Publications
"DNA Communiqué," The Offing, humor
Dear Paula,
Thank you for joining It’s All Relative, one of the largest databases of human DNA ever created. Like you, millions of people want to know what region of the world they should claim as their own. Irish peasant? Mongolian herder? You, too, can find out! Read more.
"Possession," Earth Island Journal, Essay
“Once the rock is in their hand, it’s too late; we’ve lost the battle,” says a Washington Island resident. He is one of about a dozen people at a Parks Committee meeting concerning the preservation of Schoolhouse Beach. Read more.
"Plasticity," Kenyon Review Online, graphic essay
A graphic essay in collaboration with illustrator Meggan Kehrli, about Chicago’s “famous flying spiders.” Read more.
The Third Thing
An album by the musicians of Grace Chicago church, including music and readings. My flash essay, “Solidarity,” is one of the tracks. Listen.
The New York Times column: "I Am Not a Mother. But I Am Something."
When you realize you are outside of what has been deemed normal, what has been named and defined, these are the things you feel you lack: Dignity, autonomy, belonging. And a shared understanding of the role you play. Read More.
“Rh,” The Southern Review, lyric essay
A basin of blood sitting on the floor. The same one used for washing. Nobody thinks to dip their hand in and spread some over the farmhouse door, warning the angel of death to stay away, not to come for this child. Read More.
"Feme Sole," 2nd Story, storytelling
“In this week's story, teller Paula Carter muses on how vestiges of old-fashioned expectations impact modern womanhood.” Listen.
Paula in Conversation with the Kenyon Review
I grew up in a home that was filled with both science and religion: my father a chemist, my mother a devout Christian. Therefore, I tend not to see the two as necessarily separate. Read More.
“Margarine: A Public and Personal History,” The Rumpus, essay
When I think of sitting at the kitchen table as a child eating dinner, I don’t have memories of luscious homemade foods. I don’t see fresh pasta or fried tortillas. I don’t see tarts or puddings. I see margarine. Read More.
"Color TV," TriQuarterly, lyric essay
The lessons come in the mail. Packages like gifts. When opened, there are capacitors, transistor sockets, and circuit board connectors, neatly arranged along with the assembly manuals. These my father will carefully follow, filling in the question-and-answer sections in his cramped script. Read More.