well, hello.

The other morning, as I washed dishes in preparation for a busy morning in the coffeehouse, my boss asked me if I consider myself a writer. She read a piece I wrote awhile back about my now-workplace, so in effect, she was making conversation. But I guess the question threw me off, just a little. It is such a simple answer, yet hard to define. For me, writing has been the time filler, the constant companion, the go-to when I lay in bed struggling to fall asleep. I have journals that date from grade school through college, and this is pretty amazing: I can crawl inside any time in my past and read what I felt at the time, just by opening one of the dozens of journals at home, and the few I have with me. You'd think that by now, I would have a good idea of what I've learned--what has worked out, what has crashed and burned. And, in a way, I do. However, for me, putting those words on a page or typing them into a computer has proven to be a cathartic experience, almost out-of-body, and such a part of my life that it comes mindlessly to my almost-daily life.

So: Hi, my name is Maggie, and I'm a writer. Take this particular space how you will. I will take it as yet another outlet for story-telling and thought-percolating. But this time, I save a few trees in the process.