Through the years, more than one person in my family has penned a work of fiction or a poem. Words that were written just for the experience of writing them. Some of it is intriguing, inspiring,  poignant.

And some of the writing isn’t so great. We’ll get that out of the way right now! There are plenty of cliché and melodrama, but what intrigues me is how universal the action of creation is, and was, and yet — how private.

Being private, they were squirreled away, stuck in drawers, between the pages of books, tied in bundles to crumble in the attic. Some of the authors have grown up since writing their pieces and some have passed on. Some, like me, are still trying to write something that someone other than mom and dad will love.

This isn’t a place for critique — for the works were not written to be critiqued. It’s a place to celebrate the creative energy that exists within all of us.

See the submissions page for guidelines.