On beauty, and ‘perfection,’ and the elusiveness of words

Sometimes I think it’s my mother’s fault I started writing. When I was young, long before I could read, she got me books-on-tape and because I’m ADHD (read:  ‘can’t fall sleep’) I’d listen to stories long into the night.  The earliest books I remember are full of magic and beauty, of hope, love, and loss, of longing and good-versus-evil and the gray in between. I think that built up who I am inside.  I’d like to imagine I’d be me without it—that without those words I’d still be who I am. But… Read More