As someone who spent more time with books than with people during their formative years, it’s probably unsurprising that I make my living through writing in some form or another.
A degree in English Lit and only somewhat improved social skills find me at this point in my life: working in communications where I write primarily for others, and then finding places like this one where I write primarily for myself. When not writing, I can generally be counted on to be somewhere with a drink in my hand, potentially playing some music or wandering through a forest. Maybe both.
Stories by Erin
I ran the glass over my lips, spreading the burn of the lingering liquid, and pulled out a black sweater that would be demure if not for the particular interplay between its semi-deep V and my own advantages.
See, this way, I can prove I’m smart — an urgent need as I continue to fail spectacularly in French or algebra. I can prove it, in particular, to my Dad. Beat him at his own game, make him proud — it’s flawless logic, no?