Excerpts

Sometimes a signature is the hardest thing to give.

I was holding the pen and staring at the paper before me. And my grip became tighter the more I tried not to cry.

Simultaneously wondering how long it would before someone asked what I was doing, I began to think of all the times I had signed my name when it meant nothing.

Born the only child of an only child, I was spoiled by my grandparents. I had an incredible bedroom suit when I was a kid--complete with the princess-canopy bed. Included was a tall desk with many compartments. I loved to hide diaries and doodles in all the nooks, among sheets of MASH games played to determine my future.

I should tell you now that I did not end up in a Boca Raton apartment with Jordan Knight and three children.

But there's still a lot of game left.

I signed all those diary entries, full of fears and dreams that could only be experienced during the innocence and idealism of having single-digit birthdays, like my name meant something. I never added any hearts or stars around it, or pretty swirls from an elongated "Y." It was always very serious, as though Anne Frank had penned it.

When I grew older, I was happy to have my name become a byline. I was proud to sign it on my first paycheck, college applications and apartment leases. Just as I grew, my signature grew with me, and it's weight became greater too.

It's easy to forget during this electronic age, but there are still many places where a pen and paper can change lives. Birth certificates, wills, mortgage titles, marriage licenses.

I was actually sad the first time I saw my married name. I never felt like sharing his name was the same as sharing his heart. And I felt like it was a silent disassociation from everything I had ever written--words that spoke for me when I did not.

But there are actually as many people who still call me Candy Gola as they do Mrs. Woodall. And they are all people I've met through writing.

Names are a big deal to writers. For some of us, it's the beginning of a character or story. It's the slug on an article. It's what people remember long after they've forgotten us.

That's why I had such difficulty signing my name that morning. I knew that, just as I was writing my name, I was writing someone off. I was changing lives, histories, futures with a signature.

So I signed it like Candy Woodall and then walked to The Point like Candy Gola.