In middle school I had a typewriter. And a stack of pink paper. I wrote what amounts to my first romance novel in the eighth grade using that typewriter and that pink paper. I hope to publish my first one soon.
My horoscope once said:
tap into that gorgeous weirdness at the core of your unique destiny: the inspired lunacy that would evolve into genius if you ever learned to make it sing and dance.
As she drew nearer, the princess realized that the queen was carving words into a tree, slowly, methodically, in beautiful looped cursive. How does she do that, the princess wondered, drawing ever nearer. When she placed herself directly in front of the tree she saw that the queen was working with a knife like a paintbrush to canvas, carving words so delicate and deep and true that the strokes gleamed like a hot diamond in the bark. Whole stories spun like golden silk wound around the tree in the queen’s expressive hand. The princess read and read and read some more, often holding her breath and then gasping for air.
She’s effusive, but my ego loves a good stroke as much as anyone’s.
I am a nanny and a married mother of one. I am wasting both my culinary and music degrees.
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