From the Introduction to Fourteen to Fortyish: The Formative Years:
I do not have a story. I am a story. I have a voice. For many years, I have been using my voice to share myself with others. I have grown. I have loved. I have lost. And, I have learned along the way to be happy. In this anthology, I share the highs and lows of new love, of what I thought was love, of unrequited love, of loving thickly, of vulnerability, of hope, and of words - the right words. "Some day I'll find the right words - and I'll write them down," I've often told myself. Had I done that, or emailed them to myself, or tweeted them, or chiselled them in stone, or carved them in wood, I wouldn't be searching for the right words for this introduction. But, I digress. Sorta.
In sharing how I came to this place, I cannot sugar-coat the journey. It is written here as it was; as it has been so far. The poems have been written in the ink of pain, sometimes confusion, sometimes hurt, and sometimes that mix of delight and pleasure sprinkled on like Parmesan. And, occasionally, whatever that emotion is when you know it's all going downhill and you want to convince yourself you'd be fine if you hurtled after it because you want so bad not to lose it and there's nothing you can do to stop it and you're driven to sadness while bracing for the inevitable even though you know no loneliness hurts as bad as being miserable feels. Yeah. That one. My fonts of choice? Sarcasm, humour, resignation, grit, steel, some anger, a degree of longing, but mostly, care.