For the first time in my life, I was not looking outside of myself for validation. I wasn’t troubled by anyone else’s opinion about who I was, or what I did. I was completely relaxed, alone, in a room, writing. I felt settled and confident.
Christie O. Tate
It took months of distance to give myself permission to shape the experience into words. To own the right to my story—the story of my ordinary heart, scarred from decades-old social and meteorological traumas, navigating a hate storm I never saw coming that hit before I could assume the tornado drill position.
Although there is no singular defining reason why one experiences writing as meaningful or fulfilling, it surely grants us the unique chance to pry ourselves open on the page, bleed profusely, and miraculously heal our wounds by introducing our readers to our innermost thoughts and emotions.
T. Pearl Joynz
I cannot imagine what would have become of me or my story if I were not able to capture it in writing. My children and children’s children will be able to dissect the story I have left behind.
Toby sometimes seems like an interruption, a reminder that I never can go back to who I’ve been before, making me fear that I’ll never finish these stories based on the life I once had. But in his tiny body, in his activity and energy and passion, I’m reminded of my brother.
Jackson’s demons were clearly bigger and more terrifying than the conventional ones of balancing writing and childrearing. Yet she managed to give space and import to those smaller moments of ennui and absurdity that many of us experience while raising children.
But over the last year or so, no matter how engaging the book, I could never get through more than two or three pages before he’d decide that was enough.
I had driving questions: How much caregiving can any one woman do without breaking down? Why do women seem so often to be the caregivers? What becomes of us when we are too ill to work?
Susannah Q. Pratt
Just when I think I have all my essays dressed and ready, I’ll discover that one isn’t actually ready at all—and another is wandering off.
Cindy Adelman Frank
For me I realized, Jolabokaflod was an extension of a language I had been speaking with both passion and conviction my whole life. Jolabokaflod is about speaking book.
But that morning, I felt something sweeter than being needed. My little girl was taking wing and exploring her way through a world of images and words, independent of me.
Literary Reflections Archives