MOTHER’S DAY, IN ITS INSISTENCE ON SENTIMENT, BIOLOGY, AND CONSUMERISM, HAS ALWAYS DIMINISHED MOTHERING. FOR MOTHERING HAS ALWAYS BEEN MUCH BIGGER THAN MOTHERHOOD. AND IT TRANSCENDS REPRODUCTION. EVEN GENDER. Being a mother, and having a mother, even when it works beautifully, even in times of general robust public health and political stability, is never as…
Category: Charlotte Zolotow
9 WAYS TO BUILD A CREATIVE ECOSYSTEM, GLEANED FROM A WRITER’S FINAL BIRTHDAY PARTY
THERE IS NOTHING MORE SOLITARY THAN THE ACT OF WRITING. YET, NO WORK MAKES IT TO PUBLICATION IN SOLITUDE. MY LATE MOTHER’S LAST BIRTHDAY BROUGHT THIS HOME TO ME. THRIVING IN THIS SOLITARY PROFESSION TURNS OUT TO REQUIRE AN ECOSYSTEM. HERE’S HOW TO GROW YOURS. We celebrated my mother’s 97th birthday, her next-to-last, in 2012,…
MOTHERLESS MOTHER’S DAY: THE CORONAVIRUS EDITION
MOTHER’S DAY, IN ITS INSISTENCE ON SENTIMENT, BIOLOGY, AND CONSUMERISM, HAS ALWAYS DIMINISHED MOTHERING. AND IT’S ALWAYS BEEN CRUEL TO MANY AND REDUCTIVE TO ALL. THIS YEAR, CORONAVIRUS OFFERS US (IRONICALLY) A CHANCE TO DO BETTER. DEPENDING ON THE TENOR OF THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR MOTHER, “SOCIAL DISTANCING” WILL REQUIRE AT THE LEAST…
CHARLOTTE ZOLOTOW’S “SLEEPY BOOK” AWAKENS IN CHINA
A PERSON HAS A LIFE, WITH A DEFINITE AND IRREFUTABLE BEGINNING, MIDDLE, AND END. BUT, WITH A BOOK IT’S NOT SO CLEAR. I spent a recent Sunday, improbably, working on an introduction to the forthcoming Chinese edition of a children’s book entitled Sleepy Book. Written in 1956 or ’57 and published in 1958, its author…
getting good: the three secrets of writing (and everything else)
Quick, think of your favorite musician. Bonnie Raitt? Yo-Yo Ma? Doesn’t matter. John Coltrane? Lady Gaga? Eric Clapton? Youssou N’Dour? Doesn’t matter. Dolly Parton, Mirian McPartland, Howlin’ Wolf, Luciano Pavarotti? Still doesn’t matter. Because whoever he or she is, he or she did (and, if alive, still does) three things that anyone, who is good at…
My father, the stripper’s press agent
After the Los Angeles funeral of my late father, Maurice Zolotow, a well-dressed, chic, trim woman came up to me and extended her hand. She had excellent posture, and her hair — a jet-black that looked neither harsh nor unnatural — was well-styled in a short, flattering, expensive cut. Her age was hard to guess…