Robert Louis Stevenson and Ralph Waldo Emerson and the New York Stock Exchange all define “success” differently. I’ve been asked to write about my answer from the perspective of the writer that I have become. That last statement is part of my answer—I now refer to myself as a “Writer.” It took decades for that aspect of who I am to bubble to the surface. Even as a person who wielded the pen in powerful ways throughout my adult years (e.g., a well-worded letter about bad customer service led to free brunch for four at a fancy restaurant, another letter led to a free night at a resort…you get the picture), even as I put words in the mouths of others by writing speeches and letters I never signed, it took a magical spark to push me toward where I’m at today. What began seven years ago as a fervent desire to match words to my thoughts, to say what I wanted to say to the person I wanted to say it to, led to…a book. When my fingers started slamming into my laptop keys, little did I know a New York City agent would be interested in the text that flowed from my fingertips. Nor did I envision that my little book would garner an international award. I was lucky. I received support and the courage to move forward. And here I am, years after the first pounding out of my ponderings, and I have a second book in the works. A very different book than the first, with words that are just as necessary to share. But here’s the thing—and there’s no getting around it—I do not feel like a success. Partly because...