"Dee, she said, you are too old to start something new. I had not confided in my friend that at the age of sixty-six I had decided to become a ballerina. I had confided that writing and drawing had rested far too long within me. A bear, stretching from slumber in search of the sweetest berry. Persistent, my friend. Dee, do you know how many writers and illustrators there are in New York City alone? The chances of success are equal to the chances of the sky turning green. And I thought, the sky can turn green? How lovely.”

“My gaggle of girls. They are me. Inquisitive. Hopeful. Often derailed. The earth quaking beneath their feet. Like me, they have come into their own by mistakes. The transformation and inestimable tweaks, from the day I cradled a new iPad home to this day, is simply my own journey. Each of has one. At a recent gathering, I was introduced as an illustrator. This now-new acquaintance breathed out an impressed sigh. “Oh,” she said. “I can’t even draw stick figures.”

And I thought… oh sweetheart, I bet you can."