The words I type are a part of me. These words represent my choices, ideas, relationships, and feelings. I describe things in ways I never could before; the cold-moist feeling of morning dew, or the red-searing joy of running, or the sweet-wet thirst of wine. I write what I write because of the picture I see; a picture full of delectable dreams, or melted mountains. My inspiration comes from authors who have also written their choices and their feelings, and a teacher who forces me to grasp for creativity.
As the mild-summer turned to a milder fall I transformed my visions into a craft of words that represented my being. I told stories from my own viewpoint, and then tried to turn them into another viewpoint. I always used my own experiences to drive my momentum of creating an ultimate word count. I was high on words. I let a poem drift from my fingers to the computer and then to an online magazine. A poem of mine was published; a poem that represented the deep, dark, empty pain of the death of a child. Yet, my longing to write continued. I thought being accepted into the literary world would satiate my hunger to write, but it didn’t. I drove along the highway, thinking of new ways to write. New ideas began to flare. I wanted to write everything and on everything, and I did -- the sand at the Great Salt Lake speaks to that.