I write from my need to purge excess thoughts from my ever teeming brain. In other words, my dream of becoming a professional writer died with the first wrinkle to appear on my once pretty face. I do have four fans. One is a childhood friend who does not really get my literary references but reads what I send him because, while kids, I once helped him with his homework. The second fan is another longtime chum who loves history and loves even more to speculate on the future, though all his short term prognostications have proved to be wrong. The third is a lady Argentinian poet who, like me, had to work a real job all her life while falling short of getting her poems into print. The fourth may be my daughter, but I cannot be sure if she is just being nice to ensure she gets her $100 inheritance.
