It was all my insecurities manifested as some sort of Dali-esque nightmare…the makings of a surrealist film that Women’s Studies majors would go to town with.
Sometimes you’re waiting for the subway when you feel eyes scooping into the back of your head like they’re looking for ice cream, or some vague sign that you’d be down to disrobe in their presence.
In The New Yorker’s most recent Summer Fiction Issue, they asked some awesome writers, including Joshua Ferris, Miranda July, and Rachel Kushner to write short essays on the topic “My Old Flame.” They were so wonderful, and after a long writing drought, they inspired me to hurriedly write my own.
Sometimes I feel invigorated like this—the words of an author send me spiraling into a kind of blissful state where for once I’m not thinking about what I’m doing but simply doing it.
“I had lost my favorite enemy, and things were looking pretty bleak as a result.” A non-fiction essay on my earliest confrontation with the ambiguities of love and hate.
“I had been plopped in a daycare center for stunted women, who were to put words to feelings and revel in their expanding bellies until they could go home.” Been into doing more non-fiction short stories lately, so for better or worse, thought I’d start sharing. Apologies in advance to my parents who might cry.