Why does where we go after we die perplex us more than where we were before our birth?
I am a writer. Well, at least that’s part of who I am. I can’t help but think that I might not live to see any sort of success at this craft I’ve grown to love. Perhaps I will die with all these poems and songs and words inside my head.
That thought poses more questions than answers I’m afraid. What is success? How do you measure it? Is it anything like trying to measure intelligence?
I once wrote that all a writer can do is hope to change one brilliant mind who will in turn, change the world.
I am a writer. At least that’s most of who I am.