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I often wonder why I write–whether it is out of necessity or convenience. If it is the former, then I would be left with no choice but to write as if my life were dependent upon it. The latter implies that I may one day abandon the practice altogether when it no longer suits…
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I was writing a piece recently about how I need to be alone to become myself again. I wrote about how most interactions require a degree of effort that solitude relieves, and how I cannot find a way to most honestly convey myself outside of my head. These thoughts, along with the compounding memory…
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I see two lives: one where I have children and one where I do not. In both lives, I wonder what the other would have been like. If I do have children, I wonder if I will be capable of forming a closer bond with them than I have with my parents. I wonder…
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Who am I if not a girl in pursuit of escape? Many times it is fantasy, but I once managed to pull it off. It was a cool, Parisian summer night, and I was twenty-two years old. We had just come from dinner and a tantalizing cabaret show. French women exposing their breasts while…
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I know the world is going on outside and I am supposed to be a part of it, but I just don’t feel like it today. A storm is brewing and the trees have come alive, and there have been too many expectations placed upon me. Surely I can let one day go by…
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I remember cool summers in Michigan where the grass touched my knees. Two story houses lined the streets and family was everywhere. Children ran around outside above ground pools with their shirts off, cousins having water balloon fights and climbing trees. Building forts inside and staying up late to watch DVDs in our grandparents’…
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I am afraid that I will never know myself beyond the girl who was bred to be palatable. I am afraid that I have been too agreeable, too eager to assuage the insecurities of men by biting my tongue. I am afraid that this lack of courage is somehow evidence that I will not…