I write because I love the art and the magic of Literature.
I write because it keeps me safe, sane and connected to you.
I write because it takes me to the places that I want to go and those who wish to join me in the journey; may grasp my hand and my heart; in this stroll through this moment of time.
I write because when no one was there, the word was there: The word has always been and always will be the preeminent being in my universe.
I write because it allows me; to allow you to be understood and we are joined for a moment in time.
I do not write because it comes from a place of grammatical perfection; free of line breaks in perfected poetry; for my history is one of line breaks and imperfections.
I do not come to you from a place of polished and perfected; educated and critiqued.
No! I come to you from a place of raw, real, gutsy and riveting. What I give you is raw, real and riveting; with all of its imperfections and inconsistencies.
You have been touched, you have been curious and you have been intrigued; you have come back looking, longing, expecting or not…
But then suddenly you were surprised; surprised that you could be moved; surprised that your preconceived ideas had been shattered by one that writes because…