"I let my music take me where my heart wants to go..."

I'm writing on behalf of all the struggling novelists, the hopeful gymnists, the intensive healers. For the increasingly failing perfectionists, the brothers and sisters of my undetected, mutated breed. For those whose pleas for help are construed as a selfish ploy for attention. The misunderstood, misjudged, mistaken masochists who voluntarily forfeit their pure and sheltered innocence for the sadistic fashion of the day. Such are those who feel the pain of abnormality, and question the possibility of human decency. I write to combat the tremor of lonliness and the humor of non-existent empathy.

I've volumes of incomplete anthologies, stories, annecdotes and tales. Quick penmenship to compensate my wandering mind, aged knowledge only heightened a natural born passion; to dictate individual interpretation into written and wanted prose. And so I wrote, from the moment I realized it's necessary escape as an awkward, introverted adolescent of ten. Retelling the feminist adventures of Nancy Drew into the ever verbose and complicated storyline of Kimberly Anne Hula.

Using advanced polysyllabic words in rounds of adolescent scategories my friends branded me, 'the girl who uses big words', offering helpful encouragement for an insecure future. I can't recall any period of my life that I've been without pen and paper in my hand. There is no motivating factor in my persistence to physically log the memories, visions and mirages I retell daily. Basic instinct replaced significant personal motivation. I maintained a simple mechanical drive to write; to create a sheltered diversion. It is all I know...

"Alone, once children, never asked to be put on this earth, they ended up as jurors. Their lives were the verdict: the system, man, something had failed."

Coffee Shop

Hula's ink spot

The Writer's Exchange

Got block?

Polished Bifocals

"I had this mail order Catholic soul you get in a girl raised out in the bush, whose only thought is getting into town."

Are you on fire, from the years?

What would you give for your kid fears?"

"Kimberly Hula: Writer, intellect, comedian, reserved, leader, follower, pleaser, anal, competitive, sincere, ruthless, coward, perfectionist, seeker... I thought I had found my identity. I thought the scientists diagnosis of my skeletal structure was who I was, and who I would always be, but I know they are wrong. Perhaps that is something man must face in his quest through life, the inevitable question of who he really is. And through my journey of self discovery I've yet to find it. Maybe I will never find it, but I realize I need not find it for someone else. Once I do find it, I may never stop searching."

"He wasn't the real thing, but he sure was a good imitation of it, which is frequently better than the real thing, for the real thing can relax but the imitation can't afford to and has to spend all the time being just one cut more real than the real thing, with money being no object..."