If I told you I believe in miracles.
You might tell me that I am a dreamer.
And, you would be right.
I can almost touch the finger tips of my eighteen year old self. She is in France. She can taste the very possibility of life and she knows, without even the merest blink of doubt, that she will fall in love with the soul, the beauty of words. Their commitment.
There is no hesitation to her: I want to be a writer.
Then. Somehow. The days intervene.
I have always known that I would become a writer when I grew up. But, I did not know how lengthy, complicated and, at times, formidable this exacting journey would prove to be.
I am still travelling.
But, I am here.
Here I am.