In every memory of my life, there has been a poem, a story or a verse written to express my innermost quaking. I’ve been living exposed on paper for over thirty years, having started somewhere around third or fourth grade.
Words drawn from the imagination are no different than preparing a traditional tortellini, lasagna or straightforward spaghetti. For it to be good, it cannot be rushed. It has to come in its own time, to be authentic and one hundred percent natural.
The pages are simply the pasta upon which the soul is poured, but the real proof is in the sauce. And, yes, saucy has at times been used to describe me.
All that I am: my creative flavor, my essence, my spice, the gentle stirrings or mad dashes of this and that are emptied out – not all at once but just a little spoon at a time.
You see, creating a new dish for others to savor is my passion. It is how I flow. It is fiction, flash, memoir, poetry and prose. Everything it takes to express myself it’s in there, inside me, waiting – for the table to be prepared – the opportunity on which others can fare.
Shall we dine?