Welcome to the grand opening celebration of my blog. Pour yourself a cup of coffee. Grab yourself a fat slice of pumpin walnut bread on one of those blue stoneware plates. Smear a fat slab of butter on that bread, and come on over before the story begins.
Once upon a time, in a economically squeezed former logging community along Highway 101, a girl was born in the housing projects. When I say in the housing projects, I mean, right on the shag green carpet. At home. Her "feminazi" teenage aunt peering from the bedroom closet witnessed the whole thing and even now that little baby, now a woman, is sure that that particular aunt is the queen angel. Her other three aunts are the back-up singers and to this day that aunt quartet sings to that child about don't you settle, write it down, you got to tell somebody baby, don't you know you're worth it and damn girl, you make us proud. Can you believe that that baby was born with a pen in her hand? She was. That aunt saw it and watched her like a jar of sea monkeys, feeding her freeze dried ideas. And would you believe that that girl is still writing for her life? She is. In fact, if you listen really close, you can hear her writing now.
Shhh. Listen.
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