Theme Essay by Martha Nichols
My husband rolls his eyes, saying to our boy, 'Your mother is barely connected to this planet.'
My husband rolls his eyes, saying to our boy, 'Your mother is barely connected to this planet.'
Eight years, two books, and hundreds of op-ed pieces later, I no longer believe that authors must work an eight-hour day in order to be considered real writers.
It turns out that human beings—even writers—do need sleep. Authors are creative human beings, not machines.
Sitting down to write this is the longest stretch I’ve managed in two days, and it’s because I’m on a deadline.
Got my diagnosis. I’m a 'sucker for irrelevancy.'
Focus, damn it...although if no one notices, why continue writing?
With every kiss, the 15-, 21-, 28-year-old self was probably furious with me—each in his own way—for selling out.
Essential to preparing for work is getting things organized. But—first things first—I need to make my coffee.
Like Lazarus, I woke to a fresh resolution, the importance of self-preservation.