I feel for any author who has a work of literary fiction or non-fiction coming out these days. The world's focus is, naturally, on the pandemic and the protests against racism and police violence. The news seems to change hour-by-hour; no wonder that imaginative literature, a product of silence and slow time, can seem a bit out of step.may not be just what you need to read right now, but it may well be something you'll reach for eventually.
Morris' wanderings this time are set in motion by cruel happenstance: In the winter of 2008, she and her husband, both avid ice-skaters, decide to spend a few hours zipping around a local rink in Brooklyn. There, Morris tries to execute a pivot and crashes down on her ankle. She refuses to go to the emergency room, makes it home, and after an hour is in such excruciating pain that she and her husband realize they must get to the hospital.
Morris initially views her accident as"an unfortunate detour, a brief derailment. Like a flat tire or a wrong turn. A month or so max and I'll be on my feet." What follows instead are two years of being laid up in bed, surgeries and physical therapy; these years change Morris, making her feel vulnerable and sidelined,"as if a locked door stood between me and the world."
Over the years friends tell me how brave I am. ... I see nothing courageous in anything I do. I feel safer on a mountain pass, in the snake-infested jungle, or sleeping on a straw mat in some funky border town than I ever did at home.
Who can I learn to ride with?
I have that stripe color for my MP5 on MW