… there is light on the water of this digital world and the sun pours down on something to be wondered at.

“Now, as I sift through the pages of the anthology, I experience a strange thrill, something akin to a homecoming. Constantly uprooted, I have lived my life accepting the idea of home to be nothing more than notional, a clutch of haphazard memories. But here, between the covers of this book, I realize, my character has found shelter, and I an uplifting peace, amidst an eclectic sisterhood of writers.”

When I read this I know the voice instantly. And I can see the flowing, cursive script that once carried stories and poems to my classroom – that  led me as a young teacher  into a world of dancers and dancing and walled castles and younger hearts so lost in the poetry of themselves that they could see nothing and nobody else. 

But this is far more. This is the work of a writer. Perhaps one still seeking that final something – that contemplative certainty of voice and place in the world.  A restless, cosmopolitan soul,  now touched by the whitefire of life and the otherwhere.  But a writer  to the core.

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