Why I Write

Guns and knives scare me, and I'm not bigger, stronger, or faster, but you don't have to worry about me. I'm not defenseless. Words are my weapons. You better believe they can do a lot of damage, even kill, if necessary. I have a lifetime supply of ammunition right at my fingertips. That's a comforting thought.  They're easy to sneak onto airplanes, too. Have Pen, Will Travel -- Wordslinger For Hire. Beware, I have an adjective with your name on it, but it wasn't always so.

As a young kid, with my strong creative urge desperately seeking an outlet, I tried to learn to play the accordion, clarinet, and guitar but failed miserably at all three. Got the skin of my upper thigh caught in the bellows of the accordion during my first lesson. The purple bruise lasted ten days and hurt like hell. Anyway, the thing had 120 buttons just for the left hand. I didn't stand a chance, can't even get an Ipod to work, so I gave it up for the guitar--no moving parts in the lap area--but I couldn't get past the bleeding and pain in my fingertips. They remained sensitive to pressure for six weeks. Once my fingers healed, I thought I might have a chance with the clarinet, but I developed earaches every time I tried to play. Something to do with a weak mouth.

Thinking music was still the way to channel my creative energy, I took singing lessons. Big mistake. I should have known. I could never tune my guitar. The singing instructor said I have nice hands and suggested I try pottery. She was very polite, but pottery turned out to be too gooey for me.

I tried ballet. After all, I could jump really high, and I liked the sound of some of the terms like grand-jete and pirouette, but the teacher said I sucked, and it was true. In the end, I guess I write because I can't sing or dance or play music.