Frame by Frame
published in Vogue - June, 2007 |
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Growing up, Dani Shapiro always felt caught in her mother's viewfinder-until she found the strength to break free.
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There is No Me Without You
published by Elle - February, 2007 |
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Dani Shapiro spared no effort or expense in her quest to find the perfect egg donor-one with her intellect, her looks, even her feelings. But then they met, and she realized that even the finest reproductions still aren't the real thing
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The Six Poisons
published by One Story- January 2006 |
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Emma is on her third chaturanga dandasana of the morning, hovering in a push up position an inch off the floor, when Guruji and Shareth enter the shala. It must be about five-thirty judging from the...
My mother's rage against my father's family was a part of my life for as long as I can remember. Oh, she was angry at other people too...
Once or twice a month, while
getting dressed to go out for the evening, I pick up a double- strand
of pearls with an ornate diamond clasp from my dressing table and
slip it around my neck....
I am standing in a windowless room furnished only with a video camera set up on a tripod and three taped x's on the floor...
"My husband and I have a running joke. Every once in a while, usually
late at night, I ask him a question that begins timidly, like this:
"Can I ask you a question?"...
When I was a kid growing up in the New Jersey suburbs, I dreaded summer. Mosquitoes, bees, sunburn, heatstroke...
I am driving my three-year-old son to school down a winding country road on a bright autumn morning. We pass the horse farm on the corner, the nursery where bursts of flowers . . .
The birds are nestling closer. She noticed them two winters ago—the winter after she moved into the Brooklyn house with her husband and infant son. First only a few fat ones were perched atop the brownstone across the street. The next time . . .
Janet Hobhouse had published a few novels before The Furies, and she had something of a presence as a critic in the 1980's art world, but she was more of a figure than a writer in those years. Ask anyone . . .
These are the first words I've written since J. fell down the stairs, unless you count lists. I have lists in my pockets, lists tacked to the bulletin board above my desk. Small lists on Post-its ruffle like feathers against walls and bureaus. Chunky baby food, milk, Cheerios. . .
At seven on a recent Thursday evening, white stretch limos began arriving at a pier at Twenty-third Street and the F.D.R. Drive, where a rented yacht called Mystique was docked and waiting for the senior class of Landmark High School. It was prom night. . .
One recent Saturday afternoon on the main floor of Barneys, R., an attorney in his early thirties, huddled near the Chanel counter with an auburn-haired woman. She was too old to be his girlfriend but too young. . .
On a recent Friday morning, Cantor Philip L. Sherman found himself stuck in traffic on the Cross Bronx Expressway. Sherman's destination was Melville, Long Island, where he was to perform his third circumcision of the day. . .
In 1953, nine years before I was born, my father fell in love with a young woman named Dorothy Gribetz. She was a beautiful Orthodox Jewish girl who was, at twenty-seven, startlingly old to still be single in the moneyed religious urban world of my father . . .
My mother walks through the door of the waxing room at the precise moment the Rumanian lady rips a hot strip of wax from my bikini line. I have been staring alternately at the second hand on the blank face of a wall clock and a poster of a silky-skinned brunette in a . . .
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