I take back pretty much 100% of what I wrote in my last blog post, all that soapbox nonsense about what makes a writer. I emailed Brad the first draft of my story tonight. Despite what friends and family and faithful blog readers have told me over the years, I am not a writer....

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I was six when I began writing for real. “Real” is a loose term–I’m talking stories written in pencil first grader handwriting on lined paper with crude crayon illustrations as accompaniment. I still have them at my parents’ house, a stack of stapled tomes tied together with yarn at the bottom of a trunk...

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