I have always had a challenging time writing about myself -- mainly because I see my acts and choices not in any kind of segmented, chopping block form, but in some kind of arc, nebulous, one set of circumstances melding into the other, all somewhat meaningless except for the relevance that time ultimately provides.

I began as a travel writer in New York. I worked quite a lot, and always had a suitcase under my bed, always ready to GO. My professional life thrived, my married life soured. He wanted me to be home more, I wanted to be home less, but not homeless. We divorced, and I moved home to California.

Within the course of one memorable year, l got pregnant, married again, and ended up in the White Mountains of Northeastern Arizona. Where is my New York Times?

It was a cultural, physical and psychological challenge all in one: Being an only child, I knew nothing of parenting, living in a supremely isolated environment, among Mormons and White Mountain Apaches.

Five years pass, two children, marriage still intact, we move from the backwaters of northeastern Arizona to the backwaters of Nova Scotia. Well, not a backwater, exactly, but my New York Times was still unavailable.

During these times I didn't write anything, though I had sworn sometime, someday I would write a sort of "Testament of Youth" kind of memoir, as we were living close to the White Mountain Apache reservation in the pre-gaming era, then moved to the fishwife culture of Hebron, Nova Scotia. Here, the definition of wealth was being able to give your child a peanut butter sandwich to take to school, and the sign of poverty was giving your child a lobster sandwich, lobster being so plentiful, so common.

Though I never wrote about it, I defiantly wrangled with the meaning of minority within a minority, again. I was, as usual, a "strong-ankled sunburned daughter of California" (the poet Kenneth Rexroth's phrase), this time, not among the Apaches and the Mormons, but now with French Acadians and United Empire Loyalists.

Five years later we return to the United States. Tucson, Arizona. I go to graduate school, get an advanced degree in psychology, and realize, after a few years of being a psychotherapist, that I really don't like the job. Too much stress, and I can't shut the door on my clients problems at 5:00, and go workout, like most of my male colleagues can. After a set of unusual circumstances, I return to a profession I know well: real estate.

I say return because both my parents were realtors. I soon became one too. It's a short road from here to becoming a real estate writer, and eventually publisher of the Tucson/Southern Arizona edition of Broker*Agent Magazine. Of course, acting as Publisher and an Editor-In-Chief of a magazine, made me feel like a schizophrenic without being mentally ill, as writing cover stories while selling ads was a very complicated matter. It is like being good in Math and in English. Those folks (not me) have more hemispheric complimentarily than specificity.

Eventually, I left Broker*Agent and became a nationally known real estate writer, ending up writing about luxury lifestyle topics.

Along this bumpy road, I realize I have always been a writer, but I have issues about writing personal things. I am improving daily, without falling into the pitfalls of extreme stylistic narcissism,that abounds with overblown, highly descriptive, flatulent, hyphen-driving blather I see in many publications. I don't use "I" very much, as I see far more interesting things in the world than myself. My importantly, I want my "I" to describe what's there, so that my vision through my writing, will define who I am, at this particular juncture.

Right now, I am blessed by having a good life, hard-earned. I write a lot, I am still married, though no suitcase is under my bed now --just dust motes. I have good children who are good companions, and a plethora of serious, intelligent colleagues and friends. It has taken a long time getting here, with both my personal and professional life in balance.

I know now that being here has made getting here well worth it.