:: “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.”
:: 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.
:: Even the most well-meaning listener can’t help but feel, in some small way, that if the victim had just made a better choice along the way, the whole messy rape thing could have been avoided.
:: A few thoughts about what it means to work as a writer and in publishing, and to speak out as a woman, and to come from a family that has some money or a family with none, and to have good intentions and to fail to communicate those intentions, and the consequences of that.
:: CW. Because even with all of the essays on sexual assault that I’ve written and published over the years, there’s still one story that I haven’t told. But with Epstein’s ugly face everywhere, I need to tell it, now.
:: How on earth am I supposed to get anything done when I not only have to do the thing but also prove that I have the right to do the thing in the first place?