I was fourteen years old and I was trying to write like Erma Bombeck.
Worse, I was trying to write about a world I had yet to grow into. Managing a household. Raising children. Wrangling groceries, dogs, bake sales, car pool. It’s admittedly weird that I didn’t see a problem with this. Then again, I’d been impersonating a grown-up for a while, ever since…
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