Tulips and Sex — Writing as If Everyone I Know Were Dead
I want to write about tulips today. I don’t want to write about sex. The trouble is, for me, writing about tulips means writing about sex: something about their juicy curves brings erotic metaphors to my particular mind. I had thought that once my mother — and father — were no longer alive and reading over my shoulder, I’d be able to write my heart out, but . . . Read more.