As an oddly sensitive and highly observant little working class girl from Fresno — who regularly saw sounds and heard the silent souls of others — I always knew I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. I realize now this is because some part of me has always known that aside from laundry, dishes, and having babies, I can’t really do much of anything else. Writing suits me and I have been doing it for as long as I can remember. In fact, I recently stumbled upon my autobiography, handwritten by me in pencil on lined binder paper at the very splendiferous age of 9. Apparently, I haven’t changed much in the nearly four decades hence. The opening line?
“I was a breech birth. I often wonder what effect it has on a person to enter the world butt first.”