I remember learning to spell a particular word in kindergarten. We were waiting for our teacher to arrive to begin class, and I heard the girl behind me say that she had learned how to spell this word. Two or three other kids gathered close around her desk, like scientists around a Petri dish. This was vital information. I didn't turn around, but I listened, and as she spelled out the word I wrote down each lowercase letter; a line and a curve, a line and a curve, a line and a curve: red. And I remember thinking, such a small word, and such a big color.
I suppose that was the start of it. When a teacher would inform the class that our test would be an essay test, I was the student who was secretly rejoicing while other students moaned miserably at what they must have felt was some unjust punishment. My favorite day at school was the day our Scholastic book orders arrived. But it never occurred to me that I could be a writer. I knew people wrote books; I liked reading them, and I liked writing stories when I was in school. But when I was growing up, writing and other arts weren't considered real work, and so I had a hard time validating my desire. Eventually, I came to realise that what I thought of as real was someone else's opinion, not mine. Also, a desire that comes from the heart is inherently good, and does not require validation.
I love words. I love writing. I love the solitude and freedom. I love the creative process. I love how a thought can turn into something you can hold in your hands.
Children's Book; The Squirrelly Nut Gig
Short Plays; Have A Nice Day, The Tin Heart
Radio Play; A Rose By Any Other Name
Short Stories; available to read on this site and on Lively Arts