At the center of my work is a desire to write about what is often termed the “unthinkable,” to mine the wells of secrets and shames that ordinary people carry and bring them to light. Unthinkable, we call the death of a child, unspeakable grief. But there are smaller things too: that first confusing fizz of desire, the functions of the female body. Ambition. Wanting kids. Wanting things you're not supposed to want: wanting them desperately. Before I can write anything, I must listen for this; un-named, un-spoken, un-thought, a kind of listening that takes many forms. Writing is not exactly an act of healing for me—it is a different art—but is something akin to it: an act of understanding.
