My life went far wide of my original intent to be a published writer one day. I became a mother. I studied English later in life in college. I also took a minor in psychology so I could understand people. I watched and waited. I did some teaching and I became a counselor, which is still a form of teaching. I still did not write.
One day, with a push from a good friend, Alex Hunt, I began to write. I had stopped writing for so long that it felt foreign at first. I write like Pollock painted, unconsciously. I have went back to read what I wrote for a period, and have been surprised at the turn of events. How is that possible I have been asked?
