I always loved writing as a child and young adult, but never dreamed I could ever be a published author. Wasn’t that for someone more qualified, dignified . . . someone in a tweedy jacket with leather elbow patches and a sweet-smelling pipe? Despite encouragement from teachers who even called me a ‘gifted writer,’ and some early ‘successes’ in writing, I never considered myself a real writer. And yet I continued to write. A love of words and storytelling seemed to drive me. Whether it was journaling, corresponding, creating a PTA newsletter, or sending an opinion piece to the newspaper, I was always writing. Was it a gift?
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