Writing – FROM THE SHOE

The Shoe Must Go On…The Last Blog

I have decided to end my blog. Not my writing, just my blog. With the kids all grown, I think it’s time the shoe must go on…to other writing projects, other stories and other endeavors.

I want to thank all my subscribers and readers. Thank you for all the comments and encouragement over the past 13 years. I’ve had a lot of fun writing From The Shoe. Thanks to the friends who helped proofread and edit my blog posts. You know who you are. 🙂

It’s funny, I no longer feel like a mom. With the kids grown and living their lives, my role as mother has formally ended. They don’t need me like that anymore.

I know I am still their mom, and will always be, but the work of a mother with minor children is over. And most of my columns were about raising a bunch of wild and crazy kids. I’d like to write different things now. We’ll see where the shoe goes.

I am in uncharted waters. I have never been this old. I haven’t been this alone (not lonely) just alone, on my own, in nearly 40 years. I look at how my folks navigated retirement and pre-old age, and still can find no map. They were well-rooted, grounded people unlike their hapless hare of a daughter. “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways, acknowledge Him and He will direct your paths” will have to be my compass, the One Quiet Star. He is definitely trustworthy.

Nearly 40 years ago, I embarked on another unknown journey after I graduated from college. Then, too, I looked to the One Quiet Star. The Star I first saw through a bedroom window in my parents’ house when I was a teenager. I wished upon it. This was before I knew its Maker. I saw it that first semester at St. Mary’s sitting on a cold concrete stair looking at the blue-orange western sky, and it was brilliant. It comforted me as I started my last leg of college work at a new school.

I saw that Star in the San Pablo sun-setting sky amidst the happy chaos of rambunctious little kids, and even through the sad times when the course took an abrupt turn. It hung over the tempestuous Pacific during those difficult years. I see it from the back porch of my house, still guiding me on the journey I set out on in 1979 when I decided to follow Jesus. And even this past week, as I traveled home from the mid-west, the One Quiet Star shone almost as bright as the Strawberry Moon somewhere in the California desert, reminding me again of Who walks with me.

I am not going to worry like I used to about where I’d end up. Now, I am trying to be content in this moment, this day, this place, and with those who are around me now. Because I know, it’s not gonna last. One day, probably soon, the last of the kids will fly. Then the house will be really quiet. So, I want to continue “to be a pilgrim on the right journey, never to lose sight of the One Quiet Star on the horizon” wherever It may lead.

Heli-Texting: A Helluva Habit

One of the Helicopter Mom’s greatest tools is texting. I know many would say the Life 360 App is the best, but, I confess, I have never used it. I’m still old school. I still remember the days when my parents had no idea where I was and what I was doing. And, primarily, for that reason, and the fact that if I used that app, I would be a wreck, I have refused to use it. But my kids use it for each other, so when I am tempted to know where someone is, I tread the unpredictable waters and inquire from one of the kids. But I was a habitual heli-texter. Yes, you heard me right…”was”. I am proud to announce most of my heli-texting days are probably over.

Heli-texting, what the…heck is that? Well, I made up the word last night. Backstory… I live with three nocturnal creatures…my daughters. They go out every night, even after a long day at work or at school. And one of them is like a four o’clocker…almost always a very late night. Horrible conditions in which to quit heli-texting. I don’t know where they are. I have been long exiled into the “need-to-know basis” territory. Much to my chagrin.

Anyway, last night, I was home all alone, all the creatures, even the ones next door, were out. I didn’t know where most of them were. I had been working on ditching heli-texting for almost a month, but I did panic a little last night before I went to bed because one of the kids said they were coming home before going out again. Didn’t come home, didn’t text. So general anxiety panic disorder (GAPD) set in. (I made that up too.) And I fell off the wagon, and began to type out a text, copy it and sent to each of my offspring. To which I got two answers. Then I finally heard noises downstairs from one of those nocturnal creatures who had returned home. I went to check it out. I asked, “Where is everyone?” One of the persons present told me of a potentially harried tale while the other person present tried to throttle him. And all I said, “If they’re home safe, I don’t care.” And I added, “Hey, haven’t you even noticed I haven’t’ been “heli-texting” anymore?” To which, my daughter replied, “Hella texting?” “No, heli-texting…helicopter texting. Hey, I just made up that word.” She wasn’t too impressed. I went back to bed and went to sleep.

Heli-texting, or known as hella-texting apparently in the Bay Area, is helicopter parenting via text. That’s it. It’s blowing up their phones. I even googled heli-texting and couldn’t find any match for that word. Therefore, I hereby unofficially patent the word and take ownership. And why not? I am an expert…albeit a retired one.

I wrote a blog, “Hope For The Helicopter Mom”, about an incident when my oldest son tried to check my rampant heli-texting. Heading over to the City back when he was like 17, he told me I only get five texts. I sweated through the evening and he arrived home safe and sound just using five texts. But that was twenty years ago, it’s only recently that I’ve quit heli-texting.

A few weeks ago, I don’t remember exactly what happened, but as I’ve tried to emotionally distance myself from my grown kids and put the mothering to rest, I decided to quit bugging them via text. Just quit bugging entirely. They’re grown, they’re doing their own things (nail biting) and unless they loop me in, I’ve got to find something else to do. In a conversation on a podcast, the interviewer reiterated some of Jordan Peterson’s words to him: “I heard you recently talk about a mother’s ability to let her child go out into the world knowing that they’re still vulnerable and that it’s now down to them and the world to look after them, that’s one of the bravest things…” To which Jordan Peterson finished the thought, “It’s the female crucifixion.” He went on to describe the Pieta and Mary’s grief after the crucifixion.

Yes!! Letting them go, go out into the world – a place you know is dangerous and evil as well as beautiful and glorious – knowing they are so young and inexperienced is likened to something as traumatic as a crucifixion. Letting them go has been that hard. And what keeps me on track to not worry, be anxious or fretful is that, as a Christian, I am called to JOY, PEACE, LOVE and HOPE, things that cannot survive in the hazardous environment of fear.

Lest you think I’ve arrived at total acquiescence and indifference to my kids’ independence and activities, I do still peak out the bathroom window after I wake up and count the cars, and, sigh a heartfelt “Thank You, Lord.” So what am I supposed to do now? Read my last blog post here.

New Dreams For Old Folks: AKA What are We Gonna Do Now?

“I am old now…” like Orual in C. S. Lewis’ “Til We Have Faces. And like Orual, I have “this lean carrion that still has to be washed and fed and have clothes hung about it daily with so many changes,” well not so lean. Perhaps one of my new dreams is to get back into some better health. My old roommate from 1978 sent me photos from the “good old days”. I was trim, pretty and had all of my original teeth. I was even pretty athletic, maybe I can get back to that “lean carrion.”

One of my first dreams was to get married and have a big family. I wrote about wanting lots of kids, running around with animals, laughter, baking and fun. I wanted to raise them with a knowledge of the Lord so when they were adults they would chose His way. Most of that dream came true. The reality, though, was a little different than what I had imagined. But I did it…and I did it to the best of my ability with the tools I had. The regrets I have, I can live with.

My second dream was to get a house for my kids, especially after our lives exploded by divorce. I was obsessed for years, I was determined to find a place of our own one day, at least for the kids who were still with me. I was a regular on Redfin, scouring the site for houses I could afford. It took years to build my credit, and income to get to a place where I could buy. And finally, a couple years ago, thanks to my Mom and Dad, I had the new house, but before I knew it, the kids were all grown.

Some of them still live with me and enjoy this beautiful home…and I am grateful for the time I have left with these adult kids. Sometimes they will even hang out with me, like when a couple of the kids went to Paint Night with me or when one introduced me to a cool Irish pub in Berkeley last March. A couple even came with me to Vegas to see Barry Manilow back in 2023. Even though I see them daily and hang out sometimes, I feel a little like an outcast. They are into their own lives now, which is perfectly natural. But, nonetheless, I do think I may be suffering from a little post-maternal depression. It’s tough letting these guys go.

I am grateful though and glad that they like to hang out with each other. They are each others homies, well some of them are. There was a time when THEY were my homies (literally), they were my best buds and I hung out with them all the time. They were even my “Get Out of Social Events Free” card. Handy when you’re an introvert with social anxiety. They did everything I did, pretty much. Then they grew up. I’m not their homie anymore. That part of the dream of raising a big family is over. Boy, it seemed to go by fast.

Now, what am I gonna do? I have to work for a while longer…but soon I will retire. My imagination has withered, I can’t think of anything to do. Probably because most of the folks I hung out with for the past 35 years are otherwise engaged. All of the things I’ve wanted the past three decades had to do with the kids. And, now, poof! They don’t need me anymore.

But…what did C.S. Lewis purportedly say, according to that beacon of reliability, the Internet, “You are never too old to set a new goal or to dream a new dream.” I guess the Shoelady needs to find a new dream and a new goal.

I guess I could continue writing. I’ve had some success with my little screenplays. I could still do that. Writing is tough though, I spend a lot of time wrestling the self-doubt demons. I am determined to sell at least one story to Woman’s World Magazine. Si, se puede!

I should also probably be more active and get into better shape like those old 1978 photos, sans the beer. Especially if I am going to do the next thing.

I’ve had this dream of traveling around the world. Inspired by a photo taken of me by my friend on our Alaskan Cruise. “Shoelady Shoots the World” is the idea. Since I don’t drive freeways or fly, this world tour will be trains, boats and taxis. It’s a great idea, right? But I’m afraid I’ve become somewhat of an agoraphobe. I’m getting very comfortable in my room with my own library, my spa-like tub and my washing machine unit. I don’t even need to go downstairs and try to mix with the cool kids. Me and Columbo are having a good time up here.

But, then I remember the trip to Rome in 1996, my mother was pushing 67 (my age when I retire) and she was awesome. Running here and there, from the Coliseum, to the Catacombs along cobblestone streets and even chasing down the Pope in his Popemobile. I could do that, well maybe not chase down the Pope. I don’t have to resign myself to who knows how many years of Columbo reruns and self-pity parties. Come on, Donna. Dream better, dream wider, dream bigger.

My co-worker, who is a year older than I and wants to retire about the same time, was recently telling me about some trips he and his wife have booked. He even mentioned that they may plan a Christmas Markets trip to Europe. I googled the markets….oh my, cool weather, holiday lights, baked goods and hot chocolate smack dab in the middle of Europe. Europe, a place I’ve wanted to revisit when I’d have more time. Cathedrals, libraries, art museums…what’s not to love? Could I do that? That’s certainly new dream material, right?? Maybe my World Tour will take shape. After Europe, then Asia…Istanbul, the Holy Land, maybe India, Australia…my imagination can go wild.

There was a poem from one of my devotionals that was timely when I was just about to start working full time (about 12 years ago). I had to put my youngest into after school care and manage the after school activities of the other five kids who were still school age. I was terrified, but it was a great opportunity, and a stepping stone to providing for my family.

“Step out on the waves

that would crush you!

Step out in the storm

that would hush you!

And you will find,

As you touch the crest

You feared so much,

And walked on its breast,

There was One walking there,

The whole night through,

Walking, watching,

Waiting — FOR YOU!”

Dare I ride that wave again? Dare I dream of going to places I’ve wanted to see for decades? Dare I trust the Lord to guide continually, even in this endeavor, this new dream, this new goal?

What say you? (heehee a little LOTR reference) 🙂

So to be sure of what to desire in the future, I will cling to Psalm 37:4: “Delight yourself in the Lord; and He will give you the desires of your heart.” I will each day try my best to delight in Him, in prayer, in Bible reading and in trying to work out this faith in my daily life. As a co-worker, as a “mom/roommate”, as a woman stepping out onto another wave. The pastor in a recent sermon recounted a time where he called out to the Lord in prayer: “God, I want more of You. I don’t know what I’m looking for, I don’t know what I’m doing, I just need Your Presence here.” Although he recounts this as his point of conversion, I like the prayer as I enter a new season of my life. I want more of Him…I want to delight in Him…and then He will reveal to me the true desires of my heart. Amen.

Images generated in Canva AI. Canva AI is too much fun.

Dyeing for an Irish Romance

“Be ready right at 6:30,” Katie grabbed her phone and replied to Eva’s text, “OK”. Katie untowelled her wet hair. Something caught her eye.

“Are you kidding me?” Katie wiped the condensation off the mirror and stared at her newly dyed hair. “No, this can’t be.” She looked at the hair dye box to see if it was “Dark Mahogany”. It was. She glared back at the mirror. “What the heck?” She dried her hair, and it was more brilliant auburn than when it was wet.

“Oh no, not tonight.” That red hair must’ve unearthed some determined indignation in her and she decided to make it right. She rolled up her long hair into a Giants baseball cap and headed out to the health food store.

“Can I help you?” the friendly clerk asked Katie. “Yes, I bought this henna yesterday. And it’s the wrong color. See on the box, it’s supposed to be Dark Mahogany. But it’s not…” The clerk interrupted her, “You need to go to the back counter and talk to the manager.”

“Thanks,” she replied. As she walked to the back of the store, she passed by the hair care section to retrieve a replacement box. She stared at the shelves, and of course there were no Dark Mahogany’s.

“Oh man…” she humphed.

At the back counter, she looked around for someone to help her. She noticed the small bell and gave it a good whack.

Out from the back office a man emerged whom Katie had never seen before. She was taken aback by his scruffy good looks, clear blue eyes and his more than adequate height. And on top of that, he greeted her with a lilting Irish brogue.

“Yes, love, what can I do for you?”

She bristled at the salutation. “I bought this Dark Mahogany henna yesterday and my hair has turned red. I’d like another one, please.”

“Of course, love. Let’s check the shelves and get you taken care of.” The manager motioned to go to the aisles.

Katie stopped him, “No, no, I already looked and there’s no Dark Mahogany.”

“Is there another color you’d prefer?” he asked politely.

“No, I want my Dark Mahogany. I’ve got an important party tonight; I need my regular color.” She insisted.

“Why not a nice auburn? That would bring out your lovely eyes.” He suggested.

Indignantly, she replied, “Auburn! You mean red, like this??” She flung off her baseball cap and her brilliant red tresses fell over her shoulders. He was stunned at her beauty.

“As you can see Mister….”

“Declan” he finished her sentence.

“As you can see, Mr. Declan…” He cut her off again. “No, no, my first name is Declan.”

“OK, Declan,” she became flustered, “what’s that Irish?”

“Ah, a smart lassie you are.” He grinned at her still enamored by her beauty.

“OK, Irish Declan…can you check the back for some Dark Mahogany, please?” Katie was flustered, exasperated and needed to get home.

“If you don’t mind me sayin’, that’s a lovely color on ya.”

“Thank you,” she sputtered nervously, “but I just need my regular color, please, I’m in a hurry.”

“Sure, love, I’ll check.” Declan retreated to the back of the store. Katie tried to compose herself. She found a mirror and touched up her face. The red was pretty, and it did bring out her green eyes. But there was no way she could go to the St. Patrick’s Day party looking like this.

Declan returned with a box of Dark Mahogany.

“Fuair mé é.” Declan exclaimed in Gaelic. Seeing Katie’s confused look, he translated, “I found it.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it.”

“Not at all,” Declan smiled, and her knees went weak. “I like the red though, love.”

“Please don’t call me love.” Her cheeks burned redder than her hair.

Katie rushed home. In the bathroom, she looked at her hair, and it didn’t seem to repulse her anymore. She looked more like her mother with this shade. She remembered what Declan said about it too. Boy, what a handsome Irishman, she thought.

Again, the magic of the red hair worked on her and she decided to keep it red.

Katie was already to go when Eva rang the doorbell.

“What’ve you have done to your hair?” Eva exclaimed.

“I accidentally dyed it red… but I like it.”

“It looks good; by the way, Brian brought his cousin. I think you’ll like him.”

“Eva…come on, not again.” They went to the car, and Katie hopped in back.

“Ahhh, fancy meeting you here, and you with the red hair…” Declan’s warm blue eyes beamed as she scooted next to him.

“You’re the cousin?” Katie smiled blushingly. “Just my Irish luck.”

“Mine too,” Declan responded and grabbed her hand and kissed it.

Image generated by AI in Canva

Screenwriting News

Hello Blog Readers,

Just an update on my screenwriting endeavors. My friend, Nikki Hevesy, made a short film this past year. Earlier this spring, I began helping her with entries to various film festivals. I noticed some of these festivals had corresponding screenwriting contests.

The 168 Film Festival has a writing competition called the Write of Passage. It is a speed writing contest. Each year the competition has a theme upon which a Bible verse is based. The Bible verse is the prompt to a 7 day screenwriting contest. You have 7 days to complete a screenplay of 12 pages or less. What’s great about this competition is that you are assigned a mentor who guides, teaches and helps you perfect your script. Over the past ten years or so, I have entered, and subsequently, amassed a collection of about ten short screenplays.

So, as I was helping Nikki, I began to enter some of my short scripts in various contests. I got a very good response from quarterfinalist to finalist to … finally … today, a win.

The best I had done in the Write of Passage Contest was Finalist…so this is new territory. I hope this win and maybe future wins will open doors to a Shoelady Sequel….since my stint as a mom of ten kids is over, at least the child rearing.

Thanks always for your support.

Donna

Shoelady’s Tips to Self-Publishing

My self-publishing journey started when I read Peter Bowerman’s “Well-Fed Self Publisher” book. After many years of writing to publishers and literary agents, I figured “what the heck!” I wasn’t getting any younger…even though I will never be this young again!

After contracting with the talented and patient, Breena Nuñez, our project got under way. She submitted batches of drawings every month or so, while I worked on typesetting the book.

I followed religiously Nigel French’s Lynda.com’s “Designing a Book” tutorial. Lynda.com is a great resource for the self-motivated learner. They have hundreds of classes that range from Business to the Arts. Look into it. For about $25 a month, you can learn a host of new things.

Nigel’s class introduced me to Blurb.com where I had my finished product printed. For a low price, I was able to produce what you see today. I admit it is far from perfect, but Nigel even said “It looks great—and well written too!” So I consider that a good B.

For you folks who want to publish your novels, memoirs or cookbooks, look into all the resources that are available for the self-publisher. The links to the resources I used are below:

Breena’s Etsy

https://www.etsy.com/shop/TechnicolorMorena

And of course,

Thank you all for attending and listening to my Author Talk.

Are You My Identity?

AreYouMyIdentity

Below is an excerpt from my self-published book, The Plight of the Hare & Other Stories From the Shoe. This blog was first written in 2009.

Here I am on the cusp of 50, and I am having an identity crisis like one of my 15 year olds. It is rather humorous and pathetically sad, and slightly terrifying.

I am newly divorced and for the past two decades, I pretty much conformed myself to my husband, his business (a business I liked), his wishes for our family and “subjugated” anything that was purely me to these pursuits. I don’t regret this time of my life, and we did have many things and thoughts in common. Nevertheless, as I face a single life, I am mystified as to who I really am. I am like the baby bird that went from one thing to another asking the profound and longing question, “Are you my mother?”

As I look for direction in my new life, I look back to the days before love and marriage, and try to remember the passions that were truly my own. As a perpetual people-pleaser, it’s hard to distinguish what I really like from what was either popular at the time, popular with the folks I was hanging out with or limited what things my overly active conscience deemed permissible. You see, I looked to those around me for existence confirmation, validation and acceptance. But as those influences diminished, I learned there were certain things I knew for sure that were from me, just me.

I remember my love for languages and cultures which was born in my heart in the sixth grade. After I got saved in 1979, my whole life soon revolved around my church, and that love was reinvigorated by the scores of missionary stories I read. When I got my English degree back in the ’80’s, I intended to go overseas to teach English. Maybe I should pursue that again. I had even started the certificate at Cal, but couldn’t finish because of the demands at home were very high. There were still at least nine under the same roof. They needed a little supervision, and I remembered my first and foremost responsibility. In an old (1991) journal, I copied a little poem:

This is my mission field; the kitchen sink, where countless plates and glasses clink.

While mundane tasks involve my hands, I pray for those in distant lands.

This is my mission field; a child’s heart where endless thoughts and actions start,

For in that heart through word and deed I plant and water sacred seed.

Marcia Baldon

I remember my job as a construction secretary in 1979. I worked on a job site in Redwood City. The radio was set to a local country western station – KLOK – by decree of the cigar-smoking, Andy Devine-cloned superintendent named Andy, and there I fell in love with Willie and Waylon, and Merle and Marty. I got myself some cowboy boots and I was set. “I was country when country wasn’t cool…” well, really, I was going country when it was getting popular. So this city-born country girl started gazing at plans and dreamed of building a home of her own. I taught myself how to read blueprints, and I also crudely drew a floor plan for an off the grid house on Mt. Rose in Nevada. I don’t know where the Mt. Rose idea came from, but the seeds of working in the construction industry were germinated in that little job site trailer. Over the years, I would add to my knowledge of the construction business. Maybe I’ll go get my construction management certificate and stay in this industry.

Finally, I remember I liked to write. I began writing back in elementary school for fun, I even bound my own book titled “Suzanne and the Pig”. Don’t know what became of it, never hit any best seller lists. I wrote poetry in high school; however, I was easily discouraged as you can see from this poem:

Tired of the same old words,

Tired of the same old verbs,

Wishin’ for the capacity beyond my control

To create poems true and bold.

Dreaming does no good,

Nor hoping that I could,

The energy does not exist

To dedicate my heart to this.

6-27-78

My godfather was an author, and he encouraged my writing, but I don’t think I seriously thought of doing it until I read a book my ex bought for me “Maybe You Should Write a Book”. Maybe I should, I could stay home with the kids and generate an income. I did pray a Gideon prayer in 2006 that if I was to write, I’d need to get published within the year. And I did…twice. But I’ve yet to receive a book contract…I can’t even get an agent to email me back a rejection notice.

So I look back at the expanse of my past life and ask “Will the real Donna please stand up?” Is she the country music loving pseudo-architect, the internationally traveling English teacher or the best-selling “best thing since Bombeck” writer? Actually, each and every one of these parts is a facet of who I truly am: the identities of the past, the present and the future: best-selling writer, mother of ten great kids, and future wife of knight in shining armor, and builder of dreams.

If You Want to Read This….Thank a Writer!

Ok, wait, before any one gets upset, I know the common maxim is “If you a can read this, thank a teacher!”, and I want to give credit to those folks that taught us how to read and those who teach our children. I work for a school district, and I am so impressed with their organization, patience and mission to educate and nurture the next generation. Believe me, they do not do this for the pay. But, at the same time, I’d like to extend my gratitude to the wonderful writers who have helped shape our personalities, slipped into our childhoods and left lasting memories and images through the written word, and even as adults continue to challenge, illumine and comfort us in our earthly journeys.

A writer is not only an author, but could be a playwright, lyricist or poet. Whatever medium from which they come, their words can change and definitely enrich our lives, and without their wonderful words, lyrics and sentences, what would we read?? The ingredients to the shampoo bottle, the toilet cleanser or soap box. Here are a few words that have knit themselves into the fiber of my being.

Robert Bolt wrote the play, “A Man For All Seasons”, the story of Sir Thomas More and his confrontation with Henry VIII. Written in the early ‘60’s, it still feels like Bolt was recording actual conversations from the early 1500’s. Paul Scofield brought Sir Thomas More alive on the stage and the screen and whose voice was the perfect vehicle for Bolt’s lovely lines. Faced with imprisonment and possible death, More’s daughter urged her father to sign the Act of Supremacy to save his life, but More beautifully states:

“Listen, Meg, God made the angels to show Him splendor, as He made animals for innocence and plants for their simplicity. But Man He made to serve Him wittily, in the tangle of his mind. If He suffers us to come to such a case that there is no escaping, then we may stand to our tackle as best we can, and, yes, Meg, then we can clamor like champions, if we have the spittle for it. But it’s God’s part, not our own, to bring ourselves to such a pass. Our natural business lies in escaping. If I can take the oath, I will.”

I tell my kids that they love poetry. “Huh?” The songs they listen to are filled with all different kinds of poetry. We all have song lyrics that beat within our own hearts. What could be more wonderful than beautiful words set to lovely music? I can’t list all the song lyrics I love….there are so many. What parent is not brought to tears by the poignant lyrics of Joni Mitchell’s “The Circle Game”? Or whose heart doesn’t swell with pride when anyone sings “America the Beautiful”? Even Tupac’s “Dear Mama” brings me to tears, probably because one of the kids said they were gonna play it at my funeral. And Alan and Marilyn Bergman’s hauntingly beautiful love song “How Do You Keep the Music Playing?” must be the most romantic of all the love songs – “that in your eyes I may not see forever….forever…” Ahhh, truly sublime.

Who doesn’t have a favorite poem? I have many, some have changed my life. My old boss was posting some poems on Facebook not too long ago, and he posted this one:

That poem was a revelation to me, it was like God took one of those little flashlights you get at Walgreen’s, pointed it to my soul, and said, “See, I know you.” That’s what poetry does, that’s what good writing does. It helps us discover ourselves.

You see, reading is more than just filling out a job application or doing your taxes. Reading for some of us is as essential as eating or breathing. I read all the time much to the annoyance of my children, I can’t help myself. I do thank my teachers for teaching me to read, but I thank these writers and others for fueling the desire to read.