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

No, I said. I didn't remember that. There was so much to remember, sometimes the best thing was to forget.

The big dramas that fascinate me are the quiet ones that happen behind closed doors in so-called ordinary families.

For a parent, it's hard to recognize the significance of your work when you're immersed in the mundane details. Few of us, as we run the bath water or spread the peanut butter on the bread, proclaim proudly, "I'm making my contribution to the future of the planet." But with the exception of global hunger, few jobs in the world of paychecks and promotions compare in significance to the job of parent.

I believe every one of us possesses a fundamental right to tell our own story.

I have long observed that the act of writing is viewed, by some, as an elite and otherworldly act, all the more so if a person isn't paid for what she writes.

The portrait of my parents is a complicated one, but lovingly drawn.