Every week I spend hours tilling this column, laboring over every word, making changes right up to the very second I submit. In the past three years, sentence structure, the danger of the repeated word, and the value of a good punch line are always on my mind.
     I've purchased helpful reference materials: a dictionary, synonym finder, and books that tell me how to punctuate anything. My husband has been recruited to listen patiently to the first draft, giving me a thumbs up (or down) on the idea. A roll of his eyes means I've really missed the mark.
     But the person who gives my commentary a final look before I send it on to the newspaper is my friend, Angie. Just as I couldn't go to sleep until my mother had pin-curled my hair, I can't put my column to bed until Angie says, "Looks good." It's not that the editor of the paper wouldn't catch my gaffes or ask what the heck I'm thinking, but he doesn't know me like she does.
     Angie calls herself a farm woman. While it's true she lives in the boonies on the other side of nowhere with animals and a ranch-style house, that is where her description of herself and reality end. She is more a master of words than any master's candidate for a fine arts degree.
     Angie can't figure out how I come up with something to write about every week. I don't know how she puts up with my weekly pestering. "Does this make sense?" I'll ask her via email. "Am I preaching?"
     We met in a writing class four years ago. For six Wednesday afternoons, from one to three, we sat across the room from each other. When it was Angie's turn to read her work, her stories left us breathless. Stomach-punched. She wrote about her mother sending her outside to find a switch for her own spanking. An older brother's reaction to his wife's suicide. She was in a league of her own from the get-go.
     On the last day of class, I sent a piece of paper around the room asking if anyone would be interested in starting a writing group. Angie signed up. Luckily, I wasn't smitten by her talent. On the contrary. I was smart enough to know I could learn from her.
     Our group of seven writers met every Wednesday for three years. Angie was the first to be published. Without a college degree and an employment history that includes owning a gun shop, her writing belies her résumé. My, can she till the sadness of her life! A father's passing; a mother out of tune with her daughter's needs—everything becomes fodder for her art.
     Angie wouldn't tell you this, but she's edited two books and has twice won the annual Carol Bly award sponsored by Bemidji State College. Even with other honors and many publishing credits, she continues to study. Iowa, Taos, Duluth, she'll step into a classroom anywhere.
     Angie's quiet and thoughtful, but her writing shouts out loud and grabs you by the throat. Something I'm sure she'd like to do to me every time I request, "Take one quick look at my column, please." But she's also kind. And what I've learned is that there is nothing like kindness to foster a writer's soul.