In Her Bottled Up Is A Woman

Writing Is A Futile Attempt To Preserve What Disappears Moment By Moment. All That Remains Of My Mother Is What I Remember And What I Have Written For And About Her. Eventually That Is All That Will Remain Of [my Husband] And Me. Writing Sometimes Feels Frivolous And Sometimes Sacred, But Memory Is One Of My Strongest Muses. I Serve Her With My Words. So Long As People Read, Those We Love Survive However Evanescently. As Do We Writers, Saying With Our Life's Work, Remember. Remember Us. Remember Me.

Grandmother Hannah Comes To Me At Pesach And When I Am Lighting The Sabbath Candles. The Sweet Wine In The Cup Has Her Breath.... A Little Winter No Spring Can Melt.

The People I Love The Best, Jump Into Work Head First Without Dallying In The Shallows.

If Sex Is A War, I Am A Conscientious Objector: I Will Not Play.

Suppose That A Person Writes What She Must. That Is Only The First Step Of Becoming A Writer. The Work Must Survive The Moment Of Creation. It Must Get Out To An Audience. She Or He Must Dare To Show The Work. She Must Risk Ridicule, Misunderstanding, Scandal, Condemnation, & What's Often Worse, None Of The Above: Silence. No Attention At All.