What does it mean when a female writer cannot share and describe what could very likely have been one of the most transformative experiences of her life?
Maria Odessky Rosen
A writer needs a writing nook. A space that is the perfect combination of inspiration and (dis)comfort. My nook started out in a perfectly nook-appropriate place in our home: the little study by the front door.
Arthur said, “You shouldn’t use that word.” I had had no idea that he was looking over my shoulder at the computer screen. I confronted the word “ass” plainly in front of us. I was kind of relieved. There were worse things going on in that story, much worse things that he could pick up on.
Moving away from writing had been part of growing up for me. I had established a fulfilling yet practical career and worked as hard and as fast and as much as I could until I looked up and hardly recognized myself.
I was engaging in a tradition perhaps hundreds of thousands of years old—transmitting moral and cultural wisdom to the next generation through spontaneous storytelling.
Our kids always had far too many books—I am not at all ashamed to admit it. That’s why it seems so strange that I only brought ten of the children’s books with us when we moved out.
I have no doubt that the book is the thing that cured me, that pushed me out of depression. It wasn’t sleeping again or the antidepressants; it was a collection of short stories.
A part of me was pleased to have my manifesto endorsed by a psychiatrist.
I know that when my baby is sleeping for ten minutes or two hours and I can steal a few moments away, I can sit down and do what I’ve been taught to do.
Cottontail’s mothering work has transformed her into the ideal candidate for her dream job, not the kind of mush-brained, overtired, and unconfident person that I felt I’d become after a few years of nearly full-time mothering.
Driving my kids home from school one day, I told them about the writing challenge.
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