rejoice that our lips
did not permit more stragglers,
more detail, more vulnerability
toward those to whom it does not belong.
for the first time,
i don’t want to go anywhere.
i want to stand Here and let
the rushing water flow on its own,
past my toes, over my chilled skin;
let it pull my hair forward over my face,
blind me and pass me by
instead of carrying me along.
I dream each night of dark water. Pulsing, swirling, ever approaching, but it does not drown my toes. The threat, but never the reality. Waiting.read more
We’re terrified to deceive you into thinking we’re “good enough.” We feel weirdly guilty for making every sale.read more
Aren’t you tired of writing the same thing? Don’t you see that all of your books look the same?read more
Why am I so free in my personal life, but then paralyzed when it’s time to put the words out there? Isn’t that the whole of what I do?read more
When I write, I aim in my mind not toward New York but toward a vague spot a little to the east of Kansas…read more
Moments are slippery things. We can record them, but there’s no true way to relive them. A ratty T-shirt that smells like your old boyfriend is not your old boyfriend.read more
What makes an editor know on the first page whether she will like the story? Look over your work and answer the following questions.read more