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By not shouldering our obligations as listeners and readers, by ignoring our misperception about who ought to set up the rules that guide our decision-making, by tolerating distorted self- perceptions, by acceding to false ideas about our rhetorical shortcomings, and by putting up with credence given to enemies of cooperation, we experience significant loss. It’s imperative that we become accountable audiences.
I am a world of one participating in a universe of many. My bits and bobs are arranged as nonstandard, impractical commodities contemporaneous with being disposed as normative and utilitarian. My blends are not patently better or worse than are others’ initiatives. Any merit attached to my work derives from my deliberations being a seizable voice. One size never fit all and never will. At best, my declarations suit some persons, sometimes. Even so, few deeds delight me more than producing word assemblages. I am happiest when exercising my mind, videlicet, when storytelling.
Gone is the era when writers sacrificed profits for principals. These days, most of what gets posted or printed is tripe. Ironically, vanished, too, is the span when writers sacrificed principles for profits. Today, even if authors play strumpets on Naked News, declare an eating disorder on LinkedIn, or snuff baby rabbits on YouTube, no one cares. Most audiences no longer even regale such acts as “performance art.”
This book celebrates moms’ ability to simultaneously: mop carpets, diaper doll bottoms, chop beans, and actualize professional jobs. As well, this book regards, jadedly, some of the conventions surrounding womenfolk’s socially prescribed limits.