Literary Reflections

I tried to push away the grief. Avoid thinking about it. I feared writing about my loss and heartbreak would unlock a sadness I couldn’t manage. Writing it down would make it permanent. 

Her back leg rises and knocks the second one off anytime it comes close to her udder. This skinny lamb cries like a human baby, and I am reminded of my own daughters’ strong bleat.

I thought I needed to travel someplace exotic and have a profound, life-changing experience in order to have something worth writing about. But I did not have the money—or the bravery—to travel around the world.

I lift the story up, wobbly and unsteady onto a new page. I search for its strength. Through revision, the narrative becomes clear.

Once, I thought that becoming a mom meant forgetting the writer. Now, I see that she never left. She’s always been there, surrounded by stories, waiting for me to find her.

She needs someone to walk through this mysterious place with her, to get down into the dirt, inside the twisted branches, and help her uncover life.

Being a writing mother has been beneficial for me in that staying connected to my creative side and keeping it active makes me feel fulfilled, thereby making me a better mother.

I had to write in order to understand the kind of mother I wanted to be.

The grandmother figure as little old lady tends to be how we are represented in children’s literature today.

My children need me to reach for the moon. They’ll never know how to do it themselves if they don’t see me try.

After years of love and care, I have no choice but to release this book.