My first memories belong to the surreal landscape of childhood. Cushioned in tenderness, they flicker a blurred reel of mango trees, mud pies and mosquito screens. Occasionally, through the fuzz, concrete moments come into focus. For me, the first of those is the imprint of a rainy afternoon in a library.
Hi there fellow Write Lifers! Recently I contributed a piece to Elephant Journal and I’m excited to share it with you here. 👇🏻 https://www.elephantjournal.com/now/i-quit-reading-for-a-man/ I received lovely feedback from their editors: Thank you for putting yourself out there and sharing something that could be of benefit to many. This was beautifully written! The piece explores […]
I have a friend who is a psychologist. I have yet to see a person meet her and not worriedly suggest that she has been analysing them. Little do they know that this couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s not my friend who’s watching them. It’s me.