One night in college long, long ago my favorite coffee house, Smiley's, hosted a spoken word night. Just as the night was winding down, I found myself writing my name on the list to perform. What?! Me?! I nervously made my way to the mic, knees shaking, completely terrified. I death gripped my spiral notebook and softly began reading a respectable ditty, written in perfect iambic pentameter, about love or something like love. The crowd confirmed the pedestrian effort with polite applause.

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On a whim, I grabbed my page of scribbles and began to read a second piece. I felt my face smirk with mischief and began to tell the story of my failed attempt at being a super model. At 5'10" and 110 pounds I coulda/woulda/shoulda been the poster child for the heroin chic look so popular of the time period (insert eye roll). Alas, my sashay just wasn't meant to be, but I did live to tell the tale of being poked, prodded, plucked, bleached, fed through straws, and waxed within an inch of my life. The crowd went wild and there you have it, folks. A writer of all the ways in which we are awkwardly and beautifully human was born.

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My name is Robyn Saunders Wilson. I am a writer of stories, mostly mine, but sometimes others. You can read many of them here. I am also a wife to Dave, mother to Peyton, super aunt to Justin, boo to Huck the mutt, coach of the Descenders MTB team, and bestie of many, many bikes. I am likely your friend, too. I hope so. If we are not formally acquainted, let's just decide that we are indeed friends. It's easier that way.