“Electroshock” offers voice to three women who have undergone medically induced seizures: Polly, a 75-year-old housewife; Anita, a 52-year-old minister; and Barbara, a 44-year-old nurse. Their intimate testimonies interrogate the physical, emotional, and psychological complexities of electroshock therapy (ECT). Is electroshock an antidepressant or a form of violence against women?
Lately, I have been thinking a lot about money and writing. Namely: the inverse relationship between one and the other. Since I published my debut short-story collection last year, the large pay-checks have been noticeably absent. This was no surprise. With all the anecdotes I had heard from colleagues and friends, I didn’t plan for my book to add to my 401(k). Quite the opposite, in fact. I received a small advance, a handful of good reviews and was longlisted for one prestigious award. Not too bad.
Bacchanal below the rooftop: The emerald bottles of soju. Fried chicken. Beer. The cheering of Russians who find each other on streets named in Hangul and in English. Thin slices of beef dipped in sesame oil that is thickly salted.
Note the poem’s nightmarish opening: this uncanny character—at once everyman and no-man, perhaps an egg though this is never stated—sits upon a wall. Where is this wall? How did Dumpty come to be sitting upon it? Surrounding this proclamation we see no answers, merely the barren whiteness of the page.
So much that appears only briefly is marked by powerful physical sensation—a quick whiff of a scent that throws you back to childhood, the unguarded gesture that reveals one’s authentic feelings. A flinch. A pang. A welling in the chest that accompanies an unexpected emotion.