Truth always has this little habit of whispering back to me
from the grave I put it in. Truth is, of all the things I could have been, the
author/writer is the one that I am destined for.
The poet, the painter, the sculptured, the philosopher, the
lover, the crier, the wounded, the healer, the loner, the forgiver, the runner,
the yogist, the singer, the dancer, the ranter, the optimistic, the pessimist,
the holy veil and the undertaker, the thinker, the creator, the eccentric,
writing allows me to be all these things without ever having to leave the
comfort zone of my keyboard. Fiction becomes non - fiction, non - fiction
becomes, well, my genre of real life, and the poems become the beauty of the
platform of my books, as I carve out my next life.
I like my martini extra dirty, at the end of the week, after
all the writing has taken place, and my idea for the next novel is set into
place. That is when I like to kick back, relax, and ponder, with four olives
hanging off a toothpick on the edge of my glass.
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