Portland, Maine, July 31, 1995: Raucous pre-dawn squawks of blue-black crows invade my dream. Full consciousness arrives slowly. Then my brain’s sparkplugs ignite. My eyes fly open. Today is the day I leave for San Francisco to start my Ph.D. program.

Madame Mind-chatter, queen of the Land of Skepticism, perches on my shoulder.  “No way can you earn a Ph.D. You are not smart enough. You are too old.  And in case you forgot, you are broke.”

I sit on my over-stuffed suitcase and retort, “Zip it, Lady. I’m leaving now, and you are not invited. Have a nice life.”

Don’t be surprised if Madame Mind-chatter visits you when you start to write your memoirs. She might say, “You can’t write.” or “Your life was boring.” or “Nobody wants to read your stories.”  Then she pulls out the clincher, “Only famous people write their memoirs.”

I suggest you send Madame Mind-chatter on her way with the same retort I used, “Zip it, Lady.”

Mark Twain once said, “There is no such thing as an ordinary life.” Each person on the planet lives through comedy and drama, luck and misfortune, accomplishment and defeat, jubilation and heartache. And guess what? Your stories help others cope with their stories.

Now, sit back. Breathe. Start to type. And remember: Writing stories is like eating potato chips. One is never enough.