Once upon a time, there was a girl who appeared quite tiny but was actually rather large on the inside (it may be a consequence of hailing from Texas, where everything claims to be bigger, but she thought it was probably because she was royalty in a past life. Or maybe a warrior. A warrior queen, probably), and she had so many thoughts and feelings stuffed into her small body that she did the only thing she possibly could to bear the constant suffering: she became a writer. As is most natural, she wished to become the best at her craft that she possibly could, so she toiled and slaved for four long years to earn an accolade that proved she could at least passably string together a few words. After a harrowing battle known as “finals week” (where she fought no less than twelve dragons), she emerged triumphant with a BA in English.
Now, the tiny woman is well on her way to maybe-one-day-again being the queen of something, as she has somewhere between seven and twelve chapters written of a story that hopes to be published. But between negotiating with the gate trolls that refuse to lower the drawbridge for guests and monitoring the fairy cook’s tea intake, she needs something with a bit more immediate potential (and a lot more emotional stress relief), so, like many other frustrated young people, she can often be found writing poetry.
Thus, our story beings.