All posts tagged: Helen Phillips

Her Thirty-Seventh Year by Suzanne Scanlon | edge of evening

Her 37th Year: An Index

HAMLET (see also: Baby, The), We watch three film versions of Hamlet. I cry even when it is Bill Murray playing Polonius. I imagine my baby as Laertes. “Do you know how it is when someone dies? Birth is like that, too, just in reverse,” I say. Just before you announce the impending awkwardness, I ask aloud, “How could I have created something, someone, whom I will someday lose?” I think, How could life mean anything more, ever, ever again? . JOY (see also: Mother, Question, and Skunks), as experienced when in a dark room I lie next to Magoo and his cousin. Every so often, just when I think they might be asleep, a high voice with a serious question: “Are there skunks in Pittsburgh?” or “Do old-fashioned cars go faster than convertibles?” Four-year old musing & inquiry; for a moment I wish that Magoo would be four years old forever, that I might spend a life in this room with two four year old boys. There are times it feels like Heaven to …

Dept. of Speculation

“The baby’s eyes were dark, almost black, and when I stared at her in the middle of the night, she’d stare at me with a stunned, shipwrecked look as if my body were the island she’d washed up on.” “My love for her seemed doomed, hopelessly unrequited. There should be songs for this, I thought, but if there were I didn’t know them.” So, I’ve been wanting to read Jenny Offill’s Dept. of Speculation for a while. Certainly since I read Helen Phillips’ short essay on Offill for the Literary Mothers project (which I wrote about here). And then even more so after I read this wonderful conversation & book list. For reasons of practicality (reading in the bath! shelf space!) and aesthetics (the UK cover was nothing on the US one), I didn’t want to buy it in hardback. So when I knew it was coming out in paperback, I ordered it. I had the dispatch email yesterday, publication day. Then, walking home from my second coffee date of the morning, I veered very …

Literary Mothers

“Don’t have a kid until you have a book published,” she says. “Your life changes, you stop caring so much. Get a book out before, when you still think art is the most important thing.” Helen Phillips on Jenny Offill It’s half-term. The little ones are off school and it’s raining in an endless grey drizzle, a fine mist of water. We’re still having adventures (simple ones), and have had two picnics (coats on). Afternoon readings of Mrs Pepperpot are going down well. T, who had the stories read to her a couple of years ago and has now read them hundreds of times herself, calls out which story I should read next (‘The hospital one!’, ‘The one where she goes ski-ing, it’s right at the back of the book!’). The boys sit one on either side of me, until the Pip-Pop gets bored & wanders off to read his own books, and T sits at the end of the sofa knitting. Yes, really knitting! (It’s a scarf for Dog. There’s sometimes a sigh when …