I write my life. Since the age of ten when I wrote my first story and was instantly hooked, I have been infected with a mysterious contagion for which there is no cure. Writing stories, poems, novel manuscripts and memoirs has been part of my life ever since. Yet I don’t live to write. I live. And I write. I write my life.
Through young adulthood, curiosity led me to question things. Whether any purposeful meaning existed or not, I asked, “What does this mean? Why am I here? What am I to do with my life?”
The search for answers helped sharpen my powers of observation until nearly everything holds metaphorical parallels to some facet of the human condition. I watch a moose lunge exhausted through shoulder-deep snow and I learn the dangers of choosing an easy path.
I stand in a downpour and hear the rain plummet from…
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