ABSTRACT
Writing on disability is like fine bone china — it demands a certain delicacy. Many disabled writers (or those who choose to write on our behalf) collapse into fake cheerfulness, or anti-climax — or employ a style that is icy, dispossessed, separated from the heart. A worthy writer must show us the good as well as the ghastlies — infections, aging, the unexamined hostility of society — without getting maudlin, without descending into fake heroics, without the chill of unrelieved anger.
