As soon as I could put pen or pencil to paper, I felt compelled to write. I once thought I’d write the great American novel. It would be epic and grand.
Then, life got in the way and most of my writing entailed signing my name to checks to pay the bills. I guess I grew up and put my dreams aside.
Dreams, being dreams, change. I still have the need to express myself with words. But the need to write the great American novel went by the wayside a long time ago, replaced with the hope that my words might tell another kind of story. My story. Not that my story is grand, or epic or even worth telling. My hope is that the lessons I’ve learned in life and out on our little piece of dirt might be lessons worth sharing.
And so I write.