Uncategorized

We all want to be recognized: it’s right there in the third tier of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, in the rectangle labeled “belonging.” But what’s it like to be a writer who wants readers? The question might as well be, what’s it like to be a writer? Because although some writers want to be read […]

Fuels: Materials that store potential energy in forms that can be practicably released and used as heat energy.   At a recent literary event, I stood in a circle of writers who were talking about insomnia, a common issue for artistically driven people. I mentioned that I don’t struggle very much with insomnia, surprisingly, because

“If you’re waiting for the perfect time to write, you’re doing it wrong.” —Me, paraphrasing other writers who write about writing I call myself a writer because I write. I am not well-known. I don’t make a living writing. I haven’t won awards. I do write every day, arranging words to form sentences that tell

For years, my sister Jen and I had an ongoing competition: take the recipes for our favorite comfort foods and try to tweak the ingredients to make those foods as healthy as possible without losing flavor or texture. We did this with cookies, breads, soups, muffins — you name it, we altered it, creating a

I’m left-handed. Age twenty-eight, in the depths of my Saturn return, I designed a tattoo. An artist etched the two images I had combined into my skin. From that point on, a black cat in mid-run crosses in front of an enormous red flame on the bicep of my writing arm.  * I’m in a

We all have demons that keep us from writing. I’ve named mine, but I’m betting you know them. First is Eggbert. He sits on your keyboard in a sleepy, warm little pile, his soft belly spreading over your keys. He’s pale pink and covered with white, silky hairs. His brown eyes have enormous, slow-blinking lids

I noticed her at Gate B1A in the Phoenix Airport — a woman in a black tank top and jeans ripped at the knee, her dark hair in a ponytail, one shoulder swirled with tattoos. She looked around my age, maybe a bit older, her face solid and no-nonsense, her skin used to the sun.

Tom Spanbauer is on the verge of saying it. Then he does say it. “You are formidable,” he says. He means this with tenderness right now, but in a few months I’ll hear him use the same word to describe his former teacher, editor, mentor and monster, The Notorious Mister Lish. But right now Tom

I am a monster. I lie. Or, I steal. I like to make things up. I am entirely honest, but I never tell the truth. I tell stories.There is a truth to a story that is deeper than the reality of an event or the actuality of a person or even the force of memory.

The email from my mother began: Dad and I are very, very worried about you…  Writing has its risks. Sincerely, I hope none of us are in it for the money. Physically (while I appreciate it’s not comparable to logging, cage-fighting or professional dog walking), there are hazards. The prolonged sitting down and typing can lead