The writing life

I can see them now: the pads of white paper my mother gave me to write on.

On their small pages, my childish scrawl ate up the space as I wrote the poems that formed in my brain.

I've loved words and rhyme since I was about 6 years old.

My mother, a voracious reader herself, began reading to me while I was still an infant, wrapping me in a blanket of words.

My childhood poems were mostly about animals -- the "noble deer," "the shy rabbit" or "the wily fox." My reading, too, involved stories about animals and Native Americans (or "Indians," as we still called them then).

In high school, I eagerly embraced the literary magazine, writing more poems, and branching out into short stories. 

College found me on the staff of The Red and Black, the University of Georgia student newspaper.

Since college, my work brought me more into the realm of editing others' writing, but I did my fair share of rewriting.

And, as always, I continue to journal, feeding my need.

Writing: my passion, my addiction.