An Excerpt from My In-Progress Manuscript

Sharing some sections from my manuscript about mothering and mental health

Hey Fellow Creative,

I’ve been deep in the revision process for a manuscript I’m writing about mothering and mental health. I’ve been spending time working on a section where I describe vignettes of moments with my mother throughout my childhood. I’m going to share one small section I’ve been revising just to show you how the process is going. I plan to share how sections are being revised as paid content over the next few months. Thank you for spending a bit of time with my work. I hope this resonates and I’d love to hear your thoughts, so leave a comment about what you think <3

My mother has to go to the doctor and it’s the first time I learn to hate her. I am straddling four and five years old and the summer is swallowing spring. My jacket is open and flaps against me while I run. I want to rip it off and let it fly as I run across the playground. I want to leave something that clings to me. I am laughing just minutes before I learn how to scream at her in the middle of the sidewalk. I’m at a preschool center in Roxbury that has a colorful mural painted on the wall next to the entrance. It’s walkable from Chinatown and the South End and because of this, my mother walks me there and most places surrounding our three neighborhoods. The edges of Roxbury, Chinatown, and the South End all float together and I learn this to be our universe. We’re from Boston and these areas become my Boston, a home that houses us as we grow from babies to kids.

At preschool, I have my first crush. He is nameless and the first white boy I’ve ever seen outside of television. His cheeks are often pink and I’m not sure why I like him. I spend a lot of time staring at him. On the day before I learn to hate my mother, my crush and I drink chocolate milk outside in the cement yard. We run around with our half empty cartons and in our running, we find an enclave of bees swirling. We tentatively watch the bees hovering over a beehive on the ground by a tree. Our sneakers crunch the twigs on the ground beneath us as we inch closer and closer. I stop moving because the swarm of bees scare me, yet the nameless boy keeps walking forward. I back away watching my rosy-cheeked crush get closer. I jump as he forcefully throws his chocolate milk carton at the hive. In an instant he is fighting the bees, and the teachers arrive. Something about this moment leads me to stop being obsessed with him.