Some Flowers Only Bloom in the Imagination


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As far back as I can remember, I’ve been writing. My mother swears I was reading by the age of 3 (but what mother doesn’t say her child was a genius?). In my early school years, my punishments were always writing essays. Grounding me didn’t work, I didn’t have that many friends. Spankings didn’t work..well, I was used to them.

I guess it stuck. As I got older, into my adolescence, it became the only way I could truly communicate with my mother. Our “talks” always got rather emotional, and since I never make sense when I’m incoherent with tears, I try to avoid them at all costs. So I would stay up in my room until the wee hours of the morning, pouring my heart out in letters, pages upon pages, and I’d sneak them into her purse so she wouldn’t find them until she got to work the next morning. After she read them, she’d come home…and THEN we could talk.

No one ever told me it was a form of therapy. I just did it. It has evolved into an obsession, a passion, an aching, physical pain that drives me from my bed at all hours of the night, just to save some snippet or random thoughts that flitted through my mind at any given time, as they are wont to do.

My favorite quote is:

No man ever got very high by pulling other people down. The intelligent merchant does not knock his competitors. The sensible worker does not work those who work with him. Don’t knock your friends. Don’t knock your enemies. Don’t knock yourself. Tennyson, Lord Alfred

I have written articles for sites like, and am in the process of writing a book. I don’t consider myself a professional writer (yet),  merely someone who can and enjoys expressing their feelings and thoughts on a regular basis. I hope you enjoy them. Comments are welcome.

I wish you well,


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