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What is this disquiet, this vague yet pervasive sense of unease of dissatisfaction, of amorphous desire? Sometimes I think I was formed to be less than happy, less than tranquil, less than satisfied unless there is drama or extremity in my life. I am so inclined to boredom it seems and to a sense ofContinue reading “Doubts”

The Monday following Thanksgiving, I had meant only to walk just to the barn and back before heading off to work, but the morning was so brisk and bright, I went on to the meadow and then beyond to the pond before turning back. I planned to gather that lovely large paper wasp’s nest IContinue reading “Like Peppermint”

It has been three grueling months since I last wrote in my journal. Those months have not been entirely without writing, but what writing I have done has been academic, a few tossed off poems that come from morning walks. When I have tried to write for myself, all that appears is stress and theContinue reading “Another Future”

Twenty years after my mother’s death, I came to understand my mother’s alcoholic volatility and abuse not as madness but as products of cultural and psychiatric forces bent on marginalizing women who resist the status quo. In my hybrid biography/memoir/cultural critique—my first non-academic book—I struggle toward truth in writing that is equal parts enraged scream,Continue reading “Madwoman and The Others”