One of those quiet types who logs a lot of time in the bedlam of her head, I sometimes need to be startled awake to the fact that the outside world still exists.
I am introverted and a complete klutz.
Only recently have I realized that being different is not something you want to hide or squelch or suppress.
I’ve always liked wearing black. Hats with veils would suit me just fine.
Like many confused and evolving humans, I live in constant danger of transformation.
I don’t like scaring people off. When I tell people I’m a writer, they look kind of interested. Then I tell them that I write poetry, and they think I’m weird.
Disaster, to me, means in some big or small way, things going wrong. And that’s obviously a matter of perception, right? Let’s say your puppy chewed up all the shoes in your house. She probably had a fine time doing that. In her mind, a red letter day, the highlight of her puppy life.
I don’t write to create performance material; I write to make books.
The human imagination can connect to practically anything.
There is an element in some of my work that has to do with being an outsider, feeling like not part of the dominant culture.