Böcker av Kj Hannah Greenberg

Ladies (and their associates) of various miens populate this book; Amal offered a new conjecture. She suggested that the women had involuntary become medical guinea pigs. Weeks before she and her coterie had noticed their state of flowering, Amal had accidentally collided with a pharmacist. That pharmacist was walking through the locked hospital ward, where Amal's sister was a nurse. Maybe, that drug doc had not meant to dispense medications, but to surreptitiously test a rare gonadotropin. ****While Aya had no idea how the bandits, with whom the trash collectors were in cahoots, knew which families would be on vacation, at the office, or otherwise not present in their dwellings, she knew that contractors, like garbage men, go mostly unnoticed by the public. Elsewise, locals would have grasped that there were, amid their neighborhood, many innocent-looking piles of concrete in which single tiles had been arranged such that one among each stack pointed toward a potential target's front door. ****Quetta's nieces had advanced from s'mores to hot dogs. With Darren participating, family cookouts had become more interesting. Equally, waterpark outings had gotten better since Darren, unlike Quetta, was willing to ride the loop-de-loop slide that was her nieces' favorite attraction.****At first, no one believed that a "lady" could be an offender. I told them otherwise. I even pointed them to websites that show while men are most of the perpetrators, women are perps, too.****Once, not terribly long ago, there lived a green witch...Yes, she was mated! Not only did she avoid toads (they carry viruses and parasites), and not only was her lone, large cooking pot used for tincturing thyme, not for stewing spells, but she was married. Plus, her spouse was neither a warlock nor a narcotized sex slave, but a straightforward cybersecurity expert. It was his income that had allowed them to purchase the land on which their tiny house sat. ****Halleli submitted recipes for okrashka, a cold vegetable soup, and for solyanka, a smoky, sour soup. Those offerings represented content that appealed both to her gourmet predilections and to her readers' limited resources. ****Blue was horrified. Only parents feed inchoate penguins. She gulped down the last of her fish and then scuttled away. Prestige was one thing but living with a mate who couldn't mate was another.

It doesn't matter that I cobble together ideas about womanizing linguistics, make hallucinatory word salads, create poetics about invasive social orders, or write plays about imagined interstellar beings. My offspring, by dint of being mine, have a duty to prize personal growth and to value social contribution over externally assigned accolades. A writer's sons and daughters might influence a writer, but she affects them, too. ****While neither gigantic starfish nor shrunken behemoths are meant to replace clergy, therapists, or beloveds as guides for self-improvement, fake fauna constitute viable vehicles for processing otherwise unreachable corners of interpersonal conundrums. Simulations are especially important to those among us who need to flee the malfeasance of ostensibly mild-mannered citizens, i.e., from individuals akin to axe murderers or other villains. ****It's tough to refute that choices, chances, partners, and presumptions are colored by private acts and that not every answer comes from cutting away connective tissue with a scalpel, i.e., from forsaking one's identity. Belief can and ought to be made manifest in expression. ****When I construct works about the incredible or the barely conceivable, I'm happy and I'm providing audiences with fresh mental architecture. ****Not only is the employment of pretend friends useful to entice audiences, but that choice is similarly valuable for educating them. In particular, readers that are fatigued by differentiating among intentions, decisions, and actions, professionally and personally, care little that the literature, which they deem tastiest, is riddled with masked intentions, misrepresents social fidelity, or is devoid, overall, of pointers toward private answerability. It's not for nothing that genre fiction keeps growing in popularity. ****My use of funky critters is my sugarcoating of social linctuses. ****Gone is the era when writers sacrificed profits for principals. These days, most of what gets posted or printed is tripe. Ironically, vanished, too, is the span when writers sacrificed principles for profits. Today, even if authors play strumpets on Naked News, declare an eating disorder on LinkedIn, or snuff baby rabbits on YouTube, no one cares. Most audiences no longer even regale such acts as "performance art." **** The realm of healthy relationships sits beyond philosophy and rhetoric's disciplinary limits. It's useless to assign comparative worth to needy others' statements and almost always harmful to counsel, rather than to be present as a quiet witness. Additionally, shaming, and other forms of coercion never helped anyone heal but has led to broken friendships and even divorces. There's a reason why wise ones are relatively silent. "Command" is rarely synonymous with "sagacity." When strategizing over reactions to other peoples' tribulations, it's nobler to be wordless that to spout "eruditions." ****My kids remain the most precious commodities in my life. They deserve all the celebration that I can manifest, so I write about them. ****My burgeoning belly, my leaking breasts, and the many years I spent away from my career while surrounded by diapers, larking at museums and playgrounds, and cooking all manner of child-sized treats, yielded a self-understanding that was very different from that which I had been forced to accept earlier.