Being born with a love for stories and storytelling is both a gift and a curse. I talked early, hanging on every word, especially if the subject seemed intense, secretive, or perplexing.

I stayed in trouble through my childhood for repeating word for word a story I wasn’t necessarily supposed to have been privy to.

My superior language skills, and commanding demeanor ensured that the tales went to the worst possible person, like my first-grade teacher, Miss Davis, “My mama said she wouldn’t take her sick dog to Dr. Davis.”

My little speech didn’t endear either me or my mother to Miss Davis. I felt she was quite rude at her retort. “Well! You can just tell your mama my daddy is a fine doctor!”

Returning home with the whole story, I was surprised to find my report to Miss Davis hadn’t won me any points with Mother, either.

My…