Yes, Mother’s Day has come and gone. Families gathered to honor their moms with flowers, boxes of chocolate, maybe even cookout’s and homemade ice cream. However each observed the event, it was meant to show appreciation to the woman who not only brought them into the world, but who also diapered their bottoms, kissed away their boo-boo’s and exclaimed with delight over the hard wrought C’s on their report cards.

It’s odd to hear that question asked of me. Since fifth grade when I’d poured over the adventurous stories of Nancy Drew, Donna Parker and Trixie Belden, and I attempted my own words to paper, I had no inkling that one day my name would appear on a book’s cover.

Two years ago when I browsed inside a bookstore and inquired to the location for a writer’s handbook, the clerk asked, “Are you a writer?” I wasn’t sure how to answer. Though the title of “writer” deserved to be bestowed on a choice few, I was certain I wasn’t one of them. I’d had a few articles accepted to an ezine–unpaid–but I’d learned that didn’t qualify one to be called an official “writer.” But because I did write, I answered the question in the affirmative.