2008. I’m 40. I write a short story about my search for my birth mother, how in 1998, after searching for six years — after a social worker said it was impossible— I found her but she was already dead. I write about how finding answers soothed my soul at the same time grief shattered it. I show it to a friend, a screenwriter and former New York Times journalist who says, “holy shit, you’re a writer.” It is the first time I’ve shown someone my writing. He suggests I turn it into a screenplay, ...
