A breeze blows through the window in the middle of the summer night. Jean-Michel, lying awake beside Brigitte, raises both hands, feels the air against his palms, closes his fingers into fists.
I’ve been revising a novel since, oh, November? Time does a funny thing when it comes to projects and I have found that it never treats any two artistic commitments the same way. Other writers have experienced this, too. George Saunders spent twelve years on his story “The […]
Every other Sunday night, dad manned the rudder while we rowed the one-eighth replica Viking ship east across the bay.
Whenever I talk of my genre—the chosen field that I have dedicated my life to—my husband puts dangling air quotes around it. As in: “Creative Nonfiction”. We will be sitting at the table talking with his parents about a memoir that his mother and I have both read, […]
I meet my boss for lunch at Kaya Sushi House in Mar Vista. It’s not quite Venice Beach and not quite Culver City either, somewhere in between the two. I’m in a plaid skirt and a grey muscle tee with my leather jacket. I’m trying out the badass LA look, which I feel confident enough today to pull off.
Place built THE CONCRETE and the characters in it. The southeast side of Grand Rapids is the biggest villain in the book. It’s an area of drugs and violence, a place one must survive. While revising I was constantly looking for ways to use language to make it come alive …
Literary movements spark and evolve, ebb and flow together without ever warning the writer. By the time one knows what is new, all too often that new has already become old. Yet there is a sentiment emerging now, wondering aloud—though still quietly—
Personally, I blame the internet.
No peppermint candy filled stockings or pine scented candles to mask the smell of her mother’s Marlboro Lights. Boys crept into her window and fondled her pubis, twisted her tits.