I thought all children viewed life as dangerous. There were the woods, the ocean, my parents’ wild fights, there were drugs, the Vietnam War, two assassinations, and countless horrible serial murderers. There were weird men looming out of bushes, rumors of alien abductions, no seatbelts, no helmets, no way to contact anyone except on a landline. My parents hated driving so we hitchhiked.
Read MoreMany writers describe the process of writing as torture including bleeding, being bored senseless, tormented by a lack of ideas but I prefer this perspective:
My father, like my sister, was a brilliant literary scholar. He wrote beautiful novels and people loved him so much. Unlike me, he never stopped drinking and there was the Achilles heel, the thing that made him feel shame and sadness. Also, he had an awful childhood. I will be 65 in a few months and definitely feel if not now, when? When will I gather that child up in my arms and tell her she is enough?
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