Wendy was born in a small hurricane lamp late one night during the vernal equinox. Her mother was never the same after the birth. Her father never changed. Her early years were spent wandering her home from end to end until she found that life had more to offer than a sooty old lamp with the wick mostly burned down.
She loitered about near run-down hotels and discount record stores for some twenty-two years, asking passers-by for advice on footwear. At some point she learned to sew, paint, glitter, quilt, sand, glue, use software, cluck like a chicken to the tune of the Star Spangled Banner, draw, use a snap line, like the taste of raw tuna, make mosaic, paint scenic drops, paint faux finishes, murals, and trompe l'oeil that will fool the eye, and answer the telephone only when it rings.
Wendy enjoys making pillows and painting furniture and hopes one day to paint a likeness of some Russian literary figures on the wings of a fly; but only if the fly doesn't mind. In her heart of hearts, though, Wendy would like to live a life of leisure at someone else's expense. I know all this because I'm the little voice that lives inside her head.
