My daughter just turned sixteen months old and I’ve left her at home and I’m in a library typing this:
I’m almost 39 and there is a thirty-inch tall drooling human with ten sharp teeth hanging onto my legs and
I became a writer at six, toiling away on stories in my bedroom, an only child with time on her hands. Thirty-odd years later I mother an only child, conjured from wishes, dreams, cells. I’m a writer and for the first time in my life I’m writing more than I’ve ever written.
In this month’s Literary Reflections essay, Minutes Are Just Seconds Aren’t Minutes, Wendy C. Ortiz writes an arresting account of the impact of motherhood on her writing time. She writes: “Minutes: they fly or stay still, fly or stay still, …
This reading list is, in its modest way celebrating National Poetry Month — not with poetry, but with titles that bring a uniquely penetrating voice to a difficult, unusual or even utterly mundane subject.