How Publishing is Like Your Mother — Not!
By Julie Butcher-Fedynich

When I was growing up we never knew exactly what time it was. At regular intervals, when my mother wasn’t home, my father moved the clock hands. We knew the clocks were set farther ahead than average, but the difference between real time and the clocks at the Butcher house could be anywhere from five to twenty minutes off—because my mother always ran late.

Mom never intended to arrive at her destination an hour after the party started. There was no malice involved. And yet, we were the ones tip-toing into the back row at church, and the only kids without Kentucky Fried Chicken at the family reunion.
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