One story
Beginnings are never quite as satisfying as middles as too much depends on them. And endings are too sad — even when they’re a relief. So, the beginning.
I read today about how the editors of a literary encyclopedia were moaning because women’s entries were too domestic. Persephone Books (www.persephonebooks.co.uk) joined in the fray to point out that Virginia Woolf had exhorted women to write all their stories — no matter how banal or trivial they might seem. To write all stories.
And so here is one story. My story. The story of a mother — too young to be old and too old to be young. Struggling to be a good mother and struggling not to run away screaming, to do the lambada in a short red dress with an unsuitable man. Too much to do to ever find time to write and too much to write not to find time for it.
