This is true of a person's mind. If not exercised regularly, soon it will get weaker and weaker and can't be relied upon to remember a next-door-neighbor's name, a brother's birthday, or an appointment with the dermatologist.
So that's why I write, to stimulate my thought processes. Writing does help. After a few weeks chained to my word processor, I now can tell you who lives next door. It's . . . a . . . you know, good-old-what's-her name. My brother's birthday is sometime in April, or is it May? And, whoops! my dermatologist appointment was yesterday. Well, anyway, I write because I like to.
Actually, I've written all kinds of stuff most of my life. A few hundred of my articles have been published in magazines and newspapers. My tigress piece, the title essay of this book, has been around longer than most of the others. It has found its way into newspapers in several states, and also in Canada and even in India. In India the editors gave me a different first name in my by-line. Kamakshi. That's so the people of India wouldn't realize it was written by a foreigner.
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