writer
... 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 [...]
That’s the name of this painting my brother did. I found it this weekend, in a box of art supplies my mother salvaged from his apartment. The title is written on the back, along with his signed name. It’s a nod to the Italian song “Piccolo Fiore” by Vittorio Merlo, a rough English translation of [...]
Let me get this out of the way: I'm really not a cool kid, so I'm just going to let the awkward fangirl in me hang out. I love Catapult literary magazine, and pretty much all of the work they're doing, honestly. The writing is diverse, engaging, and spans a variety of perspectives and topics. [...]
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.
I had to call our mother To tell her you died. She wasn’t responding to my texts or calls So I had to call the nursing home where she worked And have the nurse’s desk page her. What’s going on, she asked immediately. I told her to sit down. She said Just tell me. I said [...]
I never realized how much we take the absence of pain for granted. Instead, we cite boredom, general malaise, and complaint rather than sheer gratitude for the stardust shooting through our bodies, for those perfect moments when speck and cell align, humming, harmonious. We've got to be grateful at the cellular level. We've got to [...]
ashley bethard 