a mother writes again

on a shift in the writing life, a place to park your rear, and an offer to read your work

At the end of every summer, I try to tap myself on the head and say it out loud so I’ll remember it for next summer (when I’ll no doubt find myself, again, in the delusional stage of a new season): tap. tap. tap. Listen, self, you usually try, but then you don’t get any writing done during the summer months when the kids are home. You are busy trying to…

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