Grr. I didn't post it correctly, and so I begin again. This seems appropriate, given the nature of this blog.

The purpose of this blog is to self-publish the work I've been doing. And why not. I haven't the patience to deal with the traditional publication processes. (And that would assume I could find a publisher.) I don't even have the patience to prepare a full manuscript to e-publish. So, I will follow the tradition of Charles Dickens and Mark Twain and send my work out in serial form.

Fragile little paper boats, sent out to be ignored or crushed by the waves. This requires (on my part) the absolute willingness to launch without caring what happens next.

As most of you know, I really should be dead right now. I had a ridiculously large (but thankfully benign) brain tumor, then seizures, a coma, paralysis -- and somber warnings to my husband and children that I would die (twice) or be in a vegatative state (twice) if I lived. After the excitement died down, and I didn't, well-meaning friends and relatives said I should write about the experience and so I have.

I've also been writing a book of personal reminiscence, "Don't Look at the Big Purple Foot", which sets down, for all time, things that have happened to me that I didn't understand then and still don't.

My next project is a sci-fi novella, so far reviewed by my friends as "disturbing", "peculiar", and "are you absolutely sure you want to publish this?"

There is also a musical but that's a subject for another day.

I think of my creative output as flowers growing in a ditch by the highway. And so welcome to my own floral gutter, where delightful things are.