How I Became a Writer

Even when my mother was an old lady we fought like dogs. I recall a few times screaming at one another in restaurants. It was embarrassing. Stella knew how to tear me open. We argued about my wife, my children. Sometimes the subject was my writing. If a story or essay of mine appeared in The New York Times Magazine, she might say it was OK, but her pained expression told another story; she didn't consider it the best work that I could do. Then after a pregnant pause she'd lecture that a true...