(Disclaimer: Right now what I'm writing is less of a novel and more a collection of somewhat related vignettes that I'm hopeful will take on some kind of shape. Bear with me!)

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Her favorite place was atop her lumpy bed, which had a bookcase for a headboard. The bookcase held her greatest treasures – a dog-eared copy of “Little Women,” a stack of books she’d borrowed from the library, books telling the story of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s life. She burrowed into books sometimes, falling into a world that felt more inviting than her own.

Even though she felt like it was a baser escape, she also liked to turn on the TV and immerse herself in tight little comedies that had a sweet-faced resolution in less than 30 minutes, or a music video with a curly-headed Janet Jackson asking, “What Have You Done For Me Lately?” She made visibility look so easy and beautiful.

In this room was her cocoon – a soft room with soundproof walls and a self-contained world that didn’t reject, didn’t scold, didn’t call names. She belonged here. Everywhere else was quite possibly a different story.