I was born to write, call it my destiny. Unfortunately, after I graduated from college and began seeking gainful employment, I learned quickly that knowing one’s destiny is much easier than fulfilling it. I was shocked when I was consistently and unceremoniously turned away from every magazine, newspaper, public relations and advertising firm in the large metropolitan city where I live. I rationalized that the hiring gods at these fine establishments simply had not yet been made aware of my destiny and not one to give up, I set myself to the weighty task of educating them. However, after a year of shouting from the rooftops, I was forced to reluctantly reevaluate my destiny and settle for a job as en editor instead. I was still in the business of writing, after all. In fact, I was helping writers write better. I tried to accept my fate, but no matter how much I tried to strangle it, the urge to write would not die. The muses still called on me on a regular basis, whispering story ideas to me at the most unexpected times—when I was driving, or sleeping, or going to the bathroom (do they have no shame?).
Fortunately, I had something to distract me from the visions of by-lines that danced in my head. It was at this time in my life that I met and married my husband and quickly thereafter we were blessed with baby number one—a boy, who cruelly tortured me for the first year of his life, even though I had intervened on his behalf at birth and deterred his adoring father from thoughtlessly dubbing him Ignazio. I was convinced that this small child with the big voice had scared the muses away forever. I can still remember staring down at my finally-asleep son, with raw, tired eyes, after an agonizing night of sleeplessness, thinking, “Well, it’s official; I will never write again.
