When the weeping skies of Seattle oppressed her, Judith went to Ensenada, Mexico. She ate fish tacos, baked in the sun until she turned to “just-right” toast. She wore short skirts, massaged her feet in coarse sand at sunrise. Then she found a tattoo parlor, pictures of skulls and crosses in the window. She got a red rose behind her left ear. It whispered, you are Rosa now. Rosa had crimson hair that flamed in the sunlight, said what she wanted. She always laughed, never apologized. She sipped tequila, danced until every star appeared. Rosa didn’t know anyone named Judith.
“I write because I want to have emotional experiences with those who read my stories. And because I think it was what I was destined to do.” – the writer