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

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.

Growing up in the fifties and sixties, I can only remember knowing one child, ever, whose parents got a divorce, and hardly any whose mother "worked" at anything besides raising her children.

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

For 25 years, I did take my responsibilities as a pleaser of others sufficiently seriously.

If a man wishes to truly not be written about, he would do well not to write letters to 18-year-old girls, inviting them into his life.

One of the sad realities of being a parent is that the same stuff you know is exciting, educational, and enriching in your child'slife is often messy, smelly and exhausting to deal with.