I don’t think many people read these things, but if you are here and reading this, then thank you for taking the time out of your busy life to learn a little bit more about me.

I have been writing since I was nine years old, at least that is earliest dated poem in my paper archive. That poem was nine lines long, about wanting to run away. To put that in its proper setting, that was 1962, the year the Soviet Union and the United States almost blew up the world, when Marilyn Monroe died, the year Spider-Man was introduced to the world, the year India and China slugged it in the Himalayas and the year my nuclear family started to disintegrate.

Since then, I have been running away from one thing or another all my life. I never really knew who I was, where I was going or even why I was on this earth. I never stopped long enough to find out the answers. I was too busy being busy and looking the other way.

I was not completely daft, I picked up clues here and there and continued to write. I was an emotional basket case, undiagnosed bipolar nut job and a storyteller. My lies were convincing. I was a master of telling myself everything was fine, when it was not. I fooled no one but myself. Those that said they loved me, shined me on and smiled to my face, but behind my back, taught others to avoid me and never trust me, all the while either laughing at me or feeling sorry for me or both.

It took a failed relationship and marriage of over 40 years, 5 children, 4 failed jobs, 3 divorces (long story), 2 mental episodes, and 1 medical diagnosis to challenge and change all that. I could not blame others, although I wanted to and tried, but the reality was I only had myself to blame. Yeah, sure, I had a brutal, abusive mother and grandmother, a silent distant father and a crazy (literally) extended family. My childhood was really messed up. But I buried all that, deep. Blame and guilt came easily … upon myself.

Now, after much work, internal and external, I know who I am and love who I am. I am an idealist, romantic, passionate, storyteller and fiercely liberal. I know where I am going, one step at a time into the future, with hope on one shoulder and a prayer on the other. And I know why I am here on this earth: to be a voice of wisdom, passion and compassion, but to also be here for my children, especially for my daughters.

Sixty-three years later we are still dealing with idiots who want to blow up the world and now it is too expensive to put people into space much less explore the universe, unless your are a billionaire. Short term profit, global conspiracies and the accumulation of wealth is the name of the game now. My nuclear family imploded when I was 12 years old, my own family imploded when I was 67, and both have remained so. Dysfunctional. Distant. Separate.

I live alone now, in a quiet (sort of) corner of a big-little town in the middle of some of the most beautiful countryside in the world. I write full-time, mainly poetry and short story fiction, travel, kayak, walk and hike in nature, workout (cardio, not a bodybuilder!), avid reader and enjoy all kinds of entertainment (film, theatre, plays, etc). I miss companionship and intimacy (in its true meaning) but I also enjoy being only answerable to myself and my beliefs. I have learned to live with loneliness—like a constant mild backache, I have learned to ignore, it is always with me. So, I write.

If you have never read Stephen King’s book, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, I encourage you to do so. It might inspire you to write, but it will also shed some light on why writers write … why I write. To quote,

“Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it’s about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well.”

Cheers!

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