Years ago, when I was cleaning out my parents’ house, I discovered my diary from when I was thirteen. It was one of those that had a lock on it with a tiny key so that no one could read it but me. The lock was broken (I’m not sure it ever worked in the first place), so I opened it and started reading. Gasp! What a train wreck I was at thirteen. I won’t bore you (or embarrass myself) with the details, but suffice it to say, I was one miserable teenager. So much of what I read I had no memory of, making me wonder if, even then, I was a fiction writer and didn’t know it.