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D. Rose Hartmann will stay handcuffed to her chair until she completes an eco-feminist novel. She lives in Seattle.
Hanging up the phone, I am overwhelmed with an embarrassing emotion: I am feeling left out. After all, I spent thirty-three years of my life in the San Fernando Valley waiting for The Big One. I should be in the muck of it.
May 1994At thirty-one, I steadily decay. Breasts succumb to gravity and sag. My eyes weaken. My senses falter. Well-meaning friends have offered referrals for plastic surgeons, opticians, and psychoanalysts, hinting at the necessity to fight the breakdown of body, the breakup of mind.
November 1993Has something we published moved you? Fired you up? Did we miss the mark? We’d love to hear about it.
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