If I’d died that day, the mourning would have faded by now, the sharp edge of memories dulled and bearable. Tears dried save the occasional season, or place, or song. And the lives with which I was once so undeniably intertwined would be moving on. New days and different ways would be well on their…
My Aunt Hannah used to pack my lunch in a full-size brown grocery bag with an extra banana, “just in case.” Hannah wore house dresses, smoked like a chimney, and now that I’m older, I suspect she might have washed her prescriptions down with the occasional “nip.” I don’t care. I’m not looking for a…
A couple of New Years ago, I declared I was changing my stars. I was no longer a “pastry person.” I made up my mind to steer clear of sugar and become more of a chips, pickles, and humus person. It’s difficult to recall what stirred this proposed metamorphosis, only that I wanted to change…
“I sometimes delude myself about why I keep a notebook, imagine that some thrifty virtue derives from preserving everything observed. See enough and write it down, I tell myself, and then some morning when the world seems drained of wonder, some day when I am only going through the motions of doing what I am…
This business about “If you write, you’re a writer” is off-putting. No one ever says, “If you nurse someone back from a cold, you’re a nurse,” or “If you can spout the law, you’re a lawyer.” I get that the phrase is meant to encourage aspiring writers or maybe even seasoned ones who missed a word count or are…
If I were a man, I wouldn’t lie. I might let little ones slip here and there, but not the big ones. The big lies change everything; they cause irreparable damage. I’d know that. As a man, I would take responsibility for my actions, even if, along the way, I had become someone who mocked…
There is something about Sunday that justifies the rest of the week. It’s like a reconciliation of emotion, a washing away of frustrations. Sundays soften slights, and things that ran so deep and urgent on Monday become whispers on the last day of the week. There are no regrets on a Sunday; no mess-ups or…
I finished STAY almost two years ago, and in the middle of writing my next book, I lost the love. Some call it burnout, but I write romance, so lost love is more accurate. It’s not that I couldn’t write; I was still capable. I just didn’t want to. I wasn’t excited to sit down…
When I was sixteen, I went to Tower Records and asked if I could have this giant promo poster for the new Smiths album once the store took it down to make way for the next new releases. That was a thing back then. They gave them away on a first-ask basis. Anyway, I got…
