Pamela Poe

Our deepest emotions are composed into each draw over a violin’s strings and brushed across a canvas of our life. We are our stories, and we tell them hoping others will value the life we live.

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I am neither a composer nor painter. Words are my artistry. And words have served me well since childhood. A pen became my paintbrush. The simple act of writing words invoked hidden trauma onto pictures in my memory and helped me heal. Words became the baton that moved my body through field and forest that I imagined as Peaceful Valley. I write to bring light into the dark spaces of the past and create hope in healing. I write to mine the depths of my being and forge the jagged pieces into stronger character.

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My stories are unique only in the supporting cast and stage. At the core of my stories are the common threads of human emotions that bind us into one human race. Writing changes me; and my life becomes richer as I gain understanding of who I am. Can my story change another life? Perhaps. I write in hopes that it will. At the very least, my transformation birthed from reflection can surely impart hope. And hope births possibilities. And possibilities can be the seeds of change.