Written words come easy for me in professional undertakings, what with thirty years of experience.
Words served as a human can opener and flayed me open. Opposite the workings of nature, the opening increased pressure.
Locked in and voiceless, words unlocked my world.
Words connected me to others, to support, to people who became friends, to exploratory discussions, to a tether of life.
Words kept me alive.
Words broke my dysfunctional depression.
Words helped me rebuild my life.
Words got me through twenty-one months in a federal prison camp, through 175 books read, through 952 pages covering nine novel concepts, to countless lengthy letters to family and friends.
My first creative words posted on 5 June 2008, crude but imaginative.
Creative writing occupies upwards of fifty hours a week of my time. Sometimes a great deal more.
Creative writing, more than any other personal activity over my fifty-seven years, burns as a need to do within me. It compels.
Sometimes it feels like a stem cell story generator exists inside my mind.
Creative writing journeys fill me with wonder; I know not what may lurk in the next paragraph my fingers type. In essence, every story forms from a single word, an alphabetical big bang.
My novels stand as feminist work, carrying a commitment to strong women as protagonists, sometimes drawing on the historical struggle for equality. I can say that again.
Whether a major or minor part of a story, so too do the stories well represent the lesbian community, sometimes drawing on the historical struggle for equality.
And a liberal point of view.
Stories might filter through the long ago study of twin majors; Sociology, and 20th Century European History.
Experiences and witnessed occurrences combine with news and history I read, gain my perspective, and reformulate into an imagined world.
Story telling gives me a way to share an imagined alternate way.
Or reshape an actual horror.
Born bereft of ability to carry a note even in a raspy whisper, written words broadcast the music of my soul.