I am a storyteller. I have always been writing or telling stories from the time I was a small child. Other kids played with toys, I wrote stories. When my son was young I entertained him on long drives with impromptu stories. As my life unfolded there was always a pen in my hand. And when there wasn’t a pen, there was a story in my head waiting to be placed someplace besides my mind. Stories need to be written, lives need to be lived. Life is a story isn’t it, one that we write ourselves?

I have been away from writing for a long time. Now that I have started again, I wake up each morning and find words buzzing around in my head like bees on a hot summers day. They torment me- wake me up from deep sleep- so I must give them life, write them down and get them out of my head.

Perhaps these words and stories are like an overflowing drain, so many years of neglect, they need someplace to go and as with water they take the path of least resistance. Now that I am providing an opening, they are flowing out in an erupting deluge.

My thoughts are often scattered, attention is focused on this and that, yet I know that once the initial overflow of words finds an unblocked path, they will settle down, become more focused and my voice will come through.

I don’t write for money.

I don’t write for the fame.

I write because I  love to write.

I write because I am an artist.

I write because stories need to be told.

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