This is my only non-fiction book. (So far.) It is a collection of personal essays. Some are about my experiences as a mother and a woman, and some of them tell the story of the struggles and challenges I faced as a writer. I’ve found that while my experiences may be unusual, the principles of many of the things I’ve learned through my life apply to most, if not all, women. This book was an attempt to share some of those experiences.
I confess that I actually hated writing it. Fiction is much more fun than writing about myself. I don’t know if there’s much more to say about this one, other than the fact that I felt a little vulnerable having it published. Because it was about me, I felt that I was exposing something of myself even more than in my fiction. Ironically, I never received any criticism about this book, but there’s always someone with a complaint about my novels.
I believe this little book has some great messages, but it certainly only scratches the surface of who I really am. I would like to borrow a thought about my dear friend, Charles Dickens, to express how I feel. From a biography on Dickens by Fred Kaplan, it’s stated that, his books, not his life, would speak for him.