“I always knew I wanted to be a writer,” say many an author, but alas, not me.
I was, however, an avid reader and an rabid letter writer throughout my early years and into adulthood.
Also, I had tape put across my mouth in third grade.
Despite detesting diaries, with their pretty locks and defining lines, I fell into journaling at 18, out of desperation.
I needed a friend.
And I needed to make art from the chaos my life had become.
When I became a mother in my thirties, my words jumped out of my journals and onto the pages of magazines. After my mother died, writing became my vocation.