Rowling, her name, before her remarriage, was Joanne Rowling. Anticipating that the target audience of young boys might not want to read a book written by a woman, her publishers asked that she use two initials rather than her full name. As she had no middle name, she chose K for Kathleen as the second initial of her pen name, from her paternal grandmother.
There was the first, flip decision to do it, followed Author of her book the second, more serious decision to actually do it, and then the long third beginning, composed of weeks of shopping and packing and preparing to do it.
There was the driving across the country from Minneapolis to Portland, Oregon, and, a few days later, catching a flight to Los Angeles and a ride to the town of Mojave and another ride to the place where the PCT crossed a highway.
At which point, at long last, there was the actual doing it, quickly followed by the grim realization of what it meant to do it, followed by the decision to quit doing it because doing it was absurd and pointless and ridiculously difficult and far more than I expected doing it would be and I was profoundly unprepared to do it.
And then there was the real live truly doing it. The staying and doing it, in spite of everything. In spite of the bears and the rattlesnakes and the scat of the mountain lions I never saw; the blisters and scabs and scrapes and lacerations. The exhaustion and the deprivation; the cold and the heat; the monotony and the pain; the thirst and the hunger; the glory and the ghosts that haunted me as I hikedbeleven hundred miles from the Mojave Desert to the state of Washington by myself.
I was wearing green. Green pants, green shirt, green bow in my hair. Some of them were just what I dreamed of having, others less so. All that day of the green pantsuit, as I accompanied my mother and stepfather, Eddie, from floor to floor of the Mayo Clinic while my mother went from one test to another, a prayer marched through my head, though prayer is not the right word to describe that march.
My prayer was not: Please, God, take mercy on us. I was not going to ask for mercy. My mother was forty-five. My siblings and I had been made to swallow raw cloves of garlic when we had colds.
People like my mother did not get cancer. The tests at the Mayo Clinic would prove that, refut- ing what the doctors in Duluth had said.
I was certain of this. Who were those doctors in Duluth anyway? That was my prayer: And yet, here was my mother at the Mayo Clinic getting worn out if she had to be on her feet for more than three minutes. I followed behind, not allowing myself to think a thing.
We were finally on our way up to see the last doctor. The real doctor, we kept call- ing him. The one who would gather everything that had been gathered about my mom and tell us what was true. As the elevator car lifted, my mother reached out to tug at my pants, rubbing the green cotton between her fingers proprietarily.
She was going to leave my life at the same moment that I came into hers, I thought. For some reason that sentence came fully formed into my head just then, temporarily blotting out the Fuck them prayer.
I almost howled in agony. I almost choked to death on what I knew before I knew. I was going to live the rest of my life without my mother. I pushed the fact of it away with everything in me. This was not so.
We were led into an examining room, where a nurse instructed my mother to remove her shirt and put on a cotton smock with strings that dangled at her sides.
When my mother had done so, she climbed onto a padded table with white paper stretched over it.A Short Analysis of Anne Bradstreet’s ‘The Author to Her Book’ Throughout ‘The Author to Her Book’, Bradstreet compares the writing of her book to motherhood: her book is her ‘offspring’ to which she gave ‘birth’; she refers to herself as ‘thy mother’.
A second posthumous selection of stories by the author of A Manual for Cleaning Women shines with compassion and dark wit.
Shop new, used, rare, and out-of-print books. Powell's is an independent bookstore based in Portland, Oregon. Browse staff picks, author features, and more. 'The Author to Her Book' is a poem that deals with the question of authorial agency, or the amount of control that an author has over his or her writing.
Bradstreet clearly has a strong attachment. Cheryl Strayed with Oprah Winfrey. WILD was the first selection for Oprah's Book Club Today’s post by Marybeth Whalen and Ariel Lawhon | @MarybethWhalen and @ArielLawhon.
There is something therapeutic–restful, even–about the changing of seasons. And we, at She Reads, are stepping into a major new season.