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.
After lamenting a deficit of “normal” compliments in my life, I’ve comforted myself by concluding that–while I’ll never be the Marsha Brady of the world–at least people are forced to go off autopilot when they address me.
A trip to Brooklyn results in a little sartorial nausea, courtesy of the trying-so-hard-to-be-hip transplants crawling out of every nook and cranny. On the other hand, my native-to-NYC friend doesn’t seem to be trying much at all, and blows them out of the water.
“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.
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.