From the Editor: May/June 2025

In marketing, we have a love-hate relationship with “white space.” When you have paid good money for a certain amount of real estate in a magazine, postcard, email, or social feed, the natural instinct is to squeeze all the value you can out of that space. Fill every inch with enticing information and juicy visuals. Bait, attract, capture.

But we do also love white space. In a world of endless words, the blank expanses between paragraphs and product images become sanctuaries, like designated natural areas separating deforested developments. White space allows us to breathe. Sometimes we forget that white space is not actually empty but is like white noise: the presence of something safe and simple to protect against encroaching chaos and complication.

In my line of work, it is not uncommon to be faced with clients who are convinced of the efficacy of their own poor judgment. Not only are they sure of their vision (very helpful), but they are sure of the methods to achieve it (less helpful). Some of them are even convinced that white space is a cardinal sin, despite my attempts to disabuse them of the notion. At a certain point, I will usually acquiesce and follow their brief to the letter. I call this approach “showing them their Frankensteins.” Build the monster and let them gaze upon it; experience the horror (and my professional vindication) together.

I’ve realized it is difficult to use this method on yourself. Presumably, if Dr. Frankenstein had contracted a freelancer to build his creation, he too would have cried, “Ye gods, what have I done” upon receiving an early draft and fled to rethink his plans. But when you are building your own Frankenstein, you are strung between your glorious vision and the obsessive work happening right in front of your nose. You don’t see the whole unfortunate final result until it is too late.

I have never met a mother who didn’t need rest and restoration, myself included. And yet, I continue to methodically eliminate all the white space in my life, greedily confiscating every untouched area like a tycoon desperate for more oil. I cannot breathe. The shape of my little Frankenstein becomes more and more prominent until she is all that is left where the white space used to beckon.

Literary Mama shows me my Frankenstein again and again—not cruelly or even intentionally, but by allowing me access to the kaleidoscopic moments of so many other mothers. Their weariness and love and humor and despair and joy break the spell so I can sit back and see what is in front of me. May this issue of Literary Mama guide you to rediscover the white space in your life, encourage you to protect those sanctuaries, and allow you to breathe.