Anitha Krishnan writes Indian-inspired fantasy fiction with a dash of mysticism and soul-searching. She lives in Burlington, Ontario with her husband and their cherished child.
life, unadulterated
The first two decades or so of my life were quite literally a string of first ranks and A grades and gold medals and merit certificates and awards and prizes. Anything that I failed to make a mark in (arts and crafts, for instance) was conveniently brushed aside as irrelevant
life, unadulterated
Who would have ever thunk that after spending two entire years at home with my little child, I’m feeling completely clueless now as to how to spend a day during the week with him when he doesn’t have to go to school! D was such a brave sweetheart
life, unadulterated
When D is in school, I walk. My mind is churning so anxiously with thoughts of him that my feet can’t bear to stay still. The exertion of movement gives me something else to think about. Something to drown out the sound of his cries as he heads towards
life, unadulterated
Oh my brave, brave child, “It was a dark, blustery” morning the day you started school. (How fitting that the words that best describe the Universe the morning we dropped you off at school for the first time are the words with which your favourite story begins.)* It had been
life, unadulterated
So, wishes do come true. In unexpected ways. I finally found a balm to soothe my present anxiety. And where nothing else could help settle my anxious heart for even a moment, here was something that has kept the tears in check and the fears at bay for two whole
life, unadulterated
I have been an emotional wreck these past couple of weeks. In a completely unanticipated fashion, D’s imminent start of pre-school has unshackled anxieties and fears I didn’t even know lay buried deep inside my subconscious. A lump of fear has taken up permanent dwelling in my throat.
life, unadulterated
I had been wanting to re-read Papillon for a while now. There was a quote in it about judging; rather, about not judging. Something that Papillon tells two other escaped convicts when they inform him they had killed their mate. I don’t recall Papillon’s response verbatim but from
life, unadulterated
The phone call came last summer, shortly before I had completed my last course for the degree I was pursuing. There was a spot available in the Infant Room of a daycare that had opened only the previous autumn. We had put ourselves on the waitlist after a visit in
life, unadulterated
Seeing how anxious I am about D’s imminent start of school, I promise myself that when he’s away in school, I’ll spend that time working on the only kind of writing that matters ... the one that has to do with magic ... of all kinds ... That alone can
life, unadulterated
As the year draws to a close, I bring to you with a poem by Christopher Morley. A poem about the poetry that a child is ... ~ ~ ~ The greatest poem ever known Is one all poets have outgrown: The poetry, innate, untold, Of being only four years old. Still young enough
life, unadulterated
I have been writing this post in my head for the last nine months. (No wonder this feels like another birthing of sorts.) There were milestones: D turning 15 months old, D at 18 months, 20 months old on the 20th, the solstitial 21, the alliterative 22, the I’ll-likely-never-again-refer-to-his-age-in-months
on writing
In Search of Leo, my debut novella, (now available for pre-order on Kindle) is the story of a girl named Heidi who thinks her golden retriever Leo has run off into the woods, and she sets out in search of him. The book is as much about my writing journey