All writers will tell you that it is impossible to write without reading, without being immersed in the language, wrapped up with imagery and submerged in syntax. I stumbled onto this truth out of desperation, always having been too stubborn to take advice from others. And I am so glad to have arrived here, in the reading world again.


This life, this set-up, it’s all a slapdash construction-in-progress initiated by someone who refuses to acknowledge the sharks circling her little vessel, adrift in the sea. I have made a houseboat out of a busted-up canoe and have strung up tiny fairy lights along the roof, though we can’t turn them on because the motor isn’t working by which I mean to say there was never a motor in the first place. Don’t tell the kids that it has been me back at the stern, hand-paddling us along, making engine noises with my lips. I don’t want them to panic….