Uncommon

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.

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.

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Mine are bald and artless yarns with thorny roots and frizzy leaves. Some feel unfinished. All remain unpolished.

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.

Uncommon, seems.

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Left to my own devices, I might hide these prequel iterations.

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..

the skin unpeeled.