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.