A metaphor you can walk on.

If I look behind me, the footprints I'm leaving in the sand look like a cluttered closet.
The socks I wear when I write poems.
The sneakers I wore as a checkout girl.
The Chucks I wear to the bar in search of music and inspiration.
The low heels I used to clack through the Statehouse as a reporter.
The galoshes I've donned to tromp through fields in search of a breaking story.
The bunny slippers I wear as a daughter.
The high heels I kick under my desk and unearth only when I need to make an impression.
The bee-stung and bare feet I wore as a child, racing from yard to yard in my 300-resident farming town.
The red-painted toes I wear as a girlfriend, a lover and someday, a fiancé and wife.
The shelves of my closet are cluttered, but far from full.

I'm working on a new style.

So I've traded my tiny town for a metropolitan area with about 2 million people. So far, I know about three dozen of them.
Flanked by a Mechanic and black cat worthy of her own sitcom, I'm embarking on a new career that is decidedly different than the one I've done for the past six years.
But I am delighted to be reacquainted with an old friend I have neglected for decades.
So, Writing for Pleasure, here I am.
In my own little corner of you.
Happy to see me?