Tiny pieces of paper, probably tens of thousands of them, haunt my memory. Some haunt boxes in the basement, others are in a file beside the bed or scattered all over the house, most are lost with the passage of time, but everyone of them is mine. Pieces of paper, some are typewritten, most are not. Most are written with a frenzied scrawl only I can read, somewhat.
They are my ideas, my stories and my dreams and I have been writing them down since my weak little grip barely gripped a pencil at four.

I was quiet and misunderstood. My family ignored me and I found that the world inside my
head to be much more fascinating than the real world. And I wrote. Cute little childish stories gave way to essays at school that impressed the teachers and saved my @$$ a number of times.
I grew to be teen and turned to poetry, if one could call it that. Whatever it was, it was bad.
It was dark and depressing and really sort of pathetic, as was I at the time.

Time passes, I kept writing. that is one of the major constants in my life. I have always written.
Rarely have I finished anything. I have a problem with that.

I will confess right now: I am a chronic starter, I have a million interests and a million "projects",I rarely finish anything...But time, as I said, passes. And to follow a dream one must stick your
neck out and take a chance. I can't keep hiding and scribbling on bits of paper.