Two rabbit-holes I fell into while reading Lessons by Ian McEwan

When it comes to writing about novels in this newsletter I want some kind of collision of writer’s pursuit and reader’s journey, with a dash of context and a tendency to follow the White Rabbit down a hole. I’d like to write about where a novel took me. 

In the case of Lessons, I fell into two holes that occupied my time during and after reading: 

1. the writer’s prerogative to disguise — heavily or not — their lives, and by extension the lives of their family and friends, in fiction

2. the complicated history of writer-mothers

I’ve spent the first part of this year in the UK on a mission, of sorts, with the general idea of being available to my parents and siblings — to return to the northern hemisphere with my rampant eldest child energy, lend a hand, babysit, clear the attic, support, advise, be present. It’s an intense time for my family and I had to be here. That’s half of who I am. As a result I’ve sacrificed the other fundamental part of myself: my desire to write. Despite some decent at…