End of Dew the willowy wisps of the avant-garde deface the well-worn air in panted breath with tendril touch in psalms of rest by adorant praise to fresh-lanced dew glistening coats of pearlized drops, nature’s nectar in amethyst arrays nestled calmly upon stately sprays waiting for dawnings’ yawns to drink it deeply to return it abruptly
After publishing four books and several more in the works, I am constantly posed with the query, "You love to read and write, don't you?"
Nothing could be further from the truth. When I graduated from college (I attended 3 in my scholastic journey), I was weary with reading & writing and swore I would get as far away from it as possible.
Perhaps it is because I am growing older. Perhaps it is because I feel compelled to put my thoughts down on paper before memory eludes me and I have nothing left to share. If my biography were to be written today, I would suggest the title be "The Reluctant Author."
