I told stories as a small child.
My imagination was wonderful.
I made up fairy tales as fact before they happened.
They would be real someday.
I was in a hurry so I made stories real ahead of time.

As an adult, these stories began to come to life.
Did I manifest what I had imagined? Or had I foreseen the future?

When we are young, we have endless sight.
It takes such effort to see again as we once did as children.

Women as writers heal with our words and our deep conviction that we have a knowledge that will help others in some way.
Creative juices flow into curative rites.

Our house is full of books, piled in corners, on tables and chairs. Notebooks filled with scribble.
Before I was old enough to read or write, I filled pages with crayon dashes and lines; I said I had written a book.