I remember, a very, very long time ago, when I was a very, very confused college student, a professor told me: “You must write. Whatever you do, you must write.”

As usual, I was fairly mute. No one had ever suggested that I was actually (maybe) sort of good at something.  I think I probably mumbled something and changed the subject and tried to get out of her office as quickly as I possibly could – before she tried to engage in some sort of real-life discussion about real life.

Now, it’s 20 or 22 or 25 years later – I’m really not sure – and I’m trying to honour Professor Higgs’s request. This is a little bit of making amends to someone who actually showed some faith in me, and it’s a little bit of making amends to myself for not having faith in me, and it’s a little bit of taking a chance, and it is, quite frankly, a whole lot of therapy.

In the 20 or 22 or 25 years since that conversation with Professor Higgs, I’ve done a lot. I’ve done a lot of good things that I’m very, very proud of, and I’ve done a lot of awful things that I’d love to wipe away with a big fat eraser. Mostly, though, I’ve done what was expected of a ‘good Southern girl’ – I got my BA; I got a job; I got a husband. Tick; tick; tick.

But, you know, that’s not me. Tick; tick; tick. Boring; boring; well, my husband is fabulous, so that’s not boring . . . but, restless; restless; and, yes, maybe even a wee bit restless. . . .

And, now, well, we’ll see what happens. . . .