And the identity of the person behind the mask is.....

Today my identity as a writer/author was confirmed and validated.

Knowing that the actual writing is what defines a writer is easy enough to say, but it is immensely more difficult to believe. I have been a writer since I was eleven years old because I have actually written since I was eleven years old. But, until today, I have never FELT like a writer.

Today, though, I received my prize money from the WOW! Women on Writing! contest in which my story placed 2nd. Today, I can call myself a writer.

It's horrible to think that it takes a piece of paper with my name on it to assure me that I am, in fact, a writer.

It's not enough that I have composed hundreds of poems, that I've written half a dozen novels, that I've created dozens of characters and given those characters names and lives of their own. It's not enough that I bleed ink from my veins.

I must have a single slip of paper---with writing on it that I did not compose myself---to give myself the name of writer.

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A to Z reflections....

Another A to Z challenge comes to an end--- another collection of posts and poetry have been written, another deep breath of relief is released. For my fellow bloggers that survived as well, it's another 'challenge-completed' notch carved into the writing desk. I've come to enjoy my yearly foray into the world of all things alphabetical. This was my third year, though it was only the second year I had a workable theme (which made the challenge substantially easier than the first year I attempted this challenge.) And, though my first year was difficult because my focus was so scattered, I found this year was more difficult because I lost the enthusiasm that came with the first year excitement----excitement which helped me plug along until the end of the challenge. Year 3 was a success in the sense that I completed the challenge, though, this was the year that almost wasn't---- Somewhere about a third of the way through the challenge, I seriously considered...

Bitter Honey

Weaving dreams of beguiling gold, a future's price for happiness. What secrets do you, determined, hold? asks the summer wind's soft caress. A guarded name, a hidden hope. Spinning wheels clutching time, grasping straw that falls away, What dreams may come, we soon may find, won't recall at end of day. A cherished life, a memory lost.

A million lives, beneath a single sky.....

Though our feet leave different prints,our tongues sound different words, there's a mirrored rhythm in the beating of our hearts. Though born in different worlds, our eyes sharpened 'neath different moons, there's an unspoken truth in the warmth of our touch. We may walk in different strides and dream different dreams, we may speak in different voices, maybe swim in different streams. It's plain to see, when dark night falls, as all the stars shine through, that underneath it all, there's no difference 'tween me and you.

From the Inkwell, From the Vein.....

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