By Shanthy Milne | I recently came across an idyllic-looking writers residency for women — a beautiful countryside cottage complete with log-fire and a courtyard garden. What made it particularly idyllic (but simultaneously inaccessible to me) was the absence of any child-related paraphernalia. This got me thinking about Virginia Woolf’s idea that in order to write, a woman requires both her own money and a “room of one’s own”.

By Megan Vos | July and August 2020 - We return from a five-week road trip to our home in Boulder. The weeds in our front yard are taller than my daughters, and the grass is charred from record-breaking heat. The color of the sky defies description. The air is thick. I cough. Do I have COVID? I wonder, as I have frequently over the past five months.

By Melaina Williams | from “The Thesis” - To study life / watch a child chase bubbles / as they brilliantly take up on air / and then . . . / POP! / leaving a mist of soap water freckles / on the skin.

By Kate Bailey | I have this terrible anxiety that finds me every time I try to write these pieces. It’s suddenly as if I’ve lost my voice. As if, out of nowhere, every word feels flawed and deserves the tap-tap-tap of my backspace button. Nothing feels big enough. Revolutionary enough. Earth-shattering enough. It all feels so small.

By Holly Ruskin | There’s a popular game traditionally played at carnivals that involves whacking a mole with a mallet, forcing it to retreat back into its hole. The only problem is that once you’ve whacked one mole, another pops up from an entirely different hole. This is the game. This is whack-a-mole.