Because writing as an act of resistance often feels like coming up for air in a world that seems hell-bent on drowning voices like mine.
Any orange cat not named Crookshanks is missing out on a prime naming opportunity, in your opinion.
It was like a sick joke, I wouldn’t believe it if someone had told me it happened to them.
He reaches across the table before taking another sip of whiskey and asks me, “Why in the world do you still read paperback books when you can just read everything on a Kindle?” And I fumble around in my head for…
It is freezing, eight o’clock am, on Monday morning. I walk into my office and I am extremely exhausted. “Really, how much is one person expected to do?” Has become a consistent thought, especially on this grueling Monday morning.