I ask you, could this dog be any more comfortable?
There are days I’m convinced that I’m running a dog hotel. Wake up in the morning, walk the dogs. Feed the dogs. Walk them again. Try and write. Play with dogs. Snack time for dogs! Throw the ball for dogs. Write some more. Afternoon walk! Suppertime! Evening walk!
Where did my day go?
Writers tend to discover the power of the written word early on.
I sure did! Here I am at about five or six, trying to weasel out of my punishment (I’d been sent to my room) for fighting with my sister…
In case you can’t read my creative spelling, it says: ”Dear Mommy, I would like you to understand that I was not the one that kicked Lisa. Lisa poked me in the eye. Love, Heather.”
I can’t remember now whether or not my written plea was effective or not, but I sure am glad that my parents saved the letter. It’s always fun to look back at our baby steps.
This is my father and me, circa about — well, let’s just say a long time ago. Love that skinny tie, Dad!
My father’s always been my champion and hero. He’s directly responsible for me growing up to be a writer, thanks to the hours of bedtime stories he read to me and my sisters, reams of paper with which he provided me, endless patience he displayed in cheering on my fledgling efforts (which he always took seriously), and of course the copy of Strunk & White’s Elements of Style that he tucked into my Christmas stocking when I was 12.
Thanks for everything, Dad. I love you!