Ever since I was a little girl I have wanted to be a writer. With a capital W. But life got in the way. Other things happened. My own words reared up and turned against me, and I was no longer able to find any redeeming value in them. They became merely tools I used in my daily life, in my work, to advocate and try to change things for other people.
Now I look to them for solace, and find they have left me. Now, to borrow a line from Edgar Allan Poe, all that I see or seem is merely a dream within a dream.