On a cold, dull Sunday in January I began studying charts, getting to get to know my patients before making rounds as part of my geriatrics fellowship in inpatient internal medicine.
The anthology, born from a themed issue of Creative Nonfiction magazine, contains 23 pieces, mostly essays, mostly smart and relatable, mostly written by bold and brave women.
The almost irresistible temptation for a writer is to rush to get it all down while the story is fresh. But there is a danger in that sense of urgency.
I realized calling myself a professional writer didn’t matter as much as I had thought, and that was actually a good thing. It knocked the pedestal out from under this career choice.
I was the kind of nine year old who proudly invited my best friend over to Dad’s place without taking into consideration that most kids my age did not have fathers like mine.
The jolt of cold left me and sleepiness returned… In the corner of the room one of the eighth graders, Vladimir, was threatening to spray a girl with a black water pistol.
My three children, whom I birthed, look nothing like me, thank goodness. I am a six footer, WASP-y, with a long face, a crooked nose, and histrionic hair…
Obsessive-compulsive disorder is sometimes described as a hiccup, or loop, in the brain. Instead of thoughts moving smoothly one to the next, a person with OCD gets stuck on a “bad,” or threatening thought…