I played with the first line, “Everyone hates a fat woman,” for a decade (and published four other novels) before writing Waisted. The scale-obsessed women screamed in my head, but I kept the words locked away. Because writing it meant facing myself. Writ honest, the novel would have to include tales of self-loathing, food needs so intense … Read more
Unless it’s in service to a story, I avoid deep thought. But avoidance only stretches so far; when it became time to write a think piece on why I wrote that particular book (hiding inside a marriage, traumatic brain injuries, coma, emotional abuse, rageful words—stop me!), the murky connective tissues of linking why I write any novel, in particular, confronted … Read more
My sister and I didn’t grow up rife with traditions. On Halloween we wore old shirts to represent that we were hobos or beatniks, depending on our mood. When we hung our socks on Christmas Eve, seeing them flat and unfilled the next morning reminded us that Santa didn’t stop for little Jewish girls—but there … Read more
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 mother. For Mother’s Day. Using a large amount of not-usually-available-to-me control, I didn’t say any of the following: “Nothing says Happy Mother’s Day like a … Read more
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 M&M’s, our shells of goodness covering malleable centers of insecurity, always seeking evidence we’re not alone. Great books of being raised by evil parents abound; … Read more