Essays

In the middle of the library, surrounded by thousands of books, I consider only the one not written. There is no more new, no more next. My son’s beloved character…

When my older son arrived from college for a rare weekend visit home this summer, one of his first questions was, “So, Mom, are you still writing at four or…

So I decided, beginning with Gabriel’s first birthday, to build him a library of carefully selected titles. I would present it to him as a “starter library” for his bar…

Of course we’re going to read a story. She’s the school reading assistant. But instead of jumping right in, I pull the sheet to my face and block her from…

The British novelist Graham Greene called the necessary distance a writer must have from his or her material “a sliver of ice in the heart of the writer.” And I…

Aunt March deems Jo headstrong and incorrigible and unworthy of a grand tour of Europe. So be it. The other characters fade and age. Only Jo is immortal, vibrant and…

There I was – sleep-deprived, barely rational, and desperate for her advice – but Nanny wasn’t present to offer it. Staring into Nanny’s useless eyes, I shrugged, and decided to…

For the writer in me, however, the idea of a white winter spent curled up on my sofa in front of a fireplace, a mug of fresh coffee by my…

One day, a few years ago, when Sol was five, he sat down in front of the TV and instead of requesting an episode of Public Television’s Cyberchase he asked…

Mama told me secrets: that she believed in God, that I was Jewish, and that I should be proud of a thing like that. That someplace on the other side…

When I was a twelve years old, I found my grandmother sobbing in her bedroom. It scared me — she was a woman of exquisite restraint and composure — and…