It would seem writing was imbedded within my coiled DNA. My earliest recollection associated with this craft was setting crayon to wall. More specifically, I was frequently scolded, as a kindergartner, for perfecting my printing on the wall next to my bed. My parents saw damage. I saw a tabula rasa. Sitting on the carpet crunched in that narrow space was exhilarating. My next memory was the day I received an award in second grade a month after we had been challenged to write about our favorite stuffed animal (in my case, a big, homely pink poodle). It was published in the Detroit News next to my photo. It felt as if I shared the podium with fellow Olympic medalists.
So taken was I with writing, even decades later, that my first declared major in college was English with the goal of writing children’s books. The Magic Years by Selma Freiberg was instrumental in luring me into the field of psychology. She impressed me with her ability to take sophisticated psychological concepts and effortlessly translate them into practical, memorable, useful passages any parent could grasp.
Then life happened. And grew dark.
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