I have considered myself a writer since I was very young. Yes, the dream was stifled in my teen years by the thoughtless student-teacher, but I have kept numerous journals and story starts here in my home. My children are all teenagers. I am a full-time nurse, single mother, with minimal assistance from the other party (who lives 900 miles away). I want to do so many things. So many dreams to explore. So far, I have managed to take the children on yearly beach vacations, and for the past 2 years, we have done smaller three-day weekends in the mountain range of our state. As the children get older and the support from the estranged gets smaller, I am finding it harder and harder to arrange for these trips. Yet these trips are the very thing we all look forward to – our THING. Therefore, my writing is now a public thing. This is my practice space, a way

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My ego is quite large I suppose, for I have always fancied myself as a great writer. I haven’t always kept up with it and yet, I find myself returning again and again to the written word. I remember 11th grade Advanced English class all too well. We had a student teacher that year, and she was excited and gung ho over teaching us. We had been analyzing “The Devil and Daniel Webster” by Steven Vincent BenĂ©t, and we were to write an essay inspired by this story. I was sheer excited! I had been writing my own little love stories and whatnots in an old notebook, but this, this- unlimited creative outlet wherein I would get some feedback! I couldn’t wait. Home I went, and got to work on my story. Mine was a Christian tale of soul vs. hell, and I was thrilled to share my new faith AND write a fictional tale that interwove the two. I

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