The process of writing a book, regardless of genre, is hard. Very. My words are my creativity and, as a result, feel personal. Criticism in any form requires a digging into my inner strength and an emotional bracing.

As if becoming a parent for the first time isn’t terrifying enough, we have to sift through too many “dos” and “don’ts” about child rearing, through the fuzzy vision of uncertainty and very often under a cloud of raging hormones and sleep deprivation.

I remember when my oldest son fell for the first time, bruising his head. I remember it well because it was my first gut-wrenching, hyperventilation-inducing moment of realization that I couldn’t always protect him from harm.

At 67, I don’t feel old, but surveys and forms I fill out tell me otherwise. According to the vast majority, I fall in the last age bracket.

A pelican came to my beach. I watched with both interest and amusement as it swooped down time and time again trying to catch a fish.

When I was about 12, my best friend and I memorized every word of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sound of Silence.”

Many have tried but not succeeded in understanding emotional intelligence and more specifically, how we can raise it in our kids.