There is something deep inside of me that craves magic. I have found myself drawn to witches and spells and anything that is different from my ordinary life.

I know I am Christian and like all good Christians I need to abhor such things, but I find myself fascinated by it. I have been fascinated by it ever since I was a young girl and my grandmother exhibited clairvoyant behavior by telling everyone when the phone rang who it was, and what they wanted long before we had cell phones or answering machines.

I also felt it whenever I picked up a guitar and sang. I could get lost for hours in my music which was a good thing because it shut out the violence and chaos that went on in our upstanding family. It nurtured me and kept me sane until I allowed others to take it away from me. I was called a “bum” because I wanted to follow my musical passion in college by my parents, one guitar teacher who thought that no one but those who were musical since the age of 3 had any right to study music. My hands were too small to play the guitar.

I was also good at art and the memory I cherished was the day after my parents had ridiculed what I was painting jaw dropped when it was finished. I am the only one in my family that made it onto the society page for my art being in an exhibition.

My parents are both dead now and I am still here. They would roll in their graves if they knew I was studying Creative Writing. I don’t care. I am too tired of hiding my light under a bushel. I encourage others to follow their passions and not worry so much about what others say. I am not concerned anymore that I was a disappointment to my parents and my family. I have spent years trying to recover from it. So I say to you dear reader don’t make the same mistakes that I have made. Follow your bliss.