I Couldn't Speak Well. I Went To

If Anyone Could Look Into My Head See Or Feel The Dread That Has Captured Me Or See Within This Sad, Unhappy Brain They Would Only Turn Away Turn Away.

I Was Teased If I Brought My Books Home. I Would Take A Paper Bag To The Library And Put The Books In The Bag And Bring Them Home. Not That I Was That Concerned About Them Teasing Me - Because I Would Hit Them In A Heartbeat. But I Felt A Little Ashamed, Having Books.

As A Writer, I Absorb Stories, Allow Them To Churn Within My Own Head And Heart - Often For Years - Until I Find A Way Of Telling Them That Fits Both My Time And Temperament.

People Told Me To Give Up Trying To Be Special And Settle Down To A Regular Life. There Ain't Nothing Wrong With A Regular Life, And That's The Lord's Truth...but It Wasn't For Me, Because I Wanted To Be Something Special. I Knew How Easy It Was For A Dream To Die. I Seen That All Around Me. You Could Let It Die By Just Looking The Other Way.

What Some People Wanted Was Sometimes Too Hard To Get, And The Stress Of Trying Was Sometimes Too Hard To Deal With... Maybe Doing Well In Life Was Just Too Hard For Some People.