I drove a young lady to her house, about twenty minutes from town, the other day. We were total strangers and for the first four minutes or so, as I tried to break the ice, she answered my casual statements in one and two syllable words. “Yeah,” “Uh-huh,” “Yeah.” You can tell a lot about people by their eyes. My passenger kept hers riveted to her lap, the floor, somewhere down–her glance was down. A wire dog crate rattled in the back of my SUV as we pulled onto Highway 140. “

What do dangerous chlorine gas, an exploding house, and a knife attack mean to you? Hopefully nothing. But for me, these were each experiences that I had growing up with my alcohol-addicted mother. Living with her was like trying to survive in a river of crocodiles. My life was often in danger and it’s a wonder that I wasn’t eaten alive. I survived, obviously, but there’s something else–I overcame. I’m here to give hope and help to the hurting through my creative writing styl