Deb saw me at five with her picture on my kindergarten poster. Now, decades later, she's reading my blog and suggests I close this volume. But when your vegetable garden finally starts yielding bounty, you don't stop tending it—you just change what you call it from "I Used to Be" to "I Am."
I Used to Be
I Used to Be
Thirty-two and sitting on my Virginia porch with red wine and a laptop, I hadn't written in two years. Not since Nashville. Not since the divorce. Tonight, the first writing tingle returned—would it be enough to reclaim what I used to be?
Writer's Growth 