Wendy was the tall scrawny late bloomer on the sidelines of the seventh grade dance who turned into the sweet-sixteen-never-been-kissed good girl yearning to be bad. Ph.D.s were the norm in her family, yet she aspired to be comfortable on any barstool in the world.
The reason I attended the Maui Writers Conference that year was not because I’d dutifully saved my money, planned ahead, and was finally ready to put myself out there after years of hiding behind my fear of being rejected in a noble effort to publish my yet-to-be-written memoir. No, the real reason I decided to attend the conference that year was simply because I was chasing yet another ...
