April 2011
8 posts
I live in a city of eleven-dollar side salads, so I steal grapes at the (decidedly un-)supermarket. Everything eventually evens out. True story.
Writing has always been healing. But, as I begin to relapse, I’m starting to wonder if the sign that I am not ready to heal means I am not ready to write again, either.
Wherein I Can't Even Think of a Title
For the first time in a while, my writer’s heart broke this morning. Somewhere between Jay Street-Metrotech and Second Avenue, I think. A disappointing cup off coffee in one hand and an ARC of Sarah Jio’s The Violets of March in the other, I could physically feel something in my chest sink. Sarah is one of our bloggers at work with whom I’ve struck up a relationship beyond...
“In this age when reality is built on big lies, what better place for truth than...”
– PYM: A Novel by Mat Johnson
This weekend, I did something I never do: got a massage. I figured if my pen wasn’t doing a formidable job of releasing the toxins in my muscles, a Korean massage therapist in TriBeCa would be a proper substitute. I laid down on the table, bare back exposed, and not forty-five seconds after he’d put his hands on my skin he said, “You’re a runner who sits at the computer all...
Our Own Modern Page-Turners
That feeling. She’s back. The one that’s pushing me to write. The one that’s telling me, “Stop telling yourself you’re content with not writing. Stop telling yourself you’re fine with ‘waiting to hear from your agent.’ Stop telling yourself you’re not a writer right now. Just stop.” Usually, she just comes knocking. This time she started...
“We need the fuzziness of imperfect thinking to function.”
– Janna Levin in conversation with Jonathan Lethem from “The Truth of Fiction” in Science is Culture: Conversations at the New Intersection of Science + Society
I shift on the powder blue F train bench because I feel my vertebra uncomfortably hitting the hard plastic. And next, the most smug, full-throttle grin consumes me—almost eats me alive it’s so good.