t know what has changed other than just getting older and not caring one iota any more about what people think or say.  It’s therapy for me to jot down words that mean something at the time, and if someone reading them happens to identify then all the better…  and yes, I have a severe inferiority complex.