When I was a preschooler, I loved sitting on the couch next to my mother and listening to her read stories. (This was long before television and computers and Nintendo.) After hearing them multiple times, I read the stories —word for word—to her. She assured me later that I had memorized them, but not so. I had learned to read them. So began my love of books. By mid-elementary school, I wrote poetry, which was often published in the weekly bulletin. In high school, I worked on newspapers and started a novel. And I read, read, read everything—Nancy Drew and Beverly Gray mysteries, as well as all kinds of fiction (mostly) from the school library. Visions of writing novels (my version of sugarplums) danced in my head. Then life interfered under the guise of five children, six step-children, a disabled husband, and a myriad other distractions that put writing—and even reading—on long-term hold. The children grew up. A novel took shape in my head, then a second and a third, etc. The dis...