That’s why you’re on this page, right? 

Or maybe you’re really here for clues about my journey.  How is it that I, a perfectly ordinary person by most people’s standards, wrote a book? 

If that’s the case I’ll do as Tahrek did; turn the mirror in my direction and, sans the poison, ask myself:  

Who am I? 

The mirror swirls and my reflection becomes a young flat-chested girl of eleven.  Large brown eyes stare out at a world turned upside down.  The monster of puberty has arrived and she is bored...bored...bored.  Her slightly eccentric aunt hands her The Secret Garden while racing after the pillagers of her home; seven rowdy children.  Within the week her first real book has been devoured and she is back for more.  This time she leaves with The Hobbit.   And so begins a lifetime addiction. 

The mirror flickers in and out of focus as she grows up, always with a book in hand.  Authors J.R.R. Tolkien, Terry Brooks, Andre Norton, and Anne McCaffrey have repeat performances.  And yet…

Who am I?

The mirror swirls with pale color and a pretty twenty-one year old appears.  Wounded eyes stare back at me; one abusive relationship has just ended, a new life begun. In one hand is a bag of dice and the other a paintbrush. BOC plays in the background.  She believes that the world can be beautiful and is trying to make it so.  A beginning of understanding has started…but she is still young…still shaky. 

Who am I?

A gray fog swipes across the glass in a sudden rush.  When it clears several years have passed.  She holds a blond haired toddler in each arm and the paintbrushes have been packed away as ‘toxic’.  Besides, respectable young women don’t paint, or game, or dance.  They take care of the home and babies; even if they are horrid cooks and fail miserably at ‘womanly’ chores.  What had been gained in self knowledge was packed away with the paintbrushes.

Who am I?

The mirror swirls with an abandonment of colors, almost as though it’s being painted faster than it can clear itself.  Beautiful teen girls surround her now and finally she has decided to paint.  And paint with passion she does; the walls, the ceilings, every piece of furniture including couches and chairs.  Till, one fauxed ceiling too many, she busts her shoulder and pleasure is replaced with unending pain.  Gaming has come and gone, dancing has lost its sway, and she is at loose ends.

Who am I?

The mirror swirls again, small bursts of color intermingle with dark showers of gray.  Seven more years have come and gone.  She is away from the mirror but you can see her pouring her life into helping others.  She looks frustrated and satisfied at the same time, and yet her own issues haunt her.  She tries a holistic treatment and suddenly…(drum roll) she can write.  (Yes it really did happen that fast.)  A whole new door opens before her.  What she thought could only be expressed through paint is more accurately communicated via writing.  The worlds within can finally come out to be shared with this world.  She knows who she is.

And here we stand before the mirror.  It’s your turn now. Let me tip it your way…  Now ask yourself. 

Who am I?

And while you contemplate deep thoughts…

My thistles still grow faster than I can pull them, my cooking is still burned eighty percent of the time, my children refuse to stay babies, my road still gets potholes, my koi still multiply like bunnies and my cat still sits on my lap, plotting to take over the keyboard one hair at a time.