Kevin calls his mother an artist. She pores over her Selectric -- she writes, yes, but she's not really a writer. Writers wrote novels and short stories and maybe even tv shows. Used to, anyway. There aren't so many anymore.

Kevin's mom was enrolled in the creative writing program at Iowa when she married. It was a dying program; the tides were changing, applicants were few and generally untalented.

Kevin's dad plucked her right out of Iowa and dropped her in the middle of San Fran. Right in the middle of the action. She has yet to thank him for the relocation. Which isn't to say she isn't thankful.