The territory between who I was meant to become and who I find myself being, which are not the same thing at all, though I spent years pretending they might converge if I just tried harder.
I write on arrival and its violence—for there is violence in finally getting somewhere and discovering it isn't where you meant to go. On the exhaustion of keeping up appearances, even to yourself. On the body, which keeps telling truths the mind would prefer to defer. On living at the age where postponement is no longer possible and resignation not yet bearable.
TBR Pile: 59+ booksCurrently closed to new books until I’ve cleared the wreckage of this pile.
If you’re part of the literary ecosystem—an author, a publisher, or someone who keeps a bookstore’s heart beating—I’d love to work with you. Reach out.
The designated devil's crime was not cruelty or failure or rebellion. It was witnessing. She was in the room. She remembers what was said. She noticed the distance between the family's narrative and the family's actions, and she made the error of not forgetting. She holds the archive the family needs destroyed.
