When I pause to assess a work in progress, I sometimes wonder how it got there - those words, that color. Where in me did it come from? I feel at odds with the process on occasion, like an impostor because all of this is unintentional, a compulsion - I was born this way: the latchkey-kid of a divorced young mother who struggled to make a living when there were few women in the workforce. I grew up in an era of much less materialism than today. Is that where my words come from? I made art by accident, with the wide-open mind of a child left mostly alone. Is that a bond creators share? I wonder. So many things that could have gone wrong did not and part of my life made it to this page in the form of words and images. I find joy in this liminal landscape, with all its glorious and wretched companions - it's life on the page, in the world of me.