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Author Ann H. Gabhart has recently released ANGEL SISTER, which is very much inspired by her mother. Below, Ann discusses this mother who fostered her early obsession with the written word, and who readily shared stories of her own childhood during the Great Depression --- and the love of her family that got them all through it.

I’ve got the best mother in the world. It’s great if you disagree and think your mother is best. That’s the way it should be. But for me, my mom is best. She gave birth to me, her third girl, in an old farmhouse not far from where I live now. I was surely supposed to be the boy, but she welcomed this girl and nurtured me and loved me as I was –-- a shy child who loved books. At the age of ten, I started carrying around a notebook and writing a story. Well, not just a story. I jumped right into the business and started writing a mystery novel. I saw myself as the next Nancy Drew. I was pretty sure I could figure out those mysteries --– especially if I was the one deciding what happened next. That was the beginning of a lifetime obsession with the written word.  

As far as I know, nobody in my family had ever set out to be a writer, but they were readers. My mother still has a set of little red books that must have been from an early book club that my grandfather joined. He knew the magic of stories. I barely remember him since he died when I was very young, but perhaps in some way, he passed his love of stories down to me. I’m pretty sure he would have been amazed and pleased if he could have looked ahead in time and known this little girl he liked to hold in his lap would someday write a book using his life experiences as inspiration.

But first, years went by as I filled one notebook after another with words. My mother helped me believe I could do whatever I wanted to do. That no dream was too big and if that dream was to be a writer, then I could be a writer. It didn’t matter that I had no idea how to go about becoming a published writer. I could figure it out. And I did. My first novel was published over thirty years ago. Not that Nancy Drew wannabe book. I had to do my share of practice writing before I could see a novel by Ann Gabhart on store shelves, but when that happened, I could hardly wait to give my mother the first copy hot off the press.

More years passed. I wrote a lot more words. Not in notebooks now but on a typewriter and then a word processor. More of my books were published. Story ideas were sparked by historical events, a cave on my farm, Big Foot legends, ghost dogs, my small town, Shaker villages, and finally, years after I sat in my grandfather’s lap, by my mother’s stories of her childhood during the Great Depression.  My mother and her sisters were always talking about their growing up years. They didn’t have much money, but they had family. And they had love. They also lived in a community with more than its share of odd characters. So I decided to take the feel of their stories along with a couple of those odd characters and come up with a background for a story.  

ANGEL SISTER is fiction, but the background is grounded in truth. My mother

Sometimes we can’t help but turn into our mothers; lucky for Paige, her mother is writer Elizabeth Harbison, author of books such as THIN, RICH, PRETTY out on May 10 and July's ALWAYS SOMETHING THERE TO REMIND ME. As a fist-time author, Paige released a Young Adult book called HERE LIES BRIDGET in January...but not without edits from mom, and vice versa! Below, the two women share their excitement for one another, and discuss their similarities as writers and as people.

Paige, did you always want to be a writer?

Paige: Nope. Actually, it never even occurred to me. That’s not to say I didn’t write several horrible, awful stories as a child. But it was never an ambition. I started to write HERE LIES BRIDGET as a distraction from a (now ex-) boyfriend on an (endless) train trip from Florida to Washington, D.C. The idea of actually being an author felt positively laughable for a long time.

Beth, when did you first realize that your daughter would one day follow in your footsteps?

Beth: Literally about six months before she wrote and sold the book. Believe me, when I was trying to coach her through essays in middle school and high school, I never would have seen this coming! “Topic sentence, Paige! Then stick to the topic!”

HERE LIES BRIDGET and SHOE ADDICTS ANONYMOUS are both being made into movies. Could both of you tell our readers a bit more about what this experience has been like for you?

Beth: My agents have warned me over and over again that “it ain’t done til it’s done” so, for me, the process has involved a lot of cautious optimism. But every step forward is so exciting --– seeing the first scripts, hearing casting talk, etc. But when they signed Halle Berry to star, I just couldn’t believe it! I still can’t!

Paige: Mine is so very in the beginning stages that it feels completely surreal. Seeing my name and my book’s name on IMDB is crazy. It’s been very exciting to watch my mom’s movie bloom, though! It makes the stars seem reachable. So to speak . . .

Do you share your work with one another, and if so how? 

Beth: Definitely. Paige has a great eye, and I really enjoy reading her books. You might think that was a given, but, actually, I think I might have been more inclined to be critical than gushing, because I don’t want to see her hurt by critics, etc., so she has a

As the author of SEARCHING FOR TINA TURNER, Jacqueline Luckett has established herself as a writer to watch. In the touching post below, she reflects on the strong influence of her mother, who, while not an avid fiction read herself, cherished Jacqueline’s first novel.

Photo: Jacqueline with her mother, Bernice.

I don’t think I ever recall seeing my now 88-year-old mother read a book. Oh, she’s a reader --- newspapers, newsletters, and magazines. But a book? Never. Until I wrote one.

Between her jobs with the Federal government and caring for our family, I’m not sure she had time for much else. In 2010, I gave her a copy of my first novel. She fingered the glossy cover and my name printed on the spine. Behind her glow of maternal pride, I sensed that my mother must love books as much as I do.

In the following days, she faithfully reported her progress. “I’m on Chapter 5,” she would tell me, the chapter number changing as she moved through the story. “Where did you get all those ideas?” she often asked, laughing. She is clear-headed and high-spirited and when she laughs, I don’t think about her age or her arthritic knees or the frown that crosses her face when she struggles to get out of her favorite chair. I think of my playful, beautiful mother who migrated with her three sisters to California from Mississippi after World War II, who once won a beauty contest, and who loved my father for more than the 56 years they were married.

Not long after I gave her my book, she called to tell me she was sad. Thinking she was missing my Dad, who passed in 2002, I tried to comfort her. “Oh no,” she said, “I finished your book, and now I have nothing to do!” She hadn’t wanted the story to end. I wondered if, years ago, I’d been so self-absorbed that I neglected to notice when she picked up a book. Had she taken books to the bathroom and hid there, her only place of quiet without distractions? “Your book is beautiful,” she added. There was so much pride in her voice, and her unspoken message, I knew you could do it, was praise for my book and joy for the direction my life has taken since my divorce.

There’s not a time in my life when a book hasn’t been close by: on my nightstand, in my purse or pocket, or shelved in a room of wherever I’ve lived. How, I’ve often wondered, did the child of a mother who never read much become a storyteller, avid reader and lover of books? My father was a reader, determined to work his way through our set of The Great Books of the Western World. But I’m not like my father. I’m like my mother --- my eyes, my voice, my mannerisms are hers, and now, I’m beginning to believe so, too, is my love of books.

She is the one who encouraged me, and my sister (a writer, also), to send our stories to the local newspaper. Hers is the hand I held on visits to the Children’s Room at the Berkeley Public Library. I remember the mounting excitement as we climbed the marble stairs, the musty smell of books, the thrill of holding them in

Sally Gunning has written three historical novels set in New England; her most recent --- THE REBELLION OF JANE CLARK --- was released last year. Below, her mother shares Sally's first poem, and the authors who shaped her early life.

Photo: Nancy and Sally size up the day's catch!

Did you read to your daughter as a child? What did you read?

I read to them from the time they could look at a book.  We read A.A. Milne, Beatrix Potter, Robert Louis Stevenson, Louisa May Alcott, Dr. Seuss, Mark Twain, E.B. White and others.

Did Sally have a favorite author/series growing up?

It was A.A. Milne for a long time and, later on, many others as her reading habits evolved with age.

Did you have any reading rituals?

We always had bedtime stories, but there were many other times we'd curl up with a book together.  We went to the library often and occasionally a bookstore.

When did you know Sally was going to become a writer?

When Sally was a young child she came to me one day and read a poem she'd written: "One morning to my Mom I said/ Mom, I don't want to make my bed/ What would the
world be like, she said/ If nobody wanted to make their bed? After that I used my head/ I used my head and made my bed." And after that she continued writing all through high school...and beyond!

Do you read advance copies of her work?

Yes, Sally allows me to read advance copies of her work as her manuscripts progress, and it is a privilege for me to follow the plots along.  (I am always eager for more!)

Do you have a favorite?

I loved them all (no surprise there), but I think THE WIDOW’S WAR is my favorite.

What kinds of books do you enjoy reading?

I think my taste is rather eclectic...I like historical fiction, biographies, contemporary fiction (relationship books), history, mysteries.

What authors, beside your daughter, do you read?

Oh, there are so many!  Anne Tyler, Joanna Trollope, Ian McEwan, Stewart O'Nan, Richard Russo, David McCullough, John McPhee, Kate Grenville, Penelope Lively, Helen Simonson, the Patrick O'Brian series, and many many more.

NOTE: My two other children read constantly, as do my grandchildren and great grandchildren down to age 6, so you see our blood is made partially of newsprint!

When Darien Gee’s daughter brought home a bag of Amish Friendship Bread starter, inspiration hit. Soon, Darien wrote and published FRIENDSHIP BREAD, in which the act of passing on this recipe opens doors across a community. Below, Darien not only reveals how she’s managed to juggle motherhood with a writing career, but how her three children --- once assumed to “get in the way” of writing --- have become an integral part of the process.

Photo: Darien and her daughter, Maya.

I’ll never forget the advice several well-meaning author friends had given me when I first started writing.

“Wait,” they had advised. “It’s easier to write before or after you have kids. Not during. It’s too hard.”

I had a four-year-old child at the time with another on the way. My husband and I were stretched financially and sleep-deprived. But I wanted to be a published author. I obviously couldn’t turn back the clock nor did I want to wait for my kids to graduate from high school. So I did what many of us do when we have young children --- we did the best we could, and we somehow made it through.

But three children and three books later, I was feeling the toll that comes with feeling like you’re not doing anything well. I’d watch other authors who were able to plan whole days (whole days!) around writing or editing their manuscript, pondering possible plot turns, exploring their characters in depth. I, on the other hand, still had trouble fitting in a shower. I often held a baby in my arms while I typed with one hand. I’d listen with envy as friends talked about writing retreats or living abroad to work on their book. My husband and I couldn’t even find a babysitter so we could go to dinner on our anniversary.

And then one spring afternoon, my daughter Maya brought home a bag of Amish Friendship Bread starter and some slices of the sugar-cinnamon bread. It came with a page of instructions telling us to divide and share the starter with others, oh, and we were expected to bake on top of that! And this whole thing would take ten days! I told Maya sorry, but there was no way we were going to do it.

But she begged me to at least try the bread, which I did. Inspiration hit right around the time the sugar entered my bloodstream. I saw my protagonist and started writing that night. A year later, that book sold at auction to Ballantine Books, along with foreign, audio, and book club rights. I launched the Friendship Bread Kitchen, a website with over 100 Amish Friendship Bread recipes, tips, and community. Our Facebook page has over 25,000 fans.

In the past two years it’s become clear to me that my children have not gotten in the way of my writing career, but have actually been an integral part in helping me move forward with each book. I had actually written my first novel in 1998, when I was 30 and single, and I had taken a whole year off to write it. That book was never published. But now, with three children ages 2, 5 and 10, I have four books under my belt. I don’t know a writing life without having my kids around (and often underfoot). Whenever a

Kat Martin started writing in 1985; she is now the bestselling author of more than 50 Historical and contemporary Romance novels, including her Raines of Wind Canyon series. Today, she thanks her mother, Helen, who shared her dream of writing --- an unfulfilled ambition that led Kat to discover fiction, and explore her own talents.

My mother dreamed of being a writer. When I was a girl, she talked about it often. During her high school days at Tulare Union in the San Joaquin Valley, she was the editor of the school newspaper. She loved writing and more than anything, she wanted to go to college and become a journalist.

The country was at war back then, and my grandparents were poor. My mother never achieved her dream, but I could hear the yearning in her voice when she talked about it, and maybe that was the seed that set me on the path to becoming a writer. Or maybe it was the love for reading she instilled in me.

As a young woman, I saw reading as something I had to do to get through high school and then college. I enjoyed learning new things, and especially enjoyed reading history books. But reading just for fun? I couldn’t really imagine it.   

Then I discovered the Bestseller List. 

My mother loved every sort of book and particularly true crime murder books. But my tastes were not the same and other than the textbooks I read in college, I had no idea what to choose. I began picking up books off the top 15 bestseller list in the grocery store and discovered the wonderful world of fiction. 

Books by Wilbur Smith and Danielle Steel, Sidney Sheldon, Colleen McCullough, Herman Wouk, Arthur Hailey, Robert Ludlum, Jack Higgins, Anya Seton, Kathleen Winsor, and Frank Yerby, who wrote heartwrenching Romance novels. 

I was hooked.

Over the years, my mother and I often traded books and then discussed them, which lots of moms do with their children today.

I loved reading, but a career as an author never crossed my mind until I was in my thirties and met my husband, Larry, who had written a western novel. It was a wonderful book and I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t been able to get it published. I thought maybe I could help him by doing a little editing and, during the process, realized how much I was enjoying the work. 

I decided maybe I should try writing myself and jumped in with both feet. MAGNIFICENT PASSAGE was the result, my first novel, which I am happy to say is being re-published this July with a magnificent new cover.

More than 50 books later, my mother is gone, but I’m still reading and still writing, and I thank her every day for introducing me to the career I love so much. 

Kat Martin's A SONG FOR MY MOTHER is in stores now! Learn more at www.KatBooks.com.

Sarah Addison Allen is the critically acclaimed author of four spellbinding novels, the latest of which, THE PEACH KEEPER, is now available in bookstores. Below, she pays a moving tribute to her mother --- nose ring and all.

She always did what she was supposed to do, this child of the war, with hair that was made to curl and lips as beautiful as a doll’s. She was the pretty child in family photos, effortless, almost embarrassed. White gloves, patent leather shoes.

Then as a teenager, oh what a teenager, bouffants and black and white polka-dot evening gowns with tiaras and elbow-length gloves. Never without a date on Friday nights, mainly Wake Forest boys, whom she met while working behind the soda fountain counter at her father’s pharmacy, making root beer floats and vanilla Cokes the boys would order just to watch her.

Then there was the boy who really mattered, different from the rest. She was 19, and her parents told her she was supposed to get married. So she did.

And she was a fine wife. Her meals were wonderful, based solely on his preferences. He didn’t even have to ask. She mended his shirts and pressed his suits. And how lovely she looked while doing it, her hair always set and sometimes covered with a chic scarf, the liquid line on her eyes always a perfect complement.

The kids came along and she joined the PTA, made cupcakes for class parties and chaperoned field trips. Nothing out of the ordinary. Ordinary was good. She worked for ordinary. Strived for it. When her kids were small and didn’t want to go to school in the mornings, she would patiently dress them while they sprawled out on the couch, lazy and ungrateful as they watched cartoons.

But there came a time when she looked in the mirror and saw only what other people saw in her. And she didn’t like it, this person who was defined by everyone else. When was the last time someone asked her what she wanted? When was the last kiss, the last hug, the last thank you?

Then there was the divorce. No one understood at the time. She always did what she was supposed to, and she always did it perfectly. And she made it seem like she enjoyed it, which was like cutting herself where only she could see. But finally, at 50 years old, her life was her own and it made her heady. She would smile for no reason. She bought things she and only she liked. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought. She looked at her hair one day and realized how long she had dreamed of dying it red. No one else liked the idea, but what did that matter?

So she dyed her hair.

Bright, coppery red.

And those cool women downtown she used to see in their Birkenstocks and tie-dyes with small gold studs in their noses. How free they always seemed. She wanted to be like that. She wanted a nose ring.

So she got one.

She endured the teasing from her grown children. It didn’t matter. She liked her red hair and nose ring. “Looo-ise,” great-aunt Charlotte would say, trying to convince her to take out the nose ring on Sunday for church, as if God wouldn’t like it. “Why

Lorna Jane Cook is the author of three novels, the latest of, OUTSIDE OF WONDERLAND, is now available in bookstores. Today, she reflects on the first stories she ever told --- and the woman who encouraged her to dream even bigger.

Photo: Proof! Lorna Jane Cook in a rare photo with her mother, Leona May Nyenhuis.

For years, the joke in my family was that I wasn’t theirs; a foundling, perhaps, as there seemed to be no photographs of me. I should note, in my mother’s defense, that when I arrived, she was but 25 years old; she already had two daughters, aged four and five, and understandably had other things on her mind. My father was working full-time, getting his PhD, and juggling the first two little girls on his back (of course, there are photographs of that). Nonetheless, I lamented that I’d gotten lost in the mix, and no Kodak paper was spent on me. Also, my elder sisters, who were only a year apart and were sharing a room, often left me out of the loop --- the spurned baby sister (until the next daughter arrived to take my place, spurned, in turn, by me). Coincidentally, my only line in my school’s first grade play was, “What about me?”

Of course, I may be exaggerating; memory often discolors the truth (and some photos later surfaced). But there was an upside to the benign neglect: I discovered books. I will admit that I don’t remember bedtime readings, but there were always books around, and I prized my first library card. As I devoured story after story, I developed a habit that my mother, bless her, generously encouraged: I’d follow her around the house on her rounds --- kitchen, to bedrooms, to laundry room, and back --- regaling her with every plot twist, character trait and a chapter-by-chapter synopsis of the latest book. While she loaded piles of clothing into the washing machine, I’d lean casually on the dryer like a barfly and gab. It never occurred to me to help her sort or fold, and she rarely asked, just let me prattle on like white noise (which, in retrospect, I likely was). Sometimes she’d nod or smile or interject, “Oh, wow,” and then proceed to the next task, with me traipsing along behind, never tiring of the tale. And I couldn’t just say, “It’s about this girl who discovers a secret garden.” No, I’d have to start from the beginning and tell my mother about the cholera in India, and then move onto the moors, the jumping rope, the boy with the birds, the sickly kid hidden away in the manor, the groundskeeper, the starched dresses, and oh, a key to a secret garden, and what that looked like, and why it was locked…

One could attribute it to a small streak of O.C.D. which runs through my family, though it’s not the kind that makes one count steps or touch light switches; lucky us, we just like order, and have a hard time condensing. Thus, the long story was the only one I knew how to tell, and I

An anesthesiologist, mother and now author, Michelle Au knows a thing or two about changes and balancing acts. In this special post, Michelle discusses the inspirations behind her forthcoming debut THIS WON’T HURT A BIT (AND OTHER WHITE LIES): My Education in Medicine and Motherhood, which will be released May 11th.

I remember my first night on call as a young medical resident.  As the daily bustle of the hospital yielded gently to evening, one by one my colleagues checked out their patients to me for safekeeping before themselves heading home.  By midnight, I found myself the only doctor on the floor (having graduated from medical school all of five weeks before, I guess I was technically a doctor) in charge of thirty very sick patients.  And I remember thinking to myself: How is it that I am allowed to do this? How can this be my responsibility? How will I know what to do if something goes wrong?

Fast-forward two years to the birth of my first child. Holding him in the delivery room for the first time, seeing how small he was, how completely dependent he was (and would continue to be for a long time); the same litany of thoughts ran through my mind. Me? Take care of this baby? They’re really going to let me do this? How do they know I can handle it? Being a new doctor and becoming a new parent are, it seems, similar in many respects.

Why do I write about my experiences in medicine, and in motherhood? The easy answer is that writing is an amusing hobby, a creative outlet, a distraction from the everyday. The simple truth is that it’s fun to tell stories, and it’s really fun when other people enjoy them. 

But the more complicated answer is that I write about my experiences because of change. Everything changes. And sometimes they change very quickly.

I’ve changed from my years as a junior medical resident. Nearly three years out of training, I’m comfortable as a doctor now, and I don’t question my role or responsibility nearly as much as I used to…though I’d be lying if I said I never do. 

My son has also changed. In the past five and a half years, he’s grown from a newborn who didn’t know what his hands were for and who could barely support the weight of his own head to a little boy who quizzes me almost daily on the three periods of the Mesozoic Era, and the species of dinosaurs that inhabited each. His changes are, to me, the most miraculous of all, and sometimes it’s hard to remember the baby he once was in the shadow of the person he’s now becoming.

All the patients I have cared for over the years have changed as well, though obviously I haven’t been there to see most of it. Interactions in medicine are all too often simply a snapshot in time, without enough time or depth to lend a true sense of understanding. Some patients are healthier now. But some have diseases that have progressed. And most of them have grown older, though, unfortunately…some of them have not.

Bestselling author Julia Spencer-Fleming’s latest novel, ONE WAS A SODLIER, explores the problems veterans face as they reenter society. Born on an Air Force Base and growing up an “Army brat,” Julia recalls how her mother always made sure to stock the bookshelves of the family’s new abodes and, even in poorer times, kept book-loving Julia well supplied.

When I was pre-literate, maybe five or six, my favorite book was A FLY WENT BY by Dr. Seuss. I know this not because I remember myself (my early childhood memory is astonishingly thin) or because a battered copy holds a place of honor in the old family bookshelf (in the military we moved frequently, and out-of-favor toys and books were ruthlessly weeded and given away.) I know this because forty-plus years later, my mother can still recite the entire book. Verbatim. She read it to me so many times, it imprinted itself permanently on her brain.

I firmly believe that all children are born with a love of story. It’s what happens after that makes them readers or not. Whenever we moved to a new post, one of the first things my mother did was to find the local or base library and get us borrowers cards. Whether we lived in a house, an apartment, or married officers’ quarters, she stocked the bookshelves for herself and for her children. She read to me and to my sister, and when my brother was diagnosed with dyslexia in kindergarten, she read with him each night for years to strengthen his decoding abilities: one page Mom, the next page Patrick. (Since he later went on to graduate from St. John Fisher College and take an MBA from George Washington University, I think that reading program counts as a success.)

Perhaps more importantly, my mother showed us what a book-lover looks like. If you visit her today, you'll find a stack of paperbacks by her favorite reading chair, a library book on the bedside table, and heaps of magazines in each bathroom --- just like when we were children. (I think I was well into my teens before I realized some people don't keep reading material in their bathrooms. Whatever do they do with their time?)

Over the years, my book-loving habits must have been a trial. When we lived in Maryland, it was my habit to walk home from school, my nose in a book. One afternoon I was so very late my poor mother retraced my route, worried I might have been hurt or interfered with. She found me on a stoop, still reading. The story had gotten so engrossing I wasn't able to walk and read at the same time. For years I stealth-read at night, squinting at the words from the light entering my bedroom from the hall. Despite medical evidence to the contrary, I still have a guilty feeling that this is the cause of my poor eyesight, just as my mother warned. I shudder to estimate the money she must have spent in overdue fines and to replace the library books I lost, left out in the yard, or dropped in the tub.

We went through a period, after we had gotten out of the army, when we were poor. I had no idea at the time. Like Marmee in LITTLE WOMEN, my mother had a genius for turning deprivation into creative opportunity. There were caroling parties with hot cocoa and stringing popcorn, and trips to Saratoga's historical sites, and Saturday mornings spent “garage sailing” where I always walked away with a book or two. One Christmas, my mother gave me an entire grocery sack ful

A New York Times bestseller whose work has been internationally acclaimed, Luanne Rice is the author of 28 novels --- the latest of which, THE SILVER BOAT, is now available in bookstores. Below she remembers the woman who helped launch her writing career by giving her what she never had herself --- a sense of freedom.

On summer mornings when I was young, my mother held writing workshops for my sisters and me at our summer cottage. We sat the oak table, windows open wide, and she said, “Write about what you hear.” Sounds drifted in: oak leaves rustling, waves hitting the shore, the joyous shrieks of our friends playing on the beach.

My mother, Lucille Arrigan Rice, had returned to school to get her Masters in Education, and we were her guinea pigs. Although I begged to be set free, I found myself writing about the sounds, letting them guide me into stories. 

Those days taught me to sit still, to write every day, to observe nature and life. Our family was full of secrets and complicated, tragic love. Through writing fiction, my characters have helped me understand.

My mother finished grad school and became an English teacher. In college, she had written plays, had one produced and performed in Boston.

She married my father right after he returned from World War II. She was beautiful, he was handsome; they came from similar working-class backgrounds, had met at the beach, and had a romantic love story. It took nine years for them to have their first child, me. Passion, and the belief things would get better, must have kept her with him, because life was not easy.

My father kept us in suspended animation, always guessing. Would he come home that night? I developed detective skills; by the time I was seven, I knew he drank and had affairs, and that she was in a state of perpetual heartbreak.

My grandmother lived with us, a sort of second mother. My mother would read us Dickens, Shakespeare, Dylan Thomas, American plays of the 1930s; she encouraged us to memorize poems, and write our own; each Saturday she took us downtown to the library and art museum.

When it came to art and literature, she was wonderful. Emotionally, she was numb, and left my sisters and me to mother each other. Our grandmother, Mim, took care of the basics, like cooking our meals, mending our clothes, and rocking us on her lap when we had chicken pox.

My sisters and I shared a bedroom. After we were in bed, my mother wrote at the dining table. The sound of her typewriter was my lullaby. Yet she never published again, and when she died, her desk contained many unfinished short stories.

I often feel my mother’s influence. Many of my characters are artists, and that comes from her --- our museum visits and the fact that she painted, on a tall easel set up in the kitchen. She taught me to care deeply about the planet and all who inhabit it, to listen to wind in the trees, to watch clouds in the sky.

The year she retired, ready to write a novel, she developed a brain tumor. Her next nine years were a long, terrible decline, but she never complained. She used her experience as material, and wrote in notebooks. I watched her lo