On a cold, dull Sunday in January I began studying charts, getting to get to know my patients before making rounds as part of my geriatrics fellowship in inpatient internal medicine.
The anthology, born from a themed issue of Creative Nonfiction magazine, contains 23 pieces, mostly essays, mostly smart and relatable, mostly written by bold and brave women.
The almost irresistible temptation for a writer is to rush to get it all down while the story is fresh. But there is a danger in that sense of urgency.
I realized calling myself a professional writer didn’t matter as much as I had thought, and that was actually a good thing. It knocked the pedestal out from under this career choice.