Why I Write

author_3xLeft in the dust of family dissention, I breathed the ember of my spirit to life at night, reading under the covers with a flashlight, taking what oxygen I could from tales of imperfect heroes who overcame dragons, wicked stepmothers, and angry gods.

I began writing words for myself that mirrored what I could touch, hoping to animate them with the spirit of their namesakes, incantations to invoke realities just out of view; then, filled, I wrote author_17_close_crop_2b-copywords to share with others.

I have always written something, in spite—or because of—years of teaching, home businesses, and mothering.

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