By michaela renee on 2/19/2010 11:00 PM

I could close my eyes and picture every blind corner, every tree, and every stop sign between here and my parent’s house. My grandmother died in her sleep when I was 18, and I can still picture her soft eyes, much like my Dad’s and the sturdy way she upheld her emotions when someone brought up my Papa, who’d passed on years before after a horrible battle with cancer. And before he passed on, I still remember the way he would holler “JoJo” at her, and she’d come bustling down the long hallway and dig around in the icebox for the rainbow sherbet on summer afternoons. And as I pick up my cell phone to dial, I realize I no longer have the number stored, but it doesn’t matter…

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By michaela renee on 2/1/2010 9:02 PM

Inside here there is a girl, and on the outside there is a writer. I absolutely, positively can not compare myself to other well known authors, because that would be considered egotistical, especially given the lack of international status.

Until my book appears on the shelf of an airport Hudson Newsstand, I’m simply “aspiring.”

Inside is a girl, who is living every day life, and has an ability to see every situation as if I were living life in the third person. And when I sit down to type what I’ve witnessed, the words spill from my brain faster than the keys can type them.

But on the outside is a woman, who is a writer, and struggles with what everyone else around her thinks.

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