Sneak Peak At Heritage And Honor

I mentioned that I’m writing a novel. Well, I want to give you a little excerpt from one of my chapters. My story takes place in 1887 Montana and the working title is Heritage and Honor. Here's a synopsis:


Donning trousers and wearing a gun wasn’t conventional in Charlotte Mason’s world. But how else could she rope and brand cattle? Besides, Charley wasn’t a conformist. Although the traditions of family, truth and honor were as much a part of her as the Montana earth she was raised on. She’d be damned if the two men claiming to be her brothers would destroy any of it.

 Morgan Ramsey and his brother Warren knew the only way they’d get their revenge on the Mason’s was to strike from the inside. They had it all planned too. But Morgan hadn’t reckoned on Charley. She made his blood ride high. Now he had more secrets to keep than he cared to count. Each day with the Mason heiress brought him closer to damnation—or was it salvation.





  From Chapter 3:

       Charley gained a foothold on the pond’s rocky bottom. She freed her face from long, wet strands of hair, then looked at the man standing on shore.
     His arms were crossed over his wide chest, his legs in a wide stance. He was the handsome stranger from the saloon. Charley’s legs turned to jelly as she precariously balanced on jagged rocks. “You! What are you doing?”
     “I was riding by and saw a horse. Then I saw you. Thought you might need rescuing.”
     “As you can plainly see, I’m in no need of saving.” As soon as she finished speaking, Charley slipped on a rock and went under water. Resurfacing and spitting water, she heard his rumble of laughter. She felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment.
     “Really? Are you sure you aren’t drowning?” His taunting grated on her nerves, especially since she was naked and shoulder deep in water.
     “I’m sure,” she told him through clenched teeth.
     He uncrossed his arms.“Perhaps I should assist.” He took a step forward.“In case you go under again.”
     Charley held up her hands. “That won’t be necessary. I can assure you.” 
     “I wouldn’t want—”
     “Do you mind?”
     His eyebrows creased. “Mind what?”
     She smacked the water with her hands, making a splash that didn’t reach him.“I’d like to get dressed.”
     He laughed, then looked around until he spotted her clothes. He walked over to the pile and picked it up. “These yours?” He held her clothes in his hands.
     “You know they are.”
     He smiled. It worked slowly across his face until it reached his eyes, leaving a devilish flicker. “You want them? Come get them.”
     Charley wanted to slap the grin off his roguish face. But the gauntlet had been thrown and Charley didn’t run from a challenge. She took a deep breath, to give herself inner strength, then slowly walked out of the pond, her eyes locked with his.
    His smile disappeared as he watched her walk onto the shore. His mouth and jaw tightened when she stopped and stood in front of him.


 

Almost There

You may not know this, but I wrote a novel. I did. A long time ago. That novel has been through a couple creative writing courses with me and a couple evaluations. I stuffed it in a folder and put it in my file cabinet.

 It sat.

 And it sat.

 Then last September I read something that said write what you like to read. I knew my novel’s conflict and plot were what I liked. After all, I wrote them. So I pulled out my manuscript and read it. 

I laughed.

To keep myself from crying.

 There was no freaken way any agent would sell it.

 It’s not a bad story line, but I was telling, not showing. It needed some major editing. But where the heck could I get help?

 Aw, Google!

 I found Critique Circle, and I joined. At first I only critiqued. Then after a month, I got up enough nerve to post my first chapter. I have to tell you, I received more information and knowledge about writing from that chapter than all the courses I had taken! I was hooked. So I posted chapters two, three and four. And the results were the same. Great advice and suggestions. I took those four chapters and the suggestions I received and got to work.

 I am proud to say that I just finished chapter twenty. I’m almost done—ten more to go! That might not seem like a big deal to some. To me. It’s a huge deal.

 I have no idea where this will lead. In my heart of hearts, I hope publication. My dream has always been to get a book published. However, once it’s complete—I mean really complete—I won’t be afraid to let people read it. I’ll probably threaten beg people to.

 Right now, I’m proud I got this far. Writing a novel is a long process, even if you love writing. I’ll be even more proud when I polish off the last ten chapters. I say this because as I’ve told you, I don’t manage my personal time very well. I suck at it, truth be told.

 Maybe one day I’ll be asking you all to read my completed manuscript. Or better yet, my book. That would be so awesome, yes?

 Until then, wish me luck on these last chapters.

 

I'm Not Perfect, But I Love To Write

I just got a new book, If You Can Talk, You Can Write. At first glance, I thought, No way! I can’t possibly write everything I WANT to say. I’d lose all my friends and for sure uninspire everyone!

Then I began reading the book and realized it’s not about writing uncensored. It’s about writing like we talk and banishing our inner critic. I like the idea of banishing my inner critic. It’s been too loud lately. Ha! Who am I kidding. It’s been loud all my life.

 But lately I can’t seem to write a darn thing I like. No matter what I write—Nope, not good enough. Or, Nope, that’s boring. And if I do manage to get a piece done, I rip it apart. I’m terribly hard on myself. I think it has to be perfect. Whatever that even means.

 Oh, and when I don’t write—which is often— I tell myself it’s writer’s block. Well, the author, Joel Saltzman, says that writer’s block is really perfectionist’s block. It’s a way for us perfectionists to avoid writing because we never think it’s good enough, or it’s never going to be good enough. We make excuses: We have to research. Answer emails. Pour another cup of coffee. Rewrite that scene.

 Bingo! That’s so me! So now that I know the problem, I can fix it.

 No, I lied.

 I can attempt to fix it.

Hello, I’m Pamela and I’m a perfectionist and it’s going to take time to fix my tendency to want to be perfect. And I may never fix it. I may have to accept that I’ll always want to be perfect but I won’t ever be perfect.

In the meantime, I have to let go and do what I love and that’s write. No matter what it’s about—just write.

 So, here I am—writing, because it brings me happiness.

 What makes you happy?

 

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  I got this idea from a writing prompt here. It said: You need to sell this vehicle. Advertise it in an enticing way. 


I don’t know about any of you, but I don’t believe there is any way anyone could entice ME to purchase THAT vehicle, even with s’mores, hot dogs or a years supply of Starbucks lattes thrown in! 


Since there’s already a guy sitting in that car, I think it can go without saying (even though I’m writing it) there’s an ass for every seat.


 

The Rival

He walked into the loud jam-packed tavern. Wall-to-wall people, he thought to himself. His huge size could be daunting, considering he stood a good head taller than just about every man in the room, which meant he didn’t have to push his way through the crowd to get to the bar; the mass automatically opened a pathway for him: like the Red Sea parting for Moses.

 He placed an elbow on the mahogany surface of the bar and a black boot on the gold foot rail near the floor and watched the scene around him. Men flirting with women, women flirting with men. Many he knew, but his dark brown eyes sought only one and they stopped their quest when they landed on their quarry.

 She was across the room, her back to him, so she didn’t see him or his penetrating gaze. She was taller than average and prettier, too. That’s what caught his attention at the beginning. It wasn’t what held his interest though. It was the way she carried herself, as if she were royalty. She was stunning, but beauty only got a woman so far.

 This one was also the epitome of sophistication and had more intelligence than a lot of men he knew and she wasn’t afraid to show it, either. Although she executed that without making anyone feel deficient. So much dignity all rolled into one beautiful package.

 Oh, and her laughter! He couldn’t forget that! It touched his ears and made his heart skip as it filled the room like skilled fingers gliding on piano keys. Her smile could blind a person and it mesmerized him, like the sun’s rays glistening over a lake on a clear day. She certainly was rare; a precious jewel.

 He couldn’t remember the last time a woman captivated him the way she had. Maybe that was the problem. She was the first. He couldn’t get enough of her. And he was totally content just watching her.

 No, that was a lie. He wanted more than that.

 Much more.

She was like a virus—contagious and toxic. The more he was around her, the more he needed to be near her. He knew she wasn’t aware of the affect she had on him, because even though she was sophisticated, she had a natural naiveté. The world hadn’t contaminated her with its pretentiousness. Or maybe she hadn’t let it. Either way, he didn’t think she had a deceptive bone in her slender body and he liked that the most about her.

 She turned, glanced his way and their eyes met. He held the intangible contact for a few seconds before smiling and then looking away. He had to. If he didn’t, he’d go to her and he couldn’t do that. He yearned to hold her. He craved to be the one she laughed at. The one she smiled for.

 Then why? Why didn’t he tell her his true feelings?

 Then he felt it.

 His answer.

 His brother’s hand on his shoulder.

 He couldn’t have her for she already belonged to another.





 

Another Part Of My Journey

One of my biggest fears is the fear of rejection. Not of ME, of my writing. I’ve written two children’s stories, two romance novels, short stories and flash fiction—none of which have seen the light of day.

I think the reason I worry more about my writing being rejected is because it’s such a profound part of me. I believe every writer’s craft is his baby and if it’s not received well, it’s as if his child has been offended, which, in my opinion, is a lot worse than one’s self being wounded. I can handle condemnation of MYSELF, goodness knows I’ve had enough of it in my lifetime, however, if my writing is criticized…well, let’s just say I’ve always been afraid of THAT.

I’ve finally come to the conclusion that I can’t let this fear stop my creative process. Plus I think I’m undergoing a metamorphosis of sorts. I’ve been on a personal journey for awhile now and I believe that part of that journey is to face my fears. And what’s the worst that can happen if I send out my work? It gets rejected. So what. Stephen King was rejected forty-one times before HE was published.

 It’s not like a publisher or agent is going to advertise that I suck. They’ll just send a letter or slip saying nope, not for us. I can save it in a folder, frame it or burn it in my chiminea. But if I don’t at least TRY, I’m failing without even leaving the gate.

 I don’t know if I have talent for short stories, memoirs, novels, blogging, or heck maybe I have none at all. All I DO know is I NEED to write. I have stories running through my head ALL the time. They scream to be written; I can’t silence them. I’ve tried NOT writing, but I couldn’t do it for more than a day. I’m always writing something, or typing. I still have a typewriter, for goodness sake!

 I don’t know where this path will take me or where I’ll end up. I just know something is calling me and it’s louder than it’s ever been and if I don’t answer it, I’ll go nuts. Well, nuttier than I already am.

With all that being said, and a lot left unsaid, I’m going to post some of my work here, on my blog. What I need from YOU is complete honesty. Yes, honesty. If you don’t like it, my grammar is bad, dialogue doesn’t flow, or something just doesn’t sound right, I need YOU to give me your opinion. Yes, I know I said I was afraid, but that’s why I’m doing this. I need to face my fear and what better way than on the World Wide Web!

 Stay tuned for the first flash fiction story, The Rival, coming soon.



 

Meet Me On Monday ~ I Lose Good Posts

I come up with the best posts at night, in my bed, when I’m half asleep. I tell myself that I should roll over, turn on my bed side lamp, grab my notebook and pen and write them down, but I’m just too darn tired. So, I tell myself that I WILL remember the awesome ass post in the morning.

Alas, morning comes, the puppy’s yappy because she heard my alarm clock and knows I SHOULD be up and she has to pee, the other one is dancing around the bed because she likes to go outside and eat poop, and the other is still lying on the bed because she’s just plain lazy.

 I stumble out of bed and into the kitchen, half blind with sleep—I’m so not a morning person— and just barely make a pot of coffee without spilling coffee grinds all over the counter as the dogs all dance around my ankles and I’m utterly surprised I haven’t fallen on my butt as I make my way to the door to let their wiggly butts outside. 

 As they are doing their business, I try REALLY hard to recall my awesome ass post from the night before. ARGH! Can’t for the life of me even remember the first damn line, let alone the jist of the thing! Shit! Speaking of which, Madea is waiting for Kommit to take one. 

“Madea, NO poop eating!” I yell out the door. My neighbors already think I’m a nut, but this is just MY normal morning routine. I really have to get some of that stuff that makes poop taste bad. Oh, geez. That’s just wrong on more levels than I can count this early in the morning. But seriously, does poop EVER taste good? 

 I digress. 

 I have lost so many good posts while being half asleep. Well, at least I think they are good. Maybe they aren’t. Maybe I only think they are. Kinda like I think I sound really awesome singing to my car radio. Maybe my posts only SOUND good in MY groggy-sleep-filled brain but in reality they are stupid. There’s only one way to find out. 

I need a voice recorder. 

As soon as one of these good posts hit me, I can pull out my recorder from beneath my pillow, turn it on and begin speaking into it. That’s a lot easier than writing it down, don’t ya think? I certainly do. Anyway, I’ll just talk away until I finish the post or fall asleep. In the morning, after I’m done making coffee while the dogs dance around my legs, going potty and eating poop, I can listen to my voice—which I’m positive will sound horrible, because I don’t like my recorded voice, however, the words will be there and I can rewind and fast forward, or erase if it’s just a terrible post after all. 

 So, my goal for this week—buy a voice recorder. Too bad it can’t be a voice recorder-changer. I’d like to have a soft voice instead of my scratchy one. Oh well, it is what it is. I’ll let you know how my experiment works out. Good or bad, I’ll write it all down in a post and you all can vote on it. 

Good thing I’m not super sensitive and have no problem making fun of my own self! Because goodness only knows how this is going to turn out and I want total honesty and since you all like me and will tell me the truth...it will be interesting if nothing else!

Come Visiting With Me

Today I’m doing my very FIRST guest post at All Fooked Up!

 Lynn, the author of All Fooked Up, has a weekly column called Go Ahead, Amuse Me, where she picks a reader’s submission that she considers amusing and this week—it’s ME!

 So, click on over to All Fooked Up and see if I amuse YOU too!

 

Everyone Deserves A Good-Bye

**This week's prompt at Red Writing Hood is to write a piece in which an epitaph (a brief poem or other writing in praise of a deceased person) features prominently – in 500 words or less. I am over the 500 word limit. I did make a few changes, but feel if I omit anymore it will detract from its significance.**






When my bio-mother passed away July 13, 2004, I couldn’t help but think there would be no eulogy. That knowledge made me feel sad, because even though I hadn’t referred to her as “Mum” in years and didn’t “love” her, she was a person and deserved SOMEONE to say SOMETHING!

I wracked my brains. WHAT could I say to the woman who bore me but had given me so much pain?

 I cleared my mind and came up with this, which I did read at the church:

~

 Many of you know that the relationship I had with my mother was rocky, to say the least. There were many years of my adult life that we didn’t even speak to one another. I’m not going to soil her memory with the whys. Rather, I’m going to share with you some of the good things I remember about my mother.

She loved music. Not in the manner a musician loves it, she loved lyrics. If a song had lyrics that meant something to her, she would listen to the song repeatedly while rocking in her treasured rocking chair.

My mother had a very pleasant singing voice. I can recall her singing to us as children while swinging on the swing in our yard, or sitting on her lap in her rocking chair. The song that I remember most is Frog Went A Courtin’. When she sang to us, she put her heart into it and you could almost visualize Froggie knocking on Miss Mouse’s door.

She was very animated and spontaneous and shared her sense of humor with us many times.  She was blessed with a vivid imagination, a gift few possess, and she definitely missed her calling as she could’ve written a blockbuster novel.

She loved nice clothes, and took great pride in how she looked. As a young girl and even a teenager, I remember my mother fixing her hair and putting on make-up. I used to watch her, and as many young girls, couldn’t wait until it was my turn to wear lipstick. I wanted to be grown up and wear some of her clothes. I recall one item vividly. It was a navy blue boat-neck top that had a plastic multi-colored star in the middle. I loved that top. I used to pull it out of her closet and stare at it. I asked her if she would save it for me when I was old enough to wear it. Unfortunately, by the time I was old enough, it didn’t fit quite right. But the fact that she saved it and gave it to me is a memory I will always remember.

She was creative and loved to decorate the house. The curtains had to match the rugs which matched the slip covers which matched the doilies and pictures and knick-knacks were strategically placed throughout the house. Someone once told me that when you decorate your home you were expressing yourself. If this is true, then my mother was colorful, methodical, and vivacious.

But above all, my mother created perfection; she gave life to five children. My mother always felt she had to be rich or famous to leave her mark on the world. She didn’t realize that she had left her mark, not once, but FIVE times.

 For this I say, “Thank you, Mum, may you rest in peace.”

 

Cleaning Out His Boyhood

RemembeRED 's writing prompt this week is Cleaning House

 I dumped the contents of the plastic drawers onto the floor and it landed in a heap. I pushed at the pile, moving GI Joe, Scooby-Doo and Justice League figurines aside. My son’s childhood was spread before me in a disorderly colorful plastic mound. He had played with these little toys for hours—for years. But he was fourteen now and hadn’t touched a GI Joe in quite awhile.

I picked one up. It had blonde hair, just like my Austin. I moved the GI Joe’s arms and legs knowing I couldn’t manipulate my son like that. He was fiercely independent and as much as I disliked butting heads with him, I admired his tenacity. It would serve him well one day.

 I rummaged through the pile and there amidst the mass was a small, GJ Joe-sized football. Austin had pretended his GI Joe’s were Football Players but they lacked a football. I purchased some of that baking clay and molded a tiny football then baked it in the oven and painted it brown with white stripes and lines. His sparkling blue eyes and “Thanks Mommy” had been the only approval I needed. I lovingly stroked its smoothness before placing it in a baggie along with the other small accessories.

These were toys that represented a part of my son’s life…his boyhood, but he was growing up now and didn’t need GI Joe’s to entertain him anymore. He had his Ipod, Basketball hoop, bicycle and friends, and soon there would be girlfriends.

I put the remaining GI Joe’s into the baggie and zipped it up, wiping a tear from my eye when I was done. This shouldn’t have made me feel so sad. It was the end of one phase and the beginning of another.

But my heart still felt heavy.


 

Trimming Away The Years

This week's prompt at Red Writing Hood is to write a piece about hair and whatever it means to us. Don’t simply describe it, use it as a vehicle to tell something about a character, a situation, us or our life.

He sat in the chair, the over-sized white plastic cape draped over him like a tent. His little feet, inside his tan boots, barely reached the edge of the seat, but he kept them perfectly still, just like his head. I had told him before we entered the salon that he’d have to sit very still so he wouldn’t accidentally get cut with the scissors. It amazed me how well he was obeying.

At home he was like a tornado, flitting from room to room, leaving a trail of destruction behind him. Nothing went untouched, nothing was put back in its proper place, and he was never motionless...until now.

 He looked like a statue. I smiled at him. He just stared back at me through the mirror in front of him. I could only surmise that he thought even a small grin would somehow stir his head and the hairstylist would manage to sever an ear.

 What had I done! Had I terrified the living daylights out of my child? If the scissors didn’t cut him and leave a permanent scar, would my warning?

I heard a SNIP and saw a beautiful brown, wavy curl float to the floor. I froze. Now I was a statue as I watched the stylist cut ALL the beautiful baby curls off my son's head. It was like watching her cut away three years of his babyhood. When the stylist finished, she removed the cape so he could see himself better in the big mirror.

“See?” She said to him.

His blue eyes met mine in the mirror and he said, “I a big boy now Mommy!” A grin played at the corners of his mouth as he waited for my approval.

I smiled and said, “You sure are and SO handsome!” The BIG grin came then and I saw for a split second the young man he would one day become.

 But today…today he was still my little boy who shed his baby curls for a hair cut like Daddy’s.



 

Me, Blogging & NaBloPoMo

I don’t know if I’m a glutton for punishment or just a true writer at heart who must blog for the sake of blogging, hence write for the sake of writing, because as I’ve been known to say, even though I’m NOT a famous, published, New York Times best-seller, I AM a writer, therefore I MUST write.

So, when I found BlogHer’s NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month) for the month of November, I decided, What the hell! I just gave my blog a new name to rid myself of Blogger Block, I can DO this! Now here I sit, tapping away since I only have two posts up for November and it’s already the fifth, and NaBloPoMo’s rules say you need to write EVERY day (oh gosh I am a glutton!). I have to catch up—AND keep up!

That’s okay, posting every day has to be much better for me than NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) where you have to write Fifty Thousand words in November! Can you even imagine ME doing that? I know I can’t. Oh, I have a novel. Well, a couple, actually and they do need major editing. To be on a thirty day time constraint would just totally screw with my head. Posting daily is much better for me, for now, anyway. I can do the fifty thousand words in thirty days next year.

I DO like a schedule, don’t get me wrong. I like knowing that on Monday, Wednesday and Friday I will get up and go to work for a few hours. I absolutely LOVE that Tuesday and Thursday are MINE to do with what I want and that Saturday and Sunday are fairly free...to clean—or NOT! (I hate cleaning and if you visit my house and write your name in the dust, just promise NOT to write the date.) 

Here’s the deal. If I’m going to write, it has to be FUN. If I feel like I’m being FORCED then it just won’t feel fun anymore. Anything that feels like it’s a burden isn’t fun. I’ve been down THAT road way too many times in my life and I’m not going down it again. I’m too old for that crap. This is the second part of my life; I plan to enjoy it and you’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming back into the rat race of stress and over-load.

So, why did I sign up for NaBloPoMo if it means I have to post EVERY day? Well, given that I made the decision to change my blog name, I felt it freed me and my topics to post every day! This is the perfect time to test my method of madness.Then there’s the whole BlogHer network, which I saw a while back but never joined, then saw again just recently and noticed their annual conference next year will be in New York! (One of my fav cities! That might mean an excuse for a trip!)

BlogHer is a pretty awesome network, even without the conference. Check it out. You will find tons of information about EVERYTHING under the sun and lots and lots of Bloggers and blogs to keep you busy (like we need any help, eh?)!

For now, though, I’ll be busy posting—every day…

Wish me luck!

 

Don’t Tell Bubs Daddy

When I was 12 years old, my best friend and I used to go to the Little General store for snacks. One of our favorites was Bubs Daddy Bubble Gum. For those of you who don’t remember the 70’s, it was rope bubble gum about 12” long, and was about ten cents a stick.

One day, one of us, I can’t remember which, came up with a plan to TAKE a Bubs Daddy, rather than cough up the whopping ten cents. So, I grabbed a handful of those sticks, walked to the back of the store, then stood behind the end of the aisle, in front of the milk cooler where the clerk couldn’t see me, and stuffed a couple of them into my tube sock (major 70’s trend!). After which I returned to the aisle, where I replaced all but one Bubs Daddy, then proceeded to the counter where I purchased it.

As I set that ONE rode of gum, along with a dime, on the counter, I thought for sure the entire store would hear the rapid beat of my heart! And with eyes that were undoubtedly filled with fear and guilt, I watched as the clerk rang up my transaction, thinking that any second he would grab my wrists and demand that I pull out the smuggled Bubs Daddy’s from my sock. When he didn’t, Terri and I walked outside and after we rounded the corner of safety, we stopped, and I bent down and pulled out the contraband from my sock and handed her one.

After getting away with this petty larceny once, we decided to do it again, and again, and yet again. Goodness knows how many times we shoved Bubs Daddy Bubble Gum sticks into our tube socks, until one day…

I was standing behind the end aisle, in front of the cooler, shoving about a half dozen Bubs Daddy sticks into my tube socks—our pilfering addiction had GROWN in proportion over time— and once I was satisfied that I had hidden them sufficiently, I stood and my eyes met directly with the MANAGER’S, who had been inside the cooler restocking the milk!

My heart jumped to my throat and I sank to the floor as my knees gave out. “Oh shit!” (Yes, I said that—my mother swore like a truck driver). There I sat and waited until the manager of the Little General exited the cooler and retrieved me off the floor then escorted me to the front of the store where he promptly asked me my phone number. I told him I would give it to him if he promised NOT to call my dad! Which was probably a very stupid thing to say, because once my mother arrived, he told her what I said, and SHE called my dad as soon as we got home! THAT was much worse than the one month of grounding she gave me—Do anything, but please don’t ever let me disappoint bubs my daddy!

I don’t know what my mother said to the manger of the Little General, because I was permitted back in the store—after all, SHE needed milk and bread and I was her errand girl.

However, to this day, I won’t take a paperclip if it doesn’t belong to me.






This post is a writing prompt from:

Taking a Risk

I’ve neglected this blog for awhile. Not because I’ve wanted to. I’ve been busy with my other blog, my family and I’ve also been preoccupied with a life altering decision. After much consideration, I’ve decided to take a chance. This is REALLY big for me, because I’m not a risk taker.

Writing has been my passion since I can remember. I wrote my first story when I was 9 years old and I haven’t quit. I write poetry, childrens’ stories, and romance stories. I’ve always kept a journal and now I blog. I LOVE words. When I read I find typos and when I listen to people speak I can hear their verbal grammatical errors. I don’t say anything, but I make mental notes to myself. I talk to myself…A LOT, too. I just like to HEAR words. Call me nuts, but I do.

After 25 years as a controller in the automotive industry-YUK, I’ve decided to try my hand (no pun) at freelance writing. Yep, I’m going out on a very short ledge here. I have no formal training. No schooling. No degree. Heck, I don’t even know if I have any talent, but I’m taking the chance anyway. For the very first time in my life I’m actually going to throw caution to the wind and take a risk.

And here’s why…

I’m a writer therefore I write. The written word is etched in my heart and soul, and for me, it’s a sin to keep it silent. I’m a writer and I have to write what’s in my heart and soul. I need to fill a blank page with words like love fills an empty heart with joy. Words fill a void within my heart and if I allow that void to go empty then the world won’t hear my soul sing.

May words always flow from my heart to my fingertips.