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…