If I wrote about my son in a sentimentalized, cloying, tragic way, perhaps I’d be accused of a woman who writes “silly little stories” instead of epic American novels that engage deep human truths in profound and complicated ways. If I try to engage both a reader’s mind, heart, and yes, even humor, in this story about my son, which has epic proportions in all kinds of ways, then I’m a heartless bitch. It’s a no-win.
At Role/Reboot, Rumpus contributor Emily Rapp writes about the sexist and offensive responses that she has been the target of for writing about her terminally ill son.
