I was reading Adrienne Rich when I fell in love with women’s stories.
I don’t come from a family where women’s stories and roles are cherished. I don’t know much about my grandmother, and when growing up, I largely recoiled from my mother’s domestic inclinations and loves of cooking and gardening. Yet when Rich wrote:
….when women can stop being haunted, not only by ‘convention and propriety’, but by internalised fears of being and saying themselves, then it is an extraordinary moment for the woman writer — and reader.
…I decided to celebrate women and their stories.