Near the end of his life, my father told a story about my first bicycle, with the training wheels. How he removed them and threatened to return the bicycle to the store if I didn’t learn to ride. And that night, my mother reporting I spent the entire day falling off the bike, skinning my knees, and before dark, learning to ride on my own. Hearing this story for the first time in my 60s, I had no memory of this day or of my tenacity.
But here was a glimpse of the child I had been and a near allegorical tale for the adult I had become, the telling resonating with my circuitous journey to book publication, a lifelong dream unrealized until I turned 69.
I grew up in rural North Carolina, where people worked the land or they left the land to work the mills. For women, a college education meant you could teach. Though I was a passionate reader, the idea of writing fiction was out of reach, something that someone from somewhere else had permission to do.
At 16, I wrote a story for the Seventeen magazine short story contest and never submitted it, the often heard “who do you think you are” echoing in my head. I was a college junior when an art history professor told me I should become an art critic, I wrote so well about art. I had no idea what an art critic was, but no one had ever said I should be anything. I added art history as an additional major and charted a path to graduate school. I worked in galleries and cultural nonprofits and then in museums, while writing art reviews for local publications. I broke into major papers and national magazines, expanding into writing about dance, music, books, interiors, travel and food.
I met a famous psychic when I was a young mother and he told me he saw a golden hand with a pen in it, surrounded by passports and suitcases. That is exactly how my freelance career unfolded. Assignments took me all over the world and into conversation with such luminaries as Frank Gehry, Annie Leibovitz and Lucinda Williams.