All posts tagged: Suzanne Scanlon

Confession | edge of evening


The thing about blogging is that it’s not at all hard to think of things to write about. It’s just a matter of noticing. Going through your days paying attention to the things that give you pause, the things you read that articulate some thought that you hadn’t yet quite formulated, the books you read that you want to press into someone else’s hands immediately. But, as in a fairy story, these bright bits and pieces you collect will turn to dust if you try to save them. (The same with Instagram. It’s just a habit of being aware. Noticing the small things like the way the light falls in certain places only at certain times of the year. Spending the treasure of what you see, not hoarding it for a rainy day.) What is hard though, is writing about a book, even one you’ve loved, weeks or months after you’ve read it. And this is my confession: there have been good books & I haven’t told you about them. This blog hardly has a …

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 …