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There’s a lot to be outraged about. But when my anger is visited on people close to me, something needs to change.
To call these acts wild, to see them as separate parts of consciousness, is to be a tourist in your own city.
On chasing ecstasy, finding tenderness, creating art, and experiencing motherhood.
“Who was this self-appointed vigilante of this street of ours? Why was he so invalid? No one seemed to have a story about him.”
“You tell the real estate guy it’ll be your weekend place. You tell yourself you’re going to get a lot of writing done here.”
She thought she was probably hugging a murderer.
“I made Ryan feel like his New Balances were snakeskin boots.”
“Living alone as a woman is not just a luxury but a refusal to bend.”
“But I did not want to feed a baby rabbit to anything or anyone.”
What kind of story would you like to write?
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