As soon as I learned, at three years old, that real human beings wrote books, I knew what I wanted.
I wanted to write my stories.
I’ve been writing since that day. First, with crayon, then pencil scratchings on lined paper for school assignments, then tapping on a loud electric typewriter. The first time I touched a computer (a Mac SE, which required 15 minutes of shuffling 2 start-up discs in and out of the slots before I could type), I started writing a story.
Now, I have 5 published books and thousands of published essays out in the world. I’m proud of the James Beard award my husband and I won for one of our cookbooks. The commendations from The New York Times, The Washington Post, the Times of London, Newsweek magazine, and The Guardian mean the world to me. More, the thousands of people who have written to me to say how much my writing has meant to them and how it has changed their lives? That has been the most rewarding part of my writing career.
Writing is an act of understanding my own mind. It’s playing with language. It’s crafting stories that help me make sense of the world. Writing is like breathing for me. Any day without writing something makes me feel like I’m growing light-headed after holding my breath all day.