I’m another souvenir, amongst many, from the various journeys through time that my father took. Perhaps more deeply rooted, being his child, but still a part of a much larger picture.
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.
Life is a bit overwhelming right now with getting ready for a move, job searching, and continuing school, and I’ve been feeling too scattered to write anything half-decent, so forgive the blog silence for a while. I have a feeling there’s LOTS of new inspiration coming my way to make up for it.
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.
Is not being able to bridge the gap between yourself and someone else the loneliest feeling? I’ve been revisiting this question a lot lately, because amidst the current chaos of my life I figured some extra existential dread couldn’t hurt.
Head honcho Matt Zoller Seitz continues his reign over my brain/heart with some expertly crafted (natch) words of advice for us baby writers.
Because not all mother figures are blood-related, vagina wielding Betty Crockers, okay?
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.