My name is Kalico. Yes, like the cat, but with a “k.” No, my mother did not name me after the cat. Or the fabric.It’s just my name. I’ve always enjoyed having an unusual name. It gives me a sense of individualism, of being special, and the keen disappointment of never finding my name on a personalized mug or key chain.

My mother also instilled in me her love of reading.12347713_1530158663975829_5975033143320832240_n

That’s my, “Go away, I’m reading” face.

I read all five of James Fenimore Cooper’s Leatherstocking Tales (Last of the Mohicans, etc) in less than nine days. I stayed up all night reading Robinson Crusoe, promising myself I would sleep after I finished the chapter, only to realize the book had no chapters about halfway through. I finished it anyway. My love affair with the written word has been a long and enriching journey. Now it’s time for something more.

I’ve dabbled in writing before. I’ve shown a select few bits of my poetry. But I’ve never shared anything of depth on a public forum. To be quite honest, I’m completely terrified to start this blog. I don’t have the most polished grammar, the best word choice, or even particularly well crafted sentences. I’m pretty new to this. So why start?

“Who wants to become a writer? And why? Because it’s the answer to everything. To Why am I here? To uselessness. It’s the streaming reason for living. To note, to pin down, to build up, to create, to be astonished at nothing, to cherish the oddities, to let nothing go down the drain, to make something, to make a great flower out of life, even if it’s a cactus.”
—Enid Bagnold, author of National Velvet

My name is Kalico, with a “k,” and this is my cactus.