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Give Yourself Permission

Julie sits in my office, fidgeting with her notebook. She sighs, and it’s so exaggerated we both laugh. She seems ready to talk, so I lean forward at my desk. I’m listening. “I know the story I should write,” she says, almost conspiratorially.  “It’s just not the story I want to write.”

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Your Story Is Already There

My grandmother immigrated to the U.S. from Lebanon and, for years, worked as a seamstress in a uniform factory. By the time I was born, she lived alone in the three-bedroom duplex. Imagine my surprise, then, when I discovered an entire room dedicated to frivolities: a mannequin, a collection of yardsticks, and notebooks written in a cryptic hand.

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