From the time I was a little girl, I loved reading about people's lives. The intricacies of childhood, both the big and small moments and experiences that shaped who they would become. I'm fascinated by it. I bet you are, too, and that's why you've come to visit.

How to put even the tiniest bit of history of a life on the page? It's not easy. Maybe some day you'll do the same, if you haven't already. I wonder if it was, or will be, as hard for you as it was for me. Picking out which stories to tell, which to leave in the box of photographs, the pages of the diary, the well of the heart. Always concerned about which details may appear self-indulgent, which may be too personal, and which just tell the simple story of a child who could be any child, who wanted to be a writer.

I was born Rebecca Thompson on July 10, 1951, in a small double (a house built for two families) on Rosslyn Avenue in Indianapolis, Indiana. It was a small house with a small yard, and a side two-step porch perfect for sitting and playing with my older brother on summer days.

My parents, John and Charlotte Thompson, were loving parents. Gentle and kind; always making me feel as if I were the best girl in the world.