Who is Florence? 

Florence considers herself a writer first and foremost.  She was also an artist but she never really thought about it.  Her paper was that of lines and margins.  A place for words.  She allowed a doodle here and there, a sketch in the margins or at the foot of the page, while she thought of the right words to write.  

Her words were sacred to her, more important than the clothes on her back.  Her words were her skin, her hair and fingernails.  If she couldn't write, she couldn't go out in public. 

And so, she wrote all the time.  She wrote before school, after school, at the dinner table, much to her mother's dismay.  And before she went to bed, she wrote her prayers down in her journal.  Although many of her prayers were the same, as if her she had a internal radio playing the same stream of consciousness like a hit song, she felt reassured that she laid them to rest on the comfort of the page with the goodnight kiss of ink.  

She also wrote in her food 

It wasn't until Pierre, her pen-pal from France