I’m a lifelong small-town Southerner, a writer-editor-proofreader, a traveler through reading and a book nerd, a lover of nature and of all of its non-human residents. As of late, I work as a public information specialist and publications curator for the graduate school of a public state university. Before that, I was a book designer and digital production tech-typographer for 15 years. And before that, I did a lot of less-than-meaningful work in a lot of fields I disliked. I’m also a progressive thinker, feminist, pro-intellectual, anti-authoritarian, and have been a paisley sheep among white sheep — an outlier — all my life.
“The Little Green Inn for Wayward Dogs” is not a business, but my home. Giving a loving permanent or foster home to thrown-away dogs is what brings me satisfaction… that, plus speaking up for the under-heard, and writing.
Believe it or not, I don’t blog to attract followers or gain a huge audience. I blog because I need to write, love to write, about the world around me. A blog is good place to store what I write. Since I’m an introvert, shy, and asocial, my personal world is small. Reading and writing open up the universe for a person who is solitary by nature. For me as for many writers, writing about personal experiences, studies, observations, analyses, and opinions is a solitary pursuit and a vital catharsis.
Publishing that writing — unavoidably, I guess — looks like an act of ego and a cry for attention, as well as a willingness to expose my human vulnerabilities, especially when I write candidly about my own screw-ups and then do forensic analysis. It’s not a cry for attention. I’d write even if no one read me.
I hope to invite my readers, as well as myself, to feel less alone while preserving our respective personal spaces. Publishing a blog assumes that there’s someone out there who will actually read my words, give a damn, and not try to use them against me, the writer, later. The topics I write about are important. I am not, and I know that. That’s the bottom line.
I’m still surprised and embarrassed when anyone actually reads me and says “Yes. I get it.” But I hope you get it, even if you don’t necessarily share the experience. If you don’t, please scroll on past.
Interactivity currently is not something I can cope with, thanks to other commitments and my high level of anxiety given the screwed-upness of world, so I’ve disabled commenting. Thanks for understanding.