<p>I would not be a writer today had I not braved the internet criticism (received plenty) and risked the potential online plagiarism (though I've always held such social media word thieves could find better bards to steal from).. had I not sought out an audience to tender my tales.</p><p>I am forever indebted to the mentors I met, the friendships I forged, the learning-by-reading the brilliant words they, too, shared on Facebook.</p><p>-</p><p>Mine are bald and artless yarns with thorny roots and frizzy leaves. Some feel unfinished. All remain unpolished.</p><p>I'm nervous revisiting this simpler time, rereading the runes of someone more dewy-eyed.. inking, as I did then, with impulsive and unguarded ease.</p><p>Unapologetic, seems.</p><p>-</p><p>Left to my own devices, I might hide these prequel iterations.</p><p>The resulting primordial ooze will soon sit before you.. a gathering of raw, awkward phrases and sing-songy rhymes that dare the reader to look past the grammar (or lack thereof) and find the bold, unripened core, the pits, the pith..</p><p>the skin unpeeled.</p>
