B. Lou Guckian
Writer
When I was a little girl growing up in San Antonio, Texas, my best friend Dominique who lived two doors down and who had the thickest, blackest, longest, curliest hair I had ever seen and whose mama was French and whose daddy was often away in the military, gave me a diary for my ninth birthday.
It was sky blue with gold-colored embossed letters that spelled out "Five Year Diary" on the padded faux-leather cover. At nine years old in a working class Catholic family of eight, I had never before seen anything so splendid, unless perhaps it was those pretty bottles of peach-scented Avon lotion I got from my grandma and Aunt Dorothy for Christmas or that
same year when Santa, mama and daddy gave me an ankle-length, light blue nylon nightgown and matching housecoat I sauntered around the house in on Christmas Eve. It made me feel rich.
Ready for school, Betty Lou, 9
and brother Roger, 6.
Inside my shining new sky blue diary were white ruled pages with gold-tipped edges like the Bible that sat admired, untouched and dust-free on the coffee table
in our living room. Sometimes I wonder if Dominique remembers the birthday gift half a lifetime ago or if she knows I have become a writer or that after all these years, my little blue
diary is one of my most cherished keepsakes. 
Every time I take it out and touch the cover or slick pages, I think of Dominique and the bygone innocence of childhood.
Words are mighty and remarkable things. I respect them.
I am in love with them. Skillfully and artfully crafted,
words can transform the world, sometimes one heart
at a time.
I make my living crafting and weaving words. As a writer who dreams and toils to one day become a prolific author of bylines and books, I earn my keep in the service of others who are not themselves writers but who need the help
of a professional.
To that end, I am at your service.