I have accused myself of having early-onset Alzheimer’s. Maybe I do, but the more likely culprit is depression.
“Me too.” I don’t want to say it because if we have to say it, it means nobody was f*cking paying attention.
My husband paces in front of me, a little out of breath, a little flustered, a little hurried. He’s speaking faster than usual, running his words together as…
Remember how, when you were a kid, grownups seemed like they had life completely figured out? My mom in particular—she came off like an adulthood ninja. She was…
I don’t know her name, but that’s okay, I don’t really want to know it. I don’t have any right to know it. I want to protect her privacy, as…
You’ve probably heard the analogy that writing a novel is like birthing a baby. You might have also heard indignant mothers–or even writers who are also mothers–screech with…
