Our unnamed heroine, a writer but more a thinker, endlessly contemplates the pros and cons of becoming a mother. Her musings cover the lives of her own mother and her maternal grandmother. Narrated in a continual monologue - a style I really enjoyed - however, don't expect much action or even a decision! Thought provoking and unusual.
Is art a living thing - while one is making it, that is? As living as anything else we call living?
Is it as living as when it is bound in a book or hung on a wall?
Then can a woman who makes books be let off the hook
by the universe for not making the living thing we call babies?