I am strong. I am free. I am brave. I am a writer. I call on the lioness within me. I purr my way into the kingdom. No one senses danger at their door. They treat me like a housecat. Ha!

I shall roar at a least anticipated time. Even I will not know. I live the story I determine to tell. It unfolds before me as it dominoed behind me.

I am a writer. I put down my words with the precision and power of a lion’s claw. I’m in this jungle. I’m unafraid. I sleep peacefully in the darkness. I stalk my prey like a slow dance. I’m not cruel, but I’m hungry.

I allow my hunger to fuel me. I do not fight to prove my strength. I only walk according to my nature.

The jungle is loud. Everyone wants to sing their song. They all have so much to say. It plays like background music, like city traffic to a New Yorker. For I was born for this writers’ jungle.

I’m a memoirist. How I carry myself is how you will find me on the page. I will not even be on your radar until I’ve captivated you. Reading my book is like looking into a cougar’s eyes, that moment when you’re spooked, stoked, and you remember. It’s not magic. It’s my nature to wield my power. I am grounded.

I do not chase what’s above me, but I’m aware of all that goes on around me. I don’t care. The weather and what others are doing doesn’t change my purpose one bit.

This cat’s been called to write. Not to cower. Not to chase mice. To conquer what is before me in my path. Often, my best route is to simply walk around.

I’m honed into my destiny. I own my purpose. I own this jungle. It’s mine. I am strong. I am free. I am brave. I am a writer. I call on the lioness within me.