I stand back from a work in progress sometimes and 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 an accident, a compulsion - I was born this way. I grew up the latchkey-kid of a divorced young mother who struggled to make a living when there were few women in the workforce. We made do with very little in an era of much less materialism than today. Is that where my words come from? I discovered 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 somehow went right, 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.