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We have to start somewhere.
The old manuscript sat on my desk for weeks before I mustered up the courage to begin. The worn pages told a story in and of themselves. The story of my mother and all her choices. How she let a fire go out in her that once burned bright. Self-doubt caused a flutter in my chest. Could I finish what she started? Let’s just say the weeks and months that followed included a lot of floor pacing. I would read a chapter and digest it slowly along with another handful of almonds from the kitchen pantry. I remembered that some…
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When I grow up . . .
When I grow up, what will I be? It’s a question we’ve all pondered, and at the age of sixty-two, I’ve finally decided. I want to be a writer. I want to be an author. A published author. When I was young, my mother was the writer. I remember the Christmas my father bought her an electric typewriter. It was the IBM Selectric. She was giddy about it, and he couldn’t have given her a better gift. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the sound of its clicks and whirrs from behind the closed kitchen door. Up…
