Rosie North keeps moving. An optimist, she rounds every hill with the expectation of an interesting, if not beautiful, view. She craves change like her lungs need the next breath. From clanging cities to silent prairies, barking coyotes to squeaky beach sand, she listens and watches, memorizing the details, composing sentences in her mind.
She has been around, our Rosie. Yes, in those ways too. She has learned hard truths, loved hard men, been broken and been cruel, surprised and moved, ashamed and adored. She has a lizard eye for lies and bad lettuce and no patience for fools. Rosie loves great people, great hearts, exceptional talent and a fine chicken-fried steak. She has only ever had a passable voice, but she still sings.
Rosie is the nom of a woman whose real life is bound by conventions as tight as lengths of dried leather, a woman whose larger circle unfortunately includes some people who are allergic to humor and have elevated back-stabbing to an art form. She had to invent a persona and a name to write what she needs to say. These quiet back roads are where she can best hear the gravel of truth.
She loves a small handful of exceptional people; she carries them, wrapped in a soft hankie, in the pocket nearest her heart as she lopes along, trying to keep her tires out of the ruts.
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