Finding myself in a great book has been my primary source of comfort since the moment I learned how to read. Now, I can hardly tolerate the books that line my shelves.
My literary realm is best described as “women in states of transition.” A truer description would be “women in crisis.” Women trying to figure themselves out — how their upbringings fucked them up, how their marriages and children fucked them up, how the cost of living has replaced the idea of artistic fulfillment with power grabs and ambition. It’s all lost women, all the way down.
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