Those who rhapsodize about the ease and joy of childhood have perhaps forgotten what it's like to be 12 years old.

My job is writing. I get paid to do it. When was the last time you heard someone challenge a doctor for making money off of cancer?

I'd known enough flush times and lean ones to understand that money came and went. And that one day I'd also lose my looks, my seemingly boundless energy and maybe the ability to catch the eye of an attractive man and the audacity to Rollerblade. My name would be forgotten. So would bad reviews, and good ones. But loving a child is something that lasts. Long after all the rest is gone, that's what endures.

A good home must be made, not bought. In the end, it's not track lighting or a sun room that brings light into a kitchen.

I think of myself as a realistic writer, not a creator of soap opera or melodrama.

It's not only children who grow. Parents do too.

Although Salinger had long since cut me out of his life completely and made it plain that he had nothing but contempt for me, the thought of becoming the object of his wrath was more than I felt ready to take on.