I Think Of Myself As A Realistic

I'd Known Enough Flush Times And Lean Ones To Understand That Money Came And Went. And That One Day I'd Also Lose My Looks, My Seemingly Boundless Energy And Maybe The Ability To Catch The Eye Of An Attractive Man And The Audacity To Rollerblade. My Name Would Be Forgotten. So Would Bad Reviews, And Good Ones. But Loving A Child Is Something That Lasts. Long After All The Rest Is Gone, That's What Endures.

To Share Our Stories Is Not Only A Worthwhile Endeavor For The Storyteller, But For Those Who Hear Our Stories And Feel Less Alone Because Of It.

Nothing Like Being Visible, Publishing One's Work, And Speaking Openly About One's Life, To Disabuse The World Of The Illusion Of One's Perfection And Purity.

I Think Of Myself As A Realistic Writer, Not A Creator Of Soap Opera Or Melodrama.

You Lay Your Hand Against His Skin And Just Rib His Back. Blow Into His Ear. Press That Baby Up Against Your Own Skin And Walk Outside With Him, Where The Night Air Will Sourround Him, And Moonlight Fall On His Face. Whistle, Maybe. Dance. Hum. Pray. (how To Calm A Crying Baby)