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What you'd see when you look at me:

I use a wheelchair. I say that first, just to get it off the table, and we can get to more interesting stuff. I am not"bound" to, or by, it. And it's not permanantly bolted to my rear, despite whatever impression you may get from watching TV or movies. I use a chair because I have cerebral palsy. Here is an explaination of what that means.

If you were spying on me right now, you'd see my computer table is a mess -- it's piled high with books and art projects -- both old, and still-in-process. You'd see an old Yamaha Digital Midi Keyboard behind me, that I use for doodling around with music. Even though I have almost no formal musical training, I like to make up simple, folk-like songs, often childlike and nonsensical (but sometimes serious, too), just for fun.

You'd see more books piled up around me in stacks, and a few more on shelves; most of these I've inherited from my parents, and they reflect the range of philosophy and learning that they each acquired throughout their lifetimes, shared with each other, and passed on to me. John Cheever is well represented, as is Buckminster Fuller, and books on liberal politics, and art history, and humor, and folklore, and mythology.

At first, I thought I could part with the tomes, and spread them around my family and friends. But I really can't. They make up the bibliography of my life, and even if I haven't read all of them directly, I've absorbed them through all the conversations I've had with my parents over my lifetime.

I'm planning on getting more shelves.

There's also a chance that you'd see one or both of my cute, black, cats. On the other hand, they do tend to hide at the first hint of a stranger about, so there's no certainty of that.

What I see when I look at myself:

Forget what the professional psychologists say is possible, my earliest memory is from when I was about six months old, and I was trying to get my mother to stop talking with our grownup guests, and listen to what I had to say -- even though I didn't have any words in my brain, yet. That drive to communicate -- to get what is inside me out into the world -- has never lessened, from that day to this.

So when I say "I'm a storyteller," it's more than just a job (or hobby) description -- it's an existential proclomation.

Since 1989, I've been a regular contributor to The Art Garden: A Literary Magazine for the Stage, where a group of selected writers is presented with a theme. Each writer then creates his or her own work on that theme. And then, we all gather on a chosen night to read our works aloud before a paying audience.

Here are links to a couple of the Art Garden pieces I've written, in the past:

Child of the Spirits (November, 2000; theme: Children)

Father Christmas, Father Wind (November 2004; theme: Flight)

The Barefoot Queen (May,
2006; theme: Shoes)

The most recent Art Garden (November 29, 2008) had the theme of "Shopping," and I wrote this:

BAH HUMBUG! ...On the Other Hand...
(A drabble)
Visiting the mall during the Holiday Season has always been, for me, an exercise in gauntlet running: maneuvering my wheelchair through overcrowded aisles, warding off the elves at the Santa Station (who seem convinced that I am five years old), and maintaining my sanity after hearing "White Christmas" for the hundredth time that week.

But still, there have always been things that manage to raise my spirits: The exuberance of the garlands and the lights, the notion that people are all buying gifts for other people, and realizing, looking at all the opulant window displays, that I want for nothing.

The next Art Garden will be held on Saturday, November 27, 2010. The theme will be "Gold" (and no, I haven't decided what I'm going to write for it, yet).

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Oh, and I also just launched a new writers' prompt community: what_if (Like cookies, you can never have too many prompts, right?).