On Fear and MotherhoodMoments, Parenting

On Fear and Motherhood

When I was thirteen I applied to my first writer’s workshop. I sent a thick packet of papers in an envelope I’d lifted from my father’s office store room, where shelves lined the walls with boxes of binder clips and ink for stamps. I wrapped that tension tie tightly with string. I sent off the words and went about the business of ninth grade. What I’d written that day when I sat down at the brand-new Hewlett Packard was stupid, really. Embarrassing. Trite. The kind of adolescent poetry whose sugary sweetness causes cavities as the words are read. But buried in the third paragraph was a single point of truth. She’s afraid she hasn’t been in enough pain to write well.  …

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