I don't know how old I was, but I remember distinctly coming downstairs one night, far past the time I had been sent to bed, because I couldn't sleep. She told me something so much better than counting sheep. "Make up a story," she told me. "If you can't sleep, make up a story, and then you'll be able to." It still works.
She bought me books, and took me to the library. She put my poems up on the refrigerator, and drove me to Young Authors' Conferences. When I got home from Clarion and said that I had decided to try and see if I could make it as a professional writer, she sent me notebooks and pens to help with my work. And when I sold my first short story, she sent flowers.
She has always believed in me.
Thanks, Mom. I love you.