Who says writing isn't dangerous?
While I was in middle school, my English-teacher mother sent me to a writing workshop over the summer. One afternoon, after the apple slices and peanut butter snack, while rocking my chair back and forth entranced by my own narrative, I fell forward. My chin slammed down on the table. My teeth dug into my tongue. I got bloody at writing camp.
I'm still writing, and searching for stories that demand to be shared. I've profiled a sandwich and a sea turtle, and some humans too. I’ve written about the future of rock concerts, the future of border crossing, and innovative gardens tended by inmates.
Oh, and I was there when a woman in a wig threw a soccer cleat at Hillary Clinton.