All weekend – the slowest, most anxiety-ridden weekend I’ve had in a long, long time – I kept telling myself I’d use some of the extra time to write. And every time I started thinking through one of the essays I was working on, my mind would check out. I don’t feel like writing about that [...]
I love sharing what I love. It should come as no surprise that I relish the thought of books-as-medicine, and if you've got an ill of the heart, I've got a reading recommendation to treat you. To clarify, that is less about appropriating a metaphor and more toward speaking about the power of books in [...]
This year, I immersed myself in reading essays. Not enough, of course (because my self-critic is always screeching "never enough!"), but the good news is I've stayed consistent about it. I created a Twitter thread of 10 of my favorite essays I've read this year, with the understanding that no, it's not an all-encompassing list, [...]
Right now I am re-reading Joan Didion's "Play It As It Lays," a novel she wrote in 1970, and one I return to every year or every other year. One thing that fascinates me this time around is how masterful she is at structure. I think it's something I missed before, how deliberate she was. [...]
... sign up for my TinyLetter. It's called "hello, dearest," and it's really just a way for me to practice essaying in the form of letter-writing, which is one of my favorite mediums. I'll send you love letters about writing, art, creativity, life, grief, joy and all the bits of ephemera in between. >> Sign [...]
I’ve fallen in love with my work again. Deeply. In a way I haven’t experienced since finishing my MFA eight years ago. I long for it when I’m at work, or driving, or doing something that takes up most of my mental capacity. I’m always thinking about it, pining for it, itching for the chance [...]
The day after Christmas, I loaded up a rental car and drove back home, alone. Not Ohio home, but original home: the place that bore me, that contains just over a third of my life’s memories.
It’s normal, around each holiday, each milestone, each moment we are expected to come together with family, to remember those who are no longer staunchly in the land of the living.
"All I wanted was for the summer — that terrible season of loss — to end."
Love and thankfulness start in the kitchen. The Italian parsley drying on the sink. A half lemon left over from dressing the food. A bulb of garlic, inquiring eyes, and finally, a beautiful bird prepared by my mother.