ABSTRACT
On a shelf in my office, at about eye level, I have a cast of a woman’s alabaster face. She emerges from a rock surface, her eyes large and still, a delicately shaped hand pressed against her lips. This woman has been my writing companion for many years, her face sometimes reflecting my struggle with words, my hesitation to speak, and my feelings of uncertainty about my ideas. Other times, I read her visage as one of contemplation and repose, reflecting deep intellectual moments. For me she embodies the tensions of being a woman who writes.
