Probably like you, I have always been a voracious reader and writer.And a drawer of horses.Those are my constants during my traveling years of growing up, half in the air force, and half as the younger child of a single mom.I can't seem to tell a story, however.I took that Children's Writing correspondence course from the back of a pack of matches, and it became clear, to those who have never endured one of my verbal stories and thus been clued in, that I suck at storytelling, which is almost a handicap in this business.But I can turn a phrase when I put my mind to it, and I can describe. I can tell you how it feels in my hand, that fig, warm from the tree, and scrotal.When my teeth pierce through the skin, and a chunk falls down onto my tongue, my eyes close, and I am yanked back to a time that never was, the sweetness filling me with childhood memories that aren't mine. A lush garden, wild and seething with insects and fruit and colors, blurred and breezy.In my hand, the fig is woman.