When I was in my early years of elementary school, I thought I might grow up and write “stories.” 

But, turns out stories are hard to write.  As a writer, you have to create these whole worlds and fill them with people who do stuff, who live in certain places, eat favorite foods, and have jobs and relationships and problems. 

And I’ve found that the stuff that happens in real life turns out to be much more interesting, much more funny, much more off-the-wall than anything I could have created.

So instead of “stories,” I write non-fiction.  I write personal essays that sometimes make their way into publications.  (Check out my “Published Work” link to learn more).  I write informational pieces for MomsLA.com.  And I write to try and figure things out for myself.

But, it turns out that there’s still a lot I haven’t figured out.  I haven’t figured out how to live with a chronic medical condition without letting it completely define me but while also acknowledging the limitations it imposes on my life.  I haven’t figured out the differences between jelly and jam and marmalade.  And I still haven’t figured out how to whistle.

Maybe I won’t ever figure some things out.  After all, I’m forty now and the whistling thing just isn’t happening. 

But I’ll keep trying to make sense of life in the only way I know how — one word at a time.  I’ll keep writing.