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Our Books, Our Selves?

A few years ago, after giving a reading, I invited questions. My friend Bonnie raised her hand. “You’re so private,” she said. “But you write so personally! You’re so open in your book!” She smiled, her voice affectionate, and yet in her question I heard astonishment and a twinge of hurt, as though I’d confided more in the blank page than I had in her. And I had. As a child, I found in writing not so much a friendly audience – which posited the Other – as a welcome reprieve from the Other. We lived in a neighborhood of … Continue reading

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