I became a writer because it's what I was good at. Apparently, I'm whatever-sided a brain has to be to intuitively construct sentences that are clear or concise or lyrical or inspirational, or whatever goal you have in mind for the words on the page. It's a thing I could do from an early age, which is why I became an English major. My first job out of college was as a writer in the White House. Eventually, I landed in public relations and then marketing, all the while relying on my skill as a writer to make a living. But then I got the hardest and best job there is — motherhood —which required very little writing but a lot of storytelling. I was a confident writer. But a storyteller? Not so much.

Until I realized that stories about my growing family resonated with lots of people who also spent untold hours driving minivans around indistinguishable suburbs, engaging in the thankless civic duty of raising up the next generation of American taxpayers. No one had ever replaced the incomparable Erma Bombeck, and I fancied myself a candidate to fill the blank spaces she'd left on the pages of hundreds of newspapers across the country. That didn't happen, exactly, but I did get a newspaper column that became the genesis of a few parenting books.

Eventually, I aged out of the parenting game and wrapped up the column. When the last child left for college, I went back to marketing communications. Happy to report we did our duty; they are all four productive taxpayers. You're welcome!

But as every writer will admit, writing's like an itch you have to scratch.

I'm a writer, and writers write.