I had very little experience with writing and little perspective on my family’s situation. The co-author was a nice man, willing to take on the gigantic task of writing a manuscript with a young woman who had more stories and feelings than she knew what to do with. Above all, it was a woman’s story, a narrative of day-to-day struggles, of babies, home and hearth, the constant juggling of household responsibilities, the search for a creative outlet, desperate feminist yearnings while brushed with fame under the most trying circumstances.
The writing drafts went back and forth, back and forth, and sometime during the process, my voice was lost, or perhaps my voice was just beginning to develop. I sent it off to several publishers and agents and eventually placed it on a shelf in the basement, too busy meeting family obligations to take on one more task.