Be a reader. Every writer starts out that way. Chances are, you fell in love with books before you even knew what to call them. Our parents and caregivers and teachers read to us, and we were transported. My father read us The Watchbirds until tears of mirth poured down his face. Mom read Old Yeller to us aloud, and she changed the ending so the kids wouldn’t be up all night crying. My grandmother read Enid Blyton and Judith Viorst in her comfy chair while we sucked on wintergreen-flavored pink pillow mints. …
Where were you when Fiona Hill testified? Years from now, when this chapter is written in the history books, a lot of us will remember.
And by a lot of us, I mean my generation.
We are the women who came of age at the same time Dr. Hill and Ambassador Marie Yovanovitch did. We’re the women who were raised by stay-at-home moms, who navigated our education and career paths without maps, who made our own way in a world that wasn’t always friendly to our aspirations, a world that was structured to keep us in our place.