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I wonder what roles I would have felt obligated to fill as an adult if Midge, the pregnant Barbie, were instead an astronaut, a divorcée, a bad friend.
Natural, natural, everything natural. I’m a sucker for it, Shinto-ish environmentalist and object-worshipper that I am.
“My cousin’s gift was validation, a connection I hadn’t even realized I was looking for.”
“If you wanted to remember someone or something, you had to choose carefully.”
“I found the worry dolls again, bittersweet reminders of a simpler time.”
What kind of story would you like to write?
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