When I plant seeds in my garden, I believe they will sprout and draw nourishment from sun, rain and soil. Planting seeds is an act of faith.

So is writing.

I want to be a writer who doesn’t need permission to tell my truth.

I received at least part of my literary training in the school of hard knocks. I hadn’t traveled the path of life long before the dream of becoming a novelist took hold of me and wouldn’t shake loose. I had to try.

Sometimes I feel like I’m living by my wits in an ongoing literary version of “Survivor.”

I’ll admit it: I’ve procrastinated on drawing the rough maps of Elderland from which artist Anna O’Brien will create real maps for inclusion in DawnSinger, which releases this fall. I found it easier to consult maps filed away in my imagination while writing DawnSinger. Unfortunately, now that others want to see those maps, I have to put them down on paper.

In this case, I know my motives for procrastination, and they aren’t good.

It only takes one person to fly a kite.

Or so it seems.

As you clutch the grip and watch the brightly-colored banner flutter and dip above you, it’s easy to forget…

My mother served a healthy portion of Southern manners alongside helpings of black-eyed peas, hominy and cornbread. I learned to put others before myself, to give up the best, to step aside and go last. Factored into this training was the fact that shyness plagued me. You might not guess it now, but as a child I was embarrassed even to breathe.

Given my upbringing, it’s not surprising…