About Stephanie Lenox
I write about what obsesses me, whether that's the odd characters in The Guinness Book, the loud talker in the neighboring cubicle at work, or my two young daughters who spend their days running full-speed toward pointy, dangerous things.
One day, my co-worker Carla snuck into my tiny office, lowered her voice, and said, “You’re a writer, right? You should write about this.” She whirled her finger in the air to indicate the entirety of our office, the fax machine on the fritz, the passive-aggressive colleague who posted notes everywhere, and the high drama over ergonomic chairs and which color polo shirts to buy for the office staff. So I did. I began writing these poems on pilfered reams of printer paper to fill what Tom Wayman calls an “enormous hole in our literature.” It's my way of reclaiming and celebrating the hours we give, out of necessity, to others.
One day, my co-worker Carla snuck into my tiny office, lowered her voice, and said, “You’re a writer, right? You should write about this.” She whirled her finger in the air to indicate the entirety of our office, the fax machine on the fritz, the passive-aggressive colleague who posted notes everywhere, and the high drama over ergonomic chairs and which color polo shirts to buy for the office staff. So I did. I began writing these poems on pilfered reams of printer paper to fill what Tom Wayman calls an “enormous hole in our literature.” It's my way of reclaiming and celebrating the hours we give, out of necessity, to others.
