Cheryl Strayed writes about being embarrassed by her mother’s favorite book, The Novel, in her book, Wild. She later realizes the error in her thinking and becomes ashamed of her own thoughts, that her reading choices are superior. That scene stood out for me as …
Now the daughters have fled to their own faraway lives but their shadows hover. They fall onto the page like old friends, like familiar demons. They carry different weight. They inhabit and pack up quickly. Their lives force a raw edge to my work.
Kathye Fetsko Petrie
I believe a writer is someone who can’t not write. She may stop writing for a while, either voluntarily or involuntarily, but she will always have to return to it, in the same way she could hold her breath, but eventually would have to breathe
April is a month to celebrate poetry—not just the nursery rhymes that we recite for our toddlers, nor the poems that older children bring home from school to memorize.
I am terrifically proud of my little reader. Other, unexpected feelings are at play, however. Becoming a mother has introduced—and reintroduced—a range of emotions which often leave me befuddled.
When my daughter asked through the computer screen if she was pretty, I heard the response in my head, Why do you want to be pretty? I was asking the beginning of the same questions Shakespeare, Ford, and Mantel were asking. Woman, are you having sex? And with whom?
Our reading lists at Literary Mama have often featured biographies, autobiographies, memoirs, and fictionalized lives of real women. This month, we focus exclusively on that literary category.
For now, we remain a collective hodgepodge of mother writers meeting late at night, or sometimes early in the morning. Stealing hours, sometimes under covers, sometimes in our basements, in the writing spaces we’ve fashioned out of crates, or laundry tables, or closets. We come because we are called to the page, because we need to share our stories. But now we call each other.
I have always been an ambitious person—excelling at school, succeeding at my career—but raising children did not provide the feeling of achievement that came with reaching other goals. Childrearing felt natural, a basic part of life that everyone in the world should be able to handle. But writing felt like a different skill, a talent.
We publish essays with an intellectual, as well as personal, focus and that explore the topics of writing as a mother, reading as a mother, and working as a professional. Have you written such a piece? Read more about submitting your work here.
Literary Reflections Archives