As editor of my high school newspaper, I wrote a weekly column.
Its title— Mélange—came courtesy of my mother, a dedicated wordsmith.
Her answer still rings: “Sweet girl, it’s perfect. Your name, less a one letter change from the lovely French. By example, you teach your classmates as you write something different every week.”
I didn’t believe her. Webster’s explained: mél•ange: a mixture of disparate components or a motley assortment of things; from Old French, mêler meaning “to mix;” similar derivation to mêlée or meddle.
For a frighteningly naïve 17-year-old from Pampa, Texas, such an exotic word offered freedom in a small, stifling Texas Panhandle town. The first syllable helped, matching what close friends called me. That the word also applied to mish-mashed rocks doubled its rebel appeal.
And so, I return to my past to deliver observation and commentary about the present.
But nowadays, I fly free, unsullied by place, age, or personalities.
Sharing stories with the world, my fiction and non-fiction offers the weird and whimsical, even the wonderful. I whisper prayers of hope that you’ll be touched, helped somehow, even changed by what you read here.
Dare I challenge you to discover some deeper degree of understanding about yourself and your place in this world? It’s challenging. Let’s learn together.
Mélange – where my little inner light comes out to play, writing Stories to heal a world in pain.