Consuming one story after another has long been something I associate with joy. It wasn’t until I was in high school that I discovered something even more thrilling…This discovery caught me by surprise; it changed my life and simply would not have happened without the two incredible teachers who helped me see the stories swirling around me, waiting for me to be their teller.

I am closer to 60 than 50, and my nest isn’t exactly empty but getting a little roomier. Not long ago, I made a conscious decision to just stop fretting about my graying hair. And one of my lifelong dreams is finally coming true. I’m here for it in ways both big and small. Despite the long wait, I feel more prepared than ever to accept what the universe, some good contacts, and a dash of good fortune has made possible: my first novel is being published.

A few months ago, a photographer friend came to my house to take some high-quality shots of yours truly. I generally loathe having my photo taken and loathe even more looking at those photos. More often than not, what I think I’m projecting to the world doesn’t quite square with what has been captured with angles and light. It’s humbling.

As women, we have tremendous capacity to wound and heal one another. Even in extending acts of generosity, we are filling our own pockets with something that satisfies the hungriest parts of ourselves. The central characters in my debut novel, God Bless the Child, are bound by what they crave and withhold from one another as they exist within circumstances that have been thrust upon them.