New Releases by Christina Turner

My son was born in May 2024, and so was I. I am still being born. You might see this as an autobiography, but it is much rather me having found the courage to be blunt and write about my first months of motherhood as it was, pain, tears (both pronunciations), doubt, too much. And then growth, beauty and strength. Not the angelic figure, much rather the bloody fighter. The minute I became a mum in the eyes of the world, I saw it plain as day. The indisputable myth of the perfect mother is still going strong, isn't it? So, to hell with it. My reason for writing each of the stories is candid and unvarnished honesty. Only that could dispel the image of THE mother that is still so damaging, so dangerous. And imaginary. My stories are written spoken word poetry. Not a contradiction at all. Every line completes the whole and stands on its own, as individual as you are, as connected as all of us. You give it meaning when it resounds in your mind, as it becomes voice again. Your voice.

A wordless book shows Santa's Christmas Eve trip from the North Pole to a child's house, where he drops off a wriggling puppy.