Reflection of the Echo
Marilyn(c)1966-1999
I cannot
imagine words failing to delight and sustain me, but if they do,
I’ll yet be surrounded (and I can return to) the words of
other minds. In the case of no longer being able to read, I would
listen...In the bleaker case of not being able to hear, I would
remember...In the most dire case of my body housing a mind that
could no longer think, the consciousness of loss is gone also.
For me,
writing started as a pastime, then became a potent drug ~ an
addictive passion. My writing has kept me sane; I can do it
anywhere, anytime, any way I want. Nothing else in life has
offered me that kind of freedom. I’ve longed to possess the
gift of writing which embodies personality of the author in words
and thoughts that retain their beauty and fragrance after the
lapse of time… tender, intimate, sacred… the feeling of
having opened a book and found memory blossoms of yesteryear,
sweet and beloved and gentle, between it’s ancient leaves.
All
authors invest a great deal of themselves into their stories and
books – the blood and sweat and tears of private thoughts,
feelings, ideas. It is an intimate glance into the workings of
their mind, their heart, their soul. To be a writer, you must
become intellectually and emotionally naked in front of your
readers... taking the clothes off one’s body is always
easier than taking them off the mind.
Not
being known does not stop truth from being true. As readers see
behind writer’s masks, you’ll see what compelled me to
put these words on paper. But sometimes, when the light’s
just so, writers can see behind reader’s masks as well. In
that light, perhaps I’ll find you walking along these pages
with me...