ere's a telling fact -- I had been getting paid to write for over two years when I finally decided that it would be okay to call myself a writer.

I'm not a romantic. I lost my ambition to be a drinking, smoking, trenchcoat-wearing hack quite a few years ago. I prefer windows with lots of light. Like most other writers, I have been writing ever since I could do so and have the scrap heaps to prove it. Writing has been my primary means of therapy. I won't show even my husband the stuff that I wrote 20 years ago.

Any fiction that creeps out of me (not springs, but creeps, slowly) is generally from a personal perspective. I can't seem to help it. Interestingly enough, I am very private in all other aspects of my life and work. I pride myself in the fact that, through 20 years of working face-to-face with people, none of them have called me at home -- yet.

For a few seconds, I pondered the idea of using a pseudonym here -- don't want to offend anyone, you know. Then my pragmatic alter ego won again, screaming loudly, "But what about the byline??" Gotta have bylines in this biz.

Not counting my former life as a social worker (when my writings were brief, unattributable projects worked into my other low-paying job descriptions), I have been published online and in print. My current resume and a few writing samples are on display at http://tracymorris.com.

My experiences in social work and personal relationships have provided me with an abundance of rich stories from which I draw inspiration for living and writing. In short, no matter how bad it seems, it's never as bad as it could be (that's my own life I'm talking about here). Call me Pollyanna with an attitude. I'm no cheerleader, but I have yet to encounter a cloud where a silver lining wasn't winking at me. Catch me on a rough day and you'll think I'm lying about that optimistic nature of mine, but it's there, always.

You can contact T.L. Morris through her website.

T.L. Morris' writing on Conversely

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