I am not an artist in the typical sense of the word.
I am not a dancer the way other girl’s gracefully fling themselves into beautiful patterns.
I am not a musician of the instrument playing variety.
I am a strange, scary, and unique blend of the three.
I can’t draw, but I paint masterpieces with my words.
My writing dances across the page, across the heart.
I use not an instrument but a pen to make captivating music.
I belong to the crazy world of the Author, where hearing voices in one’s head in the norm, cats are routinely abused with vacuums, and plagiarism is a four-letter word.
A place where we collect broken dreams, bleeding hearts, and failed conquests as rock hounds do muddy stones, to grind and polish into glorious stories.
Stories people can use to read about our hurts and hopes and therefore learn about their own, whether for healing, avoidance, amusement, or all three.
An opportunity where you can put your own mistakes to good use, to bless even.
My heartsong isn’t one you can touch.
You can watch it or taste it or gaze at it.
I can’t show you my story; many a time I can’t even tell it.
It is hidden, black ink on dry tree pulp, held down by a tight binder.
The only way to soar through my work, to dance along the pages, and hear the tune of its sorrow and feel the beat of its joy. The only way to taste the flavor of my gift to the world is to read with your eyes my words in all their tantalizing glory, endowed to us, collectively.
I cannot paint to a lovely landscape, or compose a haunting melody.
I won’t show you my story on a glittering stage.
My contribution to our lonely spinning planet is my written word, for all to enjoy, and hate, and maybe, dare I hope, discover something about themselves