I’ve always been enamored with words and storytelling as evidenced by my poems, Logophile and Biting the Hand. My mother and older brother struggled to keep up with my insatiable demand for bedtime stories. In fact, my early reading ability came from that thirst. My mother simply insisted that I “read” my favorite (and memorized) story to them. Et voila, I was a reader. My move to storyteller has been a little more complicated. There are so many excellent stories (and storytellers) out there that I drag my feet writing my own stories, my fiction. I have ideas but self-doubt raises its ugly head and I lose my nerve.
But I’m digging in and coaxing those characters in my head to come out and say Hi!
Making It All Up
I can’t believe people make it all up
symbols scratched on open pages
dowsing, shaping, scrying
a new god whose blue in blue eyes gaze on desert lands
otjize, red clay and home, becomes balm of nations
a simple wardrobe the gateway to faraway lands
these alchemists called writers
alone, casting their sight deep within
working in silence the better to hear