My kind of words?
My words, at all?
These kinds of questions rattle round, loud and clanging, most days. I invest an inordinate amount of time pursuing the answers to them and I have only recently begun to embrace the truth that there even is a "my kind" of anything.
To be a writer is to be both crazed and mystical, inspired and ordinary, loved and hated--and the idea that I would willingly walk into that reality makes me plain out mad, as well.
So why do I do it? Why do I bleed out all over the white space, hanging my canvas out for all the good people to see? Why put out a shingle that claims scribbler as my trade?
Because it is truth.
And even if it is difficult for me to think that anything that I might pen could actually have impact, this much I do know:
If I am not genuine, it is all a worthless endeavor
It is in the becoming that we are known so I have to keep telling.
I will tell you the story in my kind of words.
