The Secret I Promised

 If you want to slap Grandmother Grey Wolf on the back 

       to help spit up a fur ball click on:   

                 

                                       http://www.grandmothergreywolf.blogspot.com                                                     

Have you noticed that about everything you do is a Work in Process—life included?

And so has this blog been that, a work in process. Probably people wonder what in the hell I’m talking about in wishing on white horses. No matter. I’m still wishing, still believing in believing.

And I promised you "The secret to being rich beyond your wildest dreams.” That was before Peaches died and I got off the track. The eleven bags of subcutaneous fluid we did not use on Peaches will go to Sanctuary One, an animal rescue facility here in Oregon. It is the one that took our wonderful goats Orville and Wilbur. (I hear that Wilbur, the dark one, is in love.)

Psssst, About “The Secret.”

I trust you to use your common sense—remember that notebook where you wrote down your desires? Oh, you didn’t do it? Okay, but if you decide to do it, remember it’s for your eyes only. And if you ask for someone to be in your life, ask that it be for the highest good of both parties. You cannot ask for someone else, that is against spiritual law. You may ask, however, how that person fits into your life.

It is best to concentrate on your own life and let others take care of their own lives.

Yes, our subconscious mind connects us to the creative power of the Universe. It also connects us to every other being on the planet. It behooves us, therefore, to imagine our dreams as balloons filled with helium. When we share that dream, a little of the helium pssst leaks out.

Describe the kind of life you want.

Okay we have written out our desires. Remember not to say we want them, but write them in present tense. We have them.

After that we do not ignore our list, but we detach from it to let the Universe work out the details.

Remember that the good you are seeking is also seeking you.

The secret to success is to define the parameters of your desire, and then let the Forces of Creation do the work.

Grandmother Wolf here for Peaches

Sleeping while I'm driving

Now Bear is sleeping on me. 

Just saying "Hi. and you know what? I'm going to have something to say on www.dogblogbypeaches.blogspot.com, but first I have to get my bearings here on the other side. Right now I'm out in the forest playing with Bear."

Our little Peaches, our Pink Party Poodle for Peace aka Peachy Baby died in my arms last night.

She did good for a dog that had Addison's disease her entire life, and lived with us sticking her with a needle for the past year. Addisons is a condition, not really a disease. It's a fault in the adrenal glands.

This is the first time in 46 years that we have been dogless.

If you would like to read a new blog post, it would honor me if you would go to "How Wolves Change Rivers," Awesome.

http://www.grandmothergreywolf.blogspot.com

Love from Joyce

I Shall Go To The Mountain

“I don’t think we could manifest a train here,” I said to my daughter as we sat by a window at Chevy’s Mexican Restaurant in Del Mar California. “There is no train track here.”

Not a minute later a huge flat-bed truck stopped on the road and waited for the traffic light to change. A tan canvas tarp covered the back of the truck and clearly, printed in huge letters, and waiting for us to read it, was the word, “TRANE.”

We almost blew iced tea out our noses.

This morning I had a similar experience. I showed up for a seminar—on the brochure it said July 2-5. This was July 2. “The seminar begins tomorrow,” they said.

Was I disappointed? No. A few months ago I had dreamed of having a get-a-way , a writing retreat. And there it was presented to me—a day alone, away from home. I had a private retreat in my Motel room.

Before driving back to my room I walked down the street of the quaint town of Mt. Shasta City, CA. where the mountain that is Mt Shasta hangs behind the city like a movie set backdrop, its size filling three-quarters of the visible sky. And this being July, its once white cloak of snow is now a shredded Tee-shirt. In town early morning vendors were setting up a street fair, and so after surveying their wares, I wandered into a shop where a book grabbed me.  I’m Rich Beyond  My Wildest Dreams “I am. I am. I am,” by Thomas L. Pauley and Penelope J. Pauley.

Now who could resist that title?

I bought the book, went back to my room and there sitting alone with the outside air 100 degrees, and my room cool as that mountain stream that runs off Mr. Shasta,  Pauley told me that once he was convinced that he could do anything he set his mind to do. “But why,” he asked, “have I gone bankrupt two times?”

Something was missing, he said. He believed he had the missing piece, and he was offering it to me. “First, he said, “get yourself a 79 cent notebook." I had a 19 cent one, so I was already 60 cents ahead.  "Now make sure you have privacy and time—at least an hour to complete the next chapter."

I had the privacy and the time.

Write at the top of your page

“All this by Divine Right, Divine Inspiration, Divine Intervention, Divine Timing and with Good for all concerned.”

Now write a list of what you want.

But don’t “Want” it. Own it. Write it as though you have it already. We don’t want our little universe genie to think we only want something. (He’s so literal he will focus on the want not the have.) We want him to know we are serious about having it.

Write on only one side of the page. (Leave room for growth.)

Skip a line between the items on your list. (Tell the Universe we believe in abundance.) Besides I have a sneaking suspicion Pauley wants us to add more later.

Now make your list.

Example:

1.     I have a beautiful new car or a like-new car.

2.     more

3.     more

At the end of my list my brain was sparking, and so let’s you and I take a break. I will get back to you…it won’t be long, I promise. There is plenty where this came from, and I haven’t even begun the seminar yet.

I know I am not telling you anything you don’t already know, but having it spelled out is such a kick, I had to do it.

To our mutual success.

Ta Da,

Joyce

Next installment: “The Secret Ingredient”

P.S. Ok, I'm cockoo. I know it, but I have begun another blog. It was formerly "Where Tigers Belch," now it is Grandmother Grey Wolf. It will focus on the spiritual side of life,  Come join the pack--we will dance with the wolves.

 

http:/www.grandmothergreywolf.blogspot.com

A Poke

Stuff your eyes with wonder, he said, live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories.” 
― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

A restaurant here in Eugene has a sports bar attached, and it is reasonable to have a television there—except now they have televisions in the main high-end portion of the restaurant. My girl friends and I asked why they installed televisions. The server said the customers prefer them.

Whoa.

If you go to a Sports bar with the intention of watching a game, okay. Watch the game, cheer, eat, drink, whoop it up. All those things. Otherwise why have a television in a restaurant?

Isn’t going out to eat a festive occasion? Isn’t it a time for conversation, a little wine, a few jokes, something to laugh about, if only the thrill of being together? And just think, someone else prepared the food, and will wash the dishes.

Watch people in restaurants. They are often talking on the phone. To whom? There is a person sitting across from them. Older couples sit silent, munching. They look up occasionally, and to their surprise, there is someone sitting across from them.  Business people are working on papers, snarfing food in a rush to get back to a job they hate.

I love young couples sitting across the table from each other holding hands—older people too. They still believe life is something to get excited about.

In Europe dinner is an occasion. In Italy up-scale restaurants have two sittings per night. There you can stay as long as you want. People eat, drink, have fun, and don’t get fat.

Imagine.

Maybe I missed my calling. I ought to be a restaurant owner, set up an eatery in an alleyway between two buildings, with outside tables, a ceiling of multi-colored umbrellas , strings of white lights, and no televisions.

Little boy Darling has a restaurant idea—a ghost restaurant, with lots of dry ice bubbling, and images projected on the fog. And what would he serve? I wonder.

Joyce

“Life is one grand adventure, or it ought to be if we don’t fall asleep on each other.”—I think Ray Bradbury said this, I can’t find the source.

P.S. If you would like email notifications of blog postings, just give me your handle in the little box below--scroll past the ad surprise of the day. No spam.

Have You Ever Felt This Way?

Jack Canfield’s words are ringing in my head, “Oh What the Heck, Do it Anyway”

“I’m scared.”

“What the heck, do it anyway.”

But I’m not good, enough, talented enough, accurate enough, organized enough, you know the drill….”

“Oh what the heck, do it anyway.”

Have you ever felt this way?

I have a manuscript I've had in the works for over 20 years. Not continually of course. Once I won $50.00 for an excerpt of it, but that was for second place. I figured I could do better. Besides I didn’t have an ending, or enough words, or it wasn’t written well enough—all those things. Well it’s complete at 50,000 words. One publisher will take 50,000 words. Some want the “sweet zone” of 90,000.

“Oh what the heck, send it anyway.”

It’s a love story.

What are you trying to do but are afraid to put out there?

“Oh what the heck, do it anyway.”

I once read that we ought to have a dream bigger than we are. Walt Disney dreamed of Epcot Center, Disney World in Florida, but he never saw it.

Walt Disney went bankrupt more than once, and he heard “no” from virtually everybody that he spoke to when he first came up with the idea of Mickey Mouse. They thought his idea of a cartoon about a mouse was one of the dumbest things they had ever heard. In fact, when he went to banks to get funding for his first Walt Disney theme park, he was turned down and rejected by 302 bankers before someone finally believed in what he had to offer.

So where did he get the money?

Well, only ABC was willing to partner with him. Disney would produce a weekly family television program for ABC. In return, ABC would invest $500,000 in the creation of Disneyland and would own roughly 34% of the new enterprise. The weekly show would consist of an update on the construction of Disneyland and a short movie, all hosted by Walt Disney himself. Disney understood that the public would enjoy the show itself while also sitting through what would now be considered an hour-long commercial for Disneyland. The show went on to be known as “The Wonderful World of Color” and then “The Wonderful World of Disney.”

Also Disney convinced consumer product companies that if the public encountered their brands at Disneyland, they would associate those products with the fun they had during their visit. Some of the first companies to sponsor the park were Coca Cola, Swift, Frito-Lay, Pendleton, Gibson Greeting Cards, TWA, and Eastman Kodak. Originally, these companies owned shares in Disneyland, but once it started to turn a profit, Disney bought those shares back, until the only owners were the Disney Company and ABC.

If you go to Disneyland, however, you will still see those brands.

Gosh I think of # The Golden Horseshoe, and while eating a ham and cheese sandwich along with Fritos and a Coke we almost fell off our chairs while the duel of the deaf signer and the singer raged. The signer would up the speed and jokes while the poor signer for the deaf, almost fell over in exhaustion. 

Ta Da

“Do the Thing You Fear and The Death of Fear is Certain”

                                                         --Ralph Waldo Emerson

Bear

Bear and Little Boy Darling on the Green Trail of Bliss

I woke up this morning thinking of Bear, Daughter Dear’s perfect dog.

It occurred to me that while there was drama around Bear, he was unruffled.  A more steady peaceful and calm dog would be hard to find, maybe never. He was one of a kind, all 200 pounds of him.

Remember Bear? He was the one my husband stretched a kennel for so he could be transported to Hawaii with more comfort than the largest airline approved commercial kennel provided. From Oregon Continental Airlines took the modified kennel. In Hawaii Aloha airlines took it, but then upon leaving the Island, United Airlines would not take it. The kennel had been modified. It was not acceptable. They wouldn’t budge.

That was nine o’clock in the morning after we had white-knuckled it up and over the mountain because a tanker had turned over blocking the regular route from Hilo to Kona. We rushed into town, and there purchased the largest kennel we could find—lucky they had one. It was a tight fit, but Bear accepted it graciously. We missed the first plane. “Have him here at noon,” they said, “the plane will leave at two.”

The plane was delayed.  Bear was in lockup until 6 o’clock that evening in a kennel that fit him like a wet suit. He made it to L.A. by nine the next morning seemingly none the worse for wear. We were.

One day on the Island as we were walking in our back forty—really, it was the back five, a Doberman dog furiously barking rushed at us. Bear stood, a protective shield between the dog and one-year-old Baby Darling.  Dogs bowed to his calm demeanor. The neighbor rescued us from her dog and we never saw it again.

Newfoundlands are considered natural baby sitters. Nana in Peter Pan was a Newfoundland. But Newfoundlands are big, as was Bear, and people renting houses think a dog ought to be 30 pounds or less. (Little dogs can do far more damage—you figure.) We were rejected from a place we thought we had rented, and thus arrived in Eugene with no house. It turned out perfect, a property manager trusted us, accepted us, took our big dog, we love our house, and Bear has not harmed one square inch of it. He never chewed, scratched, and always asked to go outside. I said the main risk was tripping over him.

Six years ago Daughter Darling commuted from Eugene Oregon to Medford, a five hour drive. There she worked 40 hours in three days at a Domestic Violence shelter,  I didn’t worry because she had Bear with her.

Bear even died perfectly. He had gotten down, and with his weight we couldn’t lift him. He could no longer maneuver the two steps into the house, and so he spent the last few days in the yard. Daughter languished over whether to have him put to sleep. The appointment was for Tuesday, the Vet said she would come to the house. Bear died on Friday, peacefully in the yard—protecting Daughter Darling to the end.

And this morning he gave me the message that while drama, chaos, whatever is happening all around, it is not your’s. You can remain calm, like Bear. I probably won’t, but you get the idea.

Do You Hate Piñatas too?

You are blindfolded.

You swipe and hit nothing.

You figure out where the Piñata is, and give a mighty swing. The trouble is the game is rigged. Just when you swing, some sadistic person pulls the rope holding the Piñata. It jerks up out of your reach, and you hit air—again.

Finally some smart or macho or small child they feel sorry for is allowed to hit the Piñata.

It breaks—they are so tough they take quite a beating--there is a mad scramble for the candy. The aggressive kids grab the most, the timid ones get a measly amount. Sharks and guppies--again.

Wow. Isn’t this fun?

Is this to teach kids about life?

And what might those lessons be?

When my kids were young, and being in San Diego where Piñatas were abundant, we would often get one for a birthday. Usually I chose a cute animal, and my first born child wouldn’t let us break it. Instead, we performed a cesarean section. We would open a small hole in the belly, the candy would pour forth, the kids got the candy, and Viola' the Piñata lived to see another day.

It lived out its life as a bedroom decoration.

Well, see, there is a solution.

We can make our own rules.

Isn’t it about time?!

P.S. Okay okay, I love Piñatas, I just don't like hitting/breaking them. Look at that cute donkey face.

This is for The People Who Haven’t Given Up

This is for the people who still believe that the Universe conspires to do them good.

You are the ones who know we have problems, but as John Kennedy said, "Man's problems were created by man, and can therefore be solved by man." Did I quote him correctly? You get the gist.

You are the people who are not numbed by naysayers, by the doomsday ones, the media, television, periodicals, books on horrors. We have heard so many horrors they doesn’t shock us anymore. We can have endless hours of brain-numbing television. Do you watch some of those commercials? Cars that turn color, fly, suggest that they will improve your sex life, and your family life, yet, cars these days are boring, with few exceptions they all look alike. Talk about sizzle and no steak.

Oh yes and movie previews are so gross I forget what movie I came to see. “Can you amp it up a bit I ask sarcastically after I have endured ear-splitting sound, computer generated monsters, mechanical gear, space ships so complex you know that the special effects people are trying to out-do each other, and shootings, poundings. Amp it up. Be bigger, bolder, more shocking.

We can spend hours on video games that keep us addicted to movement and challenges that are not solving the situations outside our doors. A great amount of brain power here, but people feel stymied—they try to find jobs, they try to be entrepreneurs, they try to sell, to market, to create the life they want, and after awhile give up in frustration.

Are we supporting our arts? Are we supporting the scientists that are giving us a better day? Have you heard that with 3-D printing they can take a 3-D printer to third-world countries, and fabricate an artificial limb especially suited for that individual? Whoa. Let’s not sit around with our fingers up our noses.

We hear of space aliens, solar flares, vampires, chem-trails, and any number of conspiracies—don’t get me wrong I believe some of the conspiracies, we just can’t let them demoralize us into zombies, needing constant influx of food, drink, sodas, medications, anything to sooth the savage beast that threatens to take us over. You have heard the old joke, “Died at 35, buried at 85.” Don’t do that.

And stop dinking with our food! Turn your genetic engineering brilliance someplace else—like curing cancer. You are making us fat.

Okay, okay, I know I am preaching to the choir—no, I’m venting, and yes, I am motivated by the movie Tomorrowland. See it and decide that you are the ones that have not given up.

“Homo sapiens,” said Dr Who in The Ark in Space, “what an inventive, invincible species. It’s only a few million years since they crawled up out of the mud and learned to walk. Puny, defenseless bipeds. They’ve survived flood, famine and plague. They’ve survived cosmic wars and holocausts. And now, here they are, out among the stars, waiting to begin a new life. Ready to out sit eternity. They’re indomitable.”

"But I Make Excellent Rembrandts."

Title could be: “We See What We Want to See”

Two days after I ranted on my writer’s blog*about how much data was on the Internet, and that books were dying faster than bugs on a sheep’s back after a good dipping—no  I didn’t use that analogy, just thought of it. Have you ever seen sheep swimming though a trough of sheep dip? Anyway I wondered why the government, the banks, anyone with personal critical data trusted it to the Internet. And then yesterday I heard on the radio that the IRS had been hacked.

Brother.

It appears that the hackers gathered personal information, but haven’t yet used it. “Authorities” figure they are waiting until next year to intercept any refunds entitled to certain taxpayers. And to add insult to injury, the burden of monitoring falls on the one who was hacked. These poor people need to keep checking to make sure their data is clean.

And then this morning I checked in on #Craig’s list, as I had placed an ad there, and they informed me that their site had been “compromised.” They assured me, however, that it had been fixed.

This would be funny if it wasn’t so serious.

We might as well laugh at it I suppose—I wouldn’t laugh, though, if my refund went to someone else. And I’m mad as hell that people aren’t buying books, but are reading on the Internet or Digital devices, or not reading.

Fahrenheit 451?

There was a funny post on #Craigs’s list—see we do love the Internet, just don’t trust it to keep our culture alive. (Book were once burned—remember? How easy would it be for a Hacker, or an on purpose “Authority” to erase us, our culture, our literature, our personal data. Think about old scrolls, good old papyrus, or leather, or clay tablets, or engraved rocks that have been found buried—that’s how much some wanted to preserve old writings and sacred texts.)

About the Craig’s list story: Someone bartered up from a cell phone to a Porsche.

How?

Beats me.

The topper, though, was that someone bartered up from a red paperclip to a house.

Yesterday I was sharing with my friend June who is an artist and would appreciate the movie we had seen the night before. It was Arts and Crafts, a documentary about Mark Landis, one of the most prolific art forgers in US history. This eccentric man copied the masters, didn’t sell them, but donated them to museums and galleries. The museums were happy, and greedy, to get their hands on such “valuable” works, and even their “experts” couldn’t tell they weren’t authentic. Landis was using gels and acrylic and colored pencils, and instant coffee to age them—modern day materials, imagine, on such artists as Monet. Because he didn’t receive any money from them it was not a crime.

June told me about Uncle Buds. I had heard about this eccentric old man she knew many years ago, but not this story: Uncle Buds was a master engraver, and he could also copy Rembrandt to a T.  The FBI often investigated him, for with his skill he could easily be a counterfeiter.  One day the FBI visited, inspected his work, found that no money was being created, and paid no attention to the many Rembrandt engravings scattered about over this table.

 “You always seem to have money,” June once asked him. “Do you make it?”

“Oh no,” he said, “never. But I make excellent Rembrandts.”

                  http://www.thebestdamnwriterbloggerontheblock.com/

A Fifty to One Long Shot

I don't limit my wishing to white horses--sometimes I bet on the bay.

Last night I was so inspired I almost fell off the couch.

How I missed it the first time around is beyond me.

I have been a Kentucky Derby fan for years—chose the winner three years running,--on paper, didn’t bet, but I stopped watching for a time after they kept breaking horse’s legs. I was mad that they race three-year olds whose legs are not fully formed. They race them because as youngsters horses are fast.  So, race them as older horses that have strong legs. It’s idiocy. You still have an even racing field. People, though, are concerned with numbers and speed, and sometimes they miss the big picture. And if you want to race in the Derby you must obey the rules.

So, in my discouragement with the Derby race, I missed the 2009 Kentucky Derby where Mind that Bird, was a 50 to 1 long shot. Mind that Bird won the race for two cowboys who didn’t even know the horse qualified, and it was the biggest shock in Kentucky Derby History. Mine that Bird came from dead last, way last, way behind the pack, but in a burst of speed passed every horse on the track, and won by 5 lengths. The announcer wasn’t even watching the horse, so discounting him he was.

I watched the movie last light 50 to 1, loved it, and decided not to be discounted, and to encourage those around me to do the same.

So how do we motivate people? By crititiques? “By criticism?

"Develop a think skin," they say.

Charles Schwab, United States Steel Company, 1927, said, “I have yet to find a person, however great or exalted his station, who did not  do better work and  put forth greater effort under the spirit of approval than he would ever do under a spirit of criticism.”

Schwab was not paid a million dollars a year (in 1927 yet) because he knew a great amount about the production of steel. He was hired because he knew how to motivate people.

They say that the second most need in people, behind health, is to be appreciated.

I appreciate you here. I appreciate that you stopped by. I appreciate that you continue to read my flimsy words.

If you choose to share what you are up to, or say what you would like to see here, you are invited to copy and paste my personal address. That way it will not go to a robot, and you will not need a password. Don’t you have more of those than you can shake a stick at?

JDwritersblog@gmail.com 
(Copy and paste if you do not want to go through the rig-a-mo-role of a sign-up.)

Now, I expect greatness from you.

Carry on,

JD

P.S. 50 to 1 is available on DVD. It was a labor of love for the director who directed Dances With Wolves and Bodyguard, and the jockey was played by the real jockey who won the Derby on Mine that Bird—a horse with a personality.

Note:Wish on a White Horse has a new address it is http://www.wishonwhitehorses.com

On the Wings of...

“Each book is Lazarus, yes? And you the reader, by opening the covers, bid Lazarus to come forth. And he lives again, it lives again, the dead words warmed by your glance.”

I came upon this in Ray Bradbury’s book Somewhere a Band is Playing, and it struck me that there I was raising Lazarus, just as he stated in his book. I could see him, hear him, his words swam, circled, soared. I was riding a Pegasus. Visions came, lessons too.  

"The great ‘medicine’,” he wrote, “was finding that we were alive and loving it. We have celebrated every day of our lives. The celebration, the exhilaration, of worshipping the gift, has kept us young. Does that sound impossible? By simply knowing you’re alive and looking at the sun and enjoying the weather and speaking it every moment of your existence, this ensures our longevity.”

I know someone such as he is describing. She is 92 with a phone message that says, “I may be here or I may be out in the Universe having fun.” It’s hard to get her on the phone for normally she is out in the Universe having fun. She takes painting lessons, and has a weekly movie date day, and walks her dog, and drives her car.

I think of a story I read told by Deepak Chopra. A man wanted a son more than anything. God gave him two choices: one the son would be healthy but not too bright. The other, a bright son, but the son would die on his 21st birthday.

He took the bright son.

He never told the son about the agreement with God. One the son’s 21st birthday the father told his son to stay by his side, but in fairy tale fashion, the father was called away for a few moments.

The son, as was his honor to do so, went to the church to thank God for his life. Unbeknownst to him the angel of death was behind him and ready to throw a noose that would snare him and thus take him to the other side.  As the angel threw the noose, the son bowed, thanking God for his life. The noose feel upon his back and slipped off.  In that manner, thanking God for his life, the son cheated death.

And the people in Bradbury’s story, with their celebration of life, stayed young.

And children sit by on the stone floor

And draw out their lives in the sand.

Remembering deaths that won’t happen

In futures unseen in far lands.

Somewhere a band is playing

Where the moon never sets in the sky

And nobody sleeps in the summer

And nobody puts down to die;

--Ray Bradbury

Why Did I Start Blogging

Why Did I Start Blogging?

I was asked that question this morning, and now I’m stuck.

Why did I?

Who wants to read me anyway?

And why am I doing this?

When I was fresh out of high school, or maybe still in high school, it was so long ago my memory has rusted; I took the Famous Artists correspondence course. In the course someone spoke of “The Painter with the Pen.” They were speaking of pen and ink drawings, and although I loved oil painting, and even more water color, this painter with a pen idea stuck. That’s what I wanted to be.

In college there were a slug of artists more skilled than me—and taking biology I made more drawings of various microbes, cells, and plants than you could shake a stick at. I really didn’t care if I made drawings anymore. Good thing I didn’t fancy myself as a writer then, but it was then I found I liked writing papers. You figure.

It took me years to get a psychiatrist’s words out of my head, “Writing is self-aggrandizement,” he said. With that statement he wiped literature into an ego trip. And I suppose he could have said the same about any other artistic endeavor.

And then there is that other fellow (Bulwer-Lytton 1839) who said, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”

I think I’ll go with the second fellow.

Why do we write, paint, garden, make mud balls, beautify our homes, play a musical instrument, sing, build, carve, sculpt, go fishing, do calligraphy, write letters, cook fantastic meals, perfect our sport?

We are all artists at heart, we just need to find our venue.

So why am I blogging? I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I like to write. I wanted to reach out to people. I want to make a difference.

When my second daughter was in the first grade I asked myself what I wanted to be when I grew up.

“A writer,” I said. “If I had anything to write.”

But I began. I put words on a page…and blogging seemed natural since I am a cryptic sort, who likes to make black splotches on paper.

You will never Find the Time—Make it

The Magic of Believing--http:www.thebestdamnwriterbloggerontheblock.com