With nine days of programming, Don’t Write Alone offers talks, workshops, and panels featuring writers such as Kali Fajardo-Anstine, Brian Gresko, Samantha Irby, Larissa Pham, Deesha Philyaw, Joy Priest, Megan Stielstra, Kyle Lucia Wu, and many more to come.
She tells me our tip percentage is all about our mindset, even though people don’t tip well at brunch.
Had we been diverse enough? Had we changed hearts, minds, and souls? Had we been . . . truthful?
"Something in the hole grabs back. Something that doesn’t give up. Something with fingers and nails just like mine."
Back then I genuinely believed that every next man was the last one.
He’d seen himself as something different then: greater than he was, more worthy of acclaim.
Our relationship might crack as we build two babies, but turtles don’t rush.
The Green Man dreams that one day he will throw away the flag and depart for home in a bug-free rocket ship. But not before the children grow up, walk instead of fly.
Her family had no wings, only legs that could traverse blocks at street level, where no one was allowed since the Sickness.
Some just want a lick of fame, prostrate at my feet with their sweaty headshots, as if I am the one to save them.
It was That Smell, that-so-familiar-one that hurt me not to remember where I’d smelled it before.
It’s the heartbeat that I can’t forget. When the sonogram technician held her transducer to my abdomen and turned up the sound I was surprised by its rapidity.
Raul returns the greeting, always the same: by running his pointer finger over his throat in disapproval.
The whales would sing because they were alone, but with each other, their song a reminder that loss and exile are linked.
“It’s all well and good to dream. Dreaming keeps a body moving.”
The boy loved seeing the tent from outside, lit up by firelight, glowing brightest where it was wearing thin.
You’re safe now, said the plates, the walls, the glasses, even the golden chandelier that I hadn’t noticed before.
Your near-life experiences have coalesced in this momentary identity. You are a woman speeding along I-10 with a caged green-cheeked conure chirping by her side.
They tell me that my new job is to chisel a deep and lasting crack into the foundation of American democracy.
I started to wonder how the hell she’d found me after all these years, but I was starting to realize that any chicken with the amount of determination I was seeing now would hardly be deterred from tracking me down.
You wanted us to have a baby. I wanted your baby, and also for all the moths in the house to die.
What kind of story would you like to write?
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