Yeah, that's me. It's hard work, writing. Sometimes I run out of popcorn. But I’m kidding around when I really want to tell you why I write. When I write, I feel most at home with myself. It’s like I knock on my own door and my heart says, “Come on in.”

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Even as a young girl I’d tuck myself away at the big old desk in my grandparents’ house. My grandmother would be in the kitchen burning marmalade tarts and my grandfather would be in his garden. I loved my grandfather. He smelled like soap, dirt and the hope of daffodils.

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Growing up, I went to school and studied English. I was shy and tried to make up for it by being the obnoxious kid who shoots her hand in the air to answer all the teachers’ questions. You would have LOVED sitting next to me.

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But if I’m too earnest as a student, I make a good friend. That’s where you come in. If I write you a story and you do me the honor of reading it, that’s one way we can meet each other and become friends. There may be geography separating us. There may be deserts...

 

(Don’t write desserts. I did that once, and boy, I ended up with a red checkmark that said, Are you a hot fudge sundae? Which got me thinking about French fries and pizza and I got really hungry).

 

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, there may be deserts (ha! thought you’d catch me) and mountains and rivers separating us, but we have the same sun over us, the same moon, and, beating inside us, the same hearts.

             

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      Warm best,

       Carol