I’ve officially lost it just enough to give the old book a shot, and I need to announce it to the world so that I don’t fall asleep on myself (and my word-riddled dreams).
The White Album pounced on me and was truly unlike anything I’d read before—a seamless weaving of current events with memoir, facts with potential fictions, a soft-edged journalism that thrilled me.
Exhaustion and indulgence do not make other people “bad,” so why must I color them that way for myself? This is what’s at my core these days, the question I can’t fully kick.
Society has built up a problematic narrative where the ideal woman acts in a very particular way: she doesn’t care about superficial things (make-up, fashion), yet always manages to look and feel perfect despite that. Call it Jennifer Lawrence syndrome, if you will.
The statement, style, and song that I’m obsessed with right now.
With enough baggage entrenched in our lives already, the things we carry can quickly become another burden, and one of the few that’s rather easy to let go of. Yet many of us continue to cling to certain collections, so why is that? What do these arbitrary arrangements do for us, exactly?
In honor of Anais Nin’s birthday, I am sharing my favorite journal entry of hers, which tackles that difficult-to-describe misery of the creative mind when it feels it has failed to fulfill its self-imposed quota of creation…a setback I often wrestle with.
A recent episode of GIRLS got me thinking about the problem with relying too heavily on the Nora Ephron maxim “everything is copy” when we write.
A beautifully written piece that highlights that all-too-common male fear of female intellect, and their tendency to settle for those who don’t think for themselves.