|I have ink-stained fingers.|
When I told my mother I was abandoning law practice for writing (and teaching), she mourned, "I did not raise you to be a writer." Writing, for her, was a hobby, something I could do on weekends, on my free time, when I had finished with everything else more important, like earning a living. She thought that I was being too indulgent.
I could not give her--or myself--any easy answers.
Writing connects me to parts of myself buried by deadlines or harassed by daily cares. It shapes thoughts that defy form. I find the words that hide in my heart; by this I relive or grieve moments. My life, sometimes painfully, falls into place. I am a fractal; I need words to find me.