Works

You find yourself deserted when you wake up. You're on a sandy beach where the white dunes stretch out to your right and left, tropical forests stand tall at your back  and the ocean waves crash before you. You stumble to your feet and check to see if any supplies washed ashore. None did. You fear you are alone and you are. Completely. Seeing as you should not be in the hot sun you look towards the trees for some cover. And there you see it. The lowly manscript with wet pages and a battered leather binding seems so magical when you pick it up. It doesn't tear in your hands, although it should. It has no burn marks. No ink has run, not a single pencil line has smudged. It is just as it was before the boat caught fire. Except now it is full. You remeber clearly that only one or two pages had your writing on them when you threw it off the ship. The gift you had recieved on your twentieth birthday was no longer desired, the journal. So you had thrown it over the side of another ship. You rememeber so well the splash it made. Now, 20 years later, the journal, which was thicker then a bible and whose height and length matched that of a captain's log, was filled with writing. This mysterious occurance leaves you wondering who filled it and what they wrote, and so, you read.

The first pages are in your handwriting and only told of your first day of being 20. You did not then know how to use such a large book other then as a sort of diary, so you wrote of the boat measurements and the ladies aboard. Any reader would most likely find your writing very dull and meaningless, which discouraged you from writing very much.      You turn past your pages and see a handwriting that is distinctly female, complete with feathery letters and curls added to S's and O's and any letter that already curved.  At the top of her first page was a brief statement which explained how this book came into her possesion.

I found this book while I was walking on the beach in Cape Cod and henceforth decided to be a writer.

For all organizational puposes I have made use of these little things called "categories". The original manuscript was not sorted. In fact, it had almost no organization at all, which made for interesting reading.  This is no longer the case.

Poetry

Prose

"Walking in Memphis, I was walking with my feet ten feet off the beale, Walking in Memphis, But do I really feel the way I feel" -Walking in Memphis sung (in my version) by Cher

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