Writing short stories reminds me of my eight-year-old self, in the 1950's, making cotton potholders on a little steel loom and selling them door to door for twenty-five cents each. At night I'd sit in bed and weave those loops and crochet the edges, all the while practicing my spiel, and dreaming of what I'd buy with the quarters. Wax lips and bubble gum. Archie comic books. Nail polish—although my father forbade nail polish. I lived in Terre Haute, Indiana, in a neighborhood of muddy playgrounds and ma-and-pa groceries. It had a fallen-down feel, as if the houses were the architectural equivalent of a girl who wouldn't stand up straight and proud. I couldn't wait to get out of there. To places with more shine, more hipness.
I wanted to be a writer. (read more here)