I loved Galley Street because it was where Granny lived. It sounded like the name of a street fit for a pirate. 

A  little strip of blacktop, Galley Street dead-ended at an overgrown hillside with a foot path leading down to my grandfather's vegetable garden on the river bank. 

Over the years, it occurred to me that a galley was not only a little ship's kitchen but also a writer’s proof, the messy, vulnerable part of the writing...the part that has extra wide margins so others can criticize or make recommendations or comments. 

As a child, when the margins of my life were wide, I spent hours on Galley Street;  and although I carry with me years of recommendations and comments, I have no red-penned words of criticism from that place. In fact, everything I did on Galley Street seemed just right. It was a place where I gained confidence, where I felt like I could be whatever I wanted to be, and I wanted to be a writer.

Even today, my best stories come from Galley Street. 

Enjoy your time here, where writers and pirates are always welcome.