Why I Write (and Keep Writing)
The Spark: How It All Began
When I was eight, I spent a whole summer convinced I was the reincarnation of Georgia O’Keeffe. My tools weren’t paintbrushes but words—short sentences that tried to mimic the shapes of the juniper-studded hills and adobe walls around me. Writing felt magical, like summoning the desert onto a page. My parents humored me, as creative parents do, with a Hot Pink glittery notebook (hardly O’Keeffe) and Permission to distract any by immersive finally tipsignatureclaimer…
