I see you, teenage child. With your swagger and secrets. Sticking your flag in new territories. Of course, I’m boring. Show me a mother who isn’t. It’s our gift. To you. A life solidified – a crash mat made of person. Ready for your ungrateful bounce.
Here’s another writing exercise, you might like. It came from the week we looked at The Panopticon by Jenni Fagan. I’m fairly sure proper literary types are supposed to study the book and its inhabitants from a dispassionate point of view. However, I just loved Anais, the tragic kid at the heart of the story. […]