I stood at the podium at center stage and surveyed the auditorium.

The balcony was empty, as were most of the first floor seats, save for my 20 or so eighth grade classmates.

“O.Henry,” I began. “Who was he?”

Dear women of the world,

I want you to know that I see you.

You sit across from me in the waiting room, or next to me in a restaurant, and tell me you could never do “that.”

I stood at the bottom of the mountain, penned in a box with 150 other participants, thinking of my typical Saturday routine. Sleep in a little, maybe meditate, then sit down with a fresh cup of coffee to write while Rooney sleeps on my feet.