Always, I’ve depended on books to make sense of the world for me. I was the shy kid buried in a novel by the window while others played outside. The kid that got in trouble for holding a book just so under the table—one more chapter to go—at dinner time. I read by the light of street lamps long into the night, so that the geographies of what I’d read and what I dreamt…
Writer | English PhD | Reflecting on writing, motherhood, contemporary reads, and undocumented stories