Throughout my life, I have struggled to find my voice . Not my talking voice. I found that right out of the womb. Just ask my mother. The voice I’m referring to is that mystical creature artist’s talk about when they are trying to discover what distinguishes them from the crowd. No one really knows what it means or how it can be found, but I have not found mine yet. Maybe it’s hiding under the bed. The volumes of journals and notebooks I have filled over the years are bursting with words that were obviously written by someone with multiple personality disorder. Maybe that is just who I am, a girl with many voices . One minute I write about a first memory when my father was in the habit of trying to perfect lemon meringue pie. He would whip up meringue, and then cover my face with the soft peaks, creating a Santa-like beard on a tiny, almost in-the-buff three year old. I love that memory as much as I love lemon meringue pie. The next minute, I write about how unpleasa...