I love to write. I write often, like breathing. And as I began to understand a few years ago, it's not always that easy for others. I'm not a boastful person, I feel I have a decent understanding of my own gifts and talents. I don't make a lot of money, I'm not the best fisherman, I can't draw worth ****... But I have been writing creatively, and therapeutically, in some capacity since I was 10. I have professional experience and a bit of an education to back it up too. But now I'd like to tell you why none of that means anything to me, no piece of paper, other than a blank one, sheds any color at all on my actual ability to write something worth reading.

The reason I can do this job, the reason I know how to take what you're feeling, what you need to express but can't find the words that make people listen, and create something worth listening to, or worth reading, is the empathy and real life that I bring to my writing. I know what it's like to love truly, to suffer gravely, to travel rough, breathe deep, fight hard, lose everything, and then stand tall and find just the right words to speak.

I can write. And it won't ever just be space filler, if hired for a gig, I will write for you what you're really trying to say.