I was born a story-teller. The story words bubbled up inside me and strained to escape. They detoured my brain and flew straight to my mouth or my typing fingers. For years while my words and I struggled to survive in the corporate world, we were feared and labeled frivolous and irrelevant. Wordy, even. My brain suggested I was not a story-teller, and I turned to conforming by slaughtering words. Dark times. I popped the action, sights, sounds, tastes, feels, and detail bubbles. Even when words bolted through the typing exit, very few survived.
My story words and I abandoned the corporate world for the world of fiction. My empowered stories shoot from my typing fingers, leaving room inside for new words to incubate and grow in my brain. First Draft. Second Draft. The only slaughter is Killing the Darlings, but that’s another story.
