If you can dream it, you can do it.
My mother was born in 1910. She died nearly twenty years ago. I would not be a writer if I were not my mother’s daughter. She was a writer, and she considered it a calling. She wrote all sorts of things, including scores of those anonymous, racy first-person stories that were published in magazines like True Romance in the mid-twentieth century.
I was twelve when I stumbled on a cardboard box in the attic filled with my mother’s manuscripts. The first one I picked up was entitled, “I Knew He Was Married, but I Didn’t Care. I Was, Too.” I fell back on my haunches. Sitting there alone, I read it, then I read it again, and then I marched ...