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It's a bit of dilemma when you're writing a book about parenting: how will my kids (and my parenting) be judged when I'm out in public?  Will they appear competent and compassionate as the book subtitle indicates?  Should I bring them on my book tour with me?

I brought a typewriter to college my freshman year.  It wasn't just the times.  I was probably one of the last college students to let go of the writing tool I felt comfortable with.  When I turned in my first paper, my professor wrote a clear, direct note at the bottom: "Next time you will use a computer."

I've been busy blogging every day -- on other people's sites!  This is the new world of book promotion.  So instead of typing out yet another blog, I'm going to share with you two recent blog posts.  One from the west coast: Jennifer Margulis's Sticking My Neck Out (which got a whopping 50+ comments!) and one from the east coast: an op-ed piece about gun play in the Huffington Post.

The other day a 20-year-old dropped by for a visit.  This was not just anybody, but an adored babysitter who used to play with the kids close to daily before she went off to college.  But though we were thrilled to see her, there was something different.

I've been away for two weeks.  Not far.  Only about 15 minutes from home, but a world away at a lake cottage filled with cousins and grandparents.  On the lake there's a canoe, rowboat and five loons.

This week I was asked to write an article on how to "entertain" kids during the summer.  It's supposed to be tips for parents so having the kids home all summer doesn't drive you crazy.  The thing is, I don't really believe in entertaining kids.

My first books were stapled together with wallpaper covers.  I still have them.  Each day in elementary school we'd draw a new picture on the top half of the sheet and scrawl the next installment of the story on the lines beneath.

The next Starlighting author to be featured hails from Milwaukee -- Jeanette Hurt.  I met Jeanette at the Madison Writer's Institute standing in the hotel hallway with her two-year-old son, Quinn.  I've brought a toddler to a conference before and I know it's not easy (luckily Grandma was in the hall, too).

It always makes me marvel when novelists write, complete and publish novels at an early age.  Take the Bronte sisters, for instance.  Emily died of tuberculosis at age 30 after writing Wuthering Heights.   Anne died at 29 of the same disease.  Charlotte (Jane Eyre) lived longest, but still died young at 39.

I used to wonder why I couldn't write fiction in the evenings.  I had free time, the house was peaceful, the kids were in bed.  For years I berated myself: I call myself a writer and yet I'm not using the evening to write.  Why not?