How many people have I written about in a spat of scorched earth? How many memories have I molded, twisted, and tossed into a work barely disguised to fit my narrative? Could I risk that, with my spouse, now, our little life together, my healing so important to me?
Read MoreI thought if I could just pull up these weeds my garden would be perfect. My garden is a patio courtyard, a circle of tiles holding a glass-top table, framed with a square of flagstones, and between the cracks there are ants, woodlice, the occasional worm, and weeds.
Read More
