ECHO (from Women Under Scrutiny)
by Lauren J. Sharkey It started small—having to catch my breath after going up the stairs, needing to recline my car seat back an inch…going up a size. “You
by Lauren J. Sharkey It started small—having to catch my breath after going up the stairs, needing to recline my car seat back an inch…going up a size. “You
By Stephanie English I stopped believing in God when I was stick-thin, and have been tempted to reconsider since ballooning to twice my size. The God I hear about
I grew up with the idea that the size of my body was the most important thing in the world—and that my body was always too large. When I
What to expect when you’re expecting your book? What’s going to happen first, and second, and third? Pre-launch of my debut novel, the breadth of information I had to learn
I can’t imagine I am the first person to come up with the above title, but I can think of no other way to express my admiration for this book.
“If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere.” I sing those words to newly-purchased plants I drive them home. My garden, rather than a zone of tender nurturance
Four years ago, at an event at the incredibly wonderful Reading Public Library (in Reading Massachusetts) one of the librarians bought my second novel book, The Comfort of Lies, for her
Roman à clef is a form of fiction I’ve always enjoyed reading, from Primary Colors to The Devil Wears Prada). Encyclopaedia Britannica defines roman à clef like this: (French:
Whatâs the word for impotent worry activated by reading the morning paper? When your mind swirls with horror at peopleâs pain and you think of how you can effect, perhaps,
Between pretending to be perfect mothers (and fathers) the reality of flawed (real) moms lay murky truth: We always love our children; we don’t always love being mothers. We’re
The first time I read in public, (a Grub Street open mike event at the now-defunct Johnny D’s in Somerville, Massachusetts) I flopped. I failed. I sucked. Years later (no more
Re-reading . . . how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love the guaranteed happiness (how often does one get that?); I love meeting old friends
Could it be possible that our lust for the bad boys—a hunger which begets dreams that bear nightmares—begins the night we aim our reading flashlights on Rhett Butler and his
About a million years ago I read (a now out of date) mystery, Gastronomic Murder, by Alexandra Roudybush (look for this book. I got a second-hand copy recently. Try the
Stories of survival fill me with shivery delight. I rarely meet a story of man/woman/elements that doesnât keep me up till all hoursâitâs no doubt one of my favorite sub-genres.
 âDonât forget; Jewish people read an enormous amount,â my lovely (and Jewish) literary agent said before my book launch. âWe really love books.â I nodded. Yes, I knew thatâat least
When Bernie Madoff’s crimes came to light, Ruth Madoff caught the rage right along side him. With no evidence, she was thrown on a virtual pyre—charged guilty by association and
Money. It’s our last taboo. People spill seamy details about their sex lives before talking about their finances, salary, or savings accounts. And yet, despite this curtain of silence, money
 Book launch day shoots towards me like an asteroid. Three weeks. Not ready. Almost-final drafts of essays surround me. Fear, sleeplessness, and worry consume me. I won’t get reviewed.
I write novels. Stories. I’m not a journalist.I work at separating my writing life and political views. But, having grown up with stories of the Holocaust, with family who left
A few years ago, when speaking with a reporter about my then-just-released novel, Accidents of Marriage, she mentioned how surprised she was by her negative reactions to the main character—how the
Death is the last frontier in so many ways. In my circles, even friends who talk about sex, politics, and that most forbidden of topics, paychecks, rarely talk about the
My dear friend, Robin Black, made the wise suggestion of having an election night dinner that was a tribute to immigrants. There are few few among us in America
Not to get all Freudian, but last night I woke gasping for breath (repeatedly), paralyzed with fear, riding waves of Donald Trump smothering me. The nightmare stapled me to