How could one create life with someone who represented death?

I am thinking of the onion again. . . . Not self-righteous like the proletarian potato, nor a siren like the apple. No show-off like the banana. But a modest, self-effacing vegetable, questioning, introspective, peeling itself away, or merely radiating halos like ripples.

Keeping a journal implies hope.

Writers are doubters, compulsives, self-flagellants. The torture only stops for brief moments.

I'm very dependant. I fall apart regularly.

A book burrows into your life in a very profound way because the experience of reading is not passive.

In a world not made for women, criticism and ridicule follow us all the days of our lives. Usually they are indications that we are doing something right.