:: “Can I shut the door?” asks the pencil. “Sure,” I say. I don’t want anyone to see me here in this place, so shutting the door is a good idea. Then I repeat what I said in the lobby. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. Really. This is a waste of time.”
:: There are, indeed, expected ways of communicating with editors of public venues that you can’t possibly know unless someone tells you—or you learn the hard way by making mistakes. You would probably prefer to avoid making those mistakes.
:: This used to be an essay about grief, and anxiety disorder, and how we react when the whirl of events overwhelms us. Now it is also an essay about death and loss.
:: As we return to teaching this fall and the pandemic rages on, I want to share three things I’ve learned about teaching with empathy during Covid.
:: I’m so tired of television shows and movies that can’t imagine women outside of basic tropes. That can’t imagine female friendships. That can’t imagine female experiences—including female pain—outside of a few certain experiences. There is so much life that women experience but we rarely see it on screen because women aren’t in writer’s rooms or behind the camera.
:: You can choose to write nothing about your kids, which is a fine choice, or you can write about your kids with utter kindness, respect, and gratitude. And even then, you must be careful.
:: Part of changing the world means that my kids do not have to yield their privacy for other people’s comfort.
:: Depression, too, can be a symptom of a concussion, but I don’t think that’s what this is, this wily creature slipping in through the cracks that have opened in me, cracks created by loneliness and boredom, by pain and inertia.
:: I decided to get tested for my children. Autism Spectrum Disorder is another flower in my bouquet of diagnoses.