During the feverish summer of 2014, I began to fall in love.
With a new person. And with poetry anew.
During the feverish summer of 2014, I began to fall in love.
With a new person. And with poetry anew.
When you think about the syllabus, you think about policies, contracts, and expectations. The syllabus is a fiction that governs the classroom space, establishing values and expectations for who can be in that space and what that space should look like. Syllabi define what is possible. And, for a long time, the syllabus has remained inside the institutional spaces of the university.
As I’ve imagined my own syllabi for the fall, I’ve found the most urgent and radical syllabus-making is taking place elsewhere.
In my writing life I fight to cultivate a routine to make sure I get words written. I also try to squeeze words into every surprisingly spare moment.
My senior year of high school I fell in a deep, passionate love—with music. My first love was the band Twenty One Pilots, an Ohio-based band started by lead singer/songwriter Tyler Joseph, later joined by Josh Dun.
So, past self, you must be wondering why I’m getting in contact with you. It has been a while, after all. A whole year.
In March 2016 I arrived in the Pico-Union neighborhood of Los Angeles with no context and no idea of how this city was laid out. (My fault; I did no research. Between grad school and work I hardly had the time to book a room, let alone look up things to do in the area. This is a familiar theme for me.)
In 2009, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie warned of the danger of a single story. In the years since, we’ve witnessed an explosion of stories.
We’re both low on data, to start with.
I met a man today who had transitioned from female to male more than forty years ago. He was now sick, alone, and irritated. Every detail of his environment, every action of those around him was a thorn in his foot.
I have just finished reading Elena Ferrante’s first Neapolitan novel, “My Brilliant Friend.” I must admit, it’s wonderful. Yes, she’s captured an entire life. Yes, it made me cry and, yes, of course, I immediately wanted to go to Naples and try a Ferrante pizza (which is 100% real).
I just can’t relate to it. I’ve heard some variation of this phrase whenever I suggest a new book, film, podcast, or television show. It’s popped up everywhere, from casual conversation to the classroom. I too am guilty of using it.
The January/February 2016 issue of Poets & Writers magazine features a stimulating essay by author and writing instructor Tom Spanbauer called “Dangerous Writing: Go to Your Battlefield.”
“To write dangerous is to go to parts of ourselves that we know exist but try to ignore,” Spanbauer writes. “Parts that are silent, and heavy. Taboo. Things that won’t leave us alone.”
It seems a widely agreed upon fact that to be a good writer one must also read well. Fine.
When I started the MFA program at William Paterson University, I had never been in a workshop before.
From the twang of the theme song, the images of rural Wisconsin landscapes, and the accents that seemed straight from the set of Fargo, Netflix’s documentary series “Making a Murderer” seemed all too familiar.
Anne Boyer’s newest book, “Garments Against Women,” is a poetry-prose hybrid that glides between sentences, paragraphs, and chapters with a sense of purpose, leading the reader to paused reflection.
Another New Year has come and gone. Another year of writing, revising and wondering how time slips by so quickly.
On any given day, I prefer being out of doors. I’m a hiker, a gardener, a beach bum, a wanderer. Being inside is difficult. For me, Seasonal Affective Disorder manifests itself as claustrophobia.
Unfortunately, I live in a part of the world that gets a very real winter. Short days, snow, clouds covering the sun. Chafed ankles from snow boots. Chilled red ears from a biting wind.
This is the time of year when we make resolutions to do better, be better. I’m going to try to think better. I will try to enjoy being indoors more, and take more opportunities to create. Sitting at a table. Knitting by a fire.
When I started writing stories, at perhaps seven or eight, I never lacked any confidence in my choice of subject matter. Comic books about superhero penguins, page-long stories about gremlins in the garden, copyright-infringing narratives about Bugs Bunny. These ideas were not ground-breaking,
From time to time, as artists and in our various other roles, we’ve all felt as though we are suffocating: Under the weight of a deadline. Under a pile of rejection letters. Under your peers’ seemingly-impossible successes. Or simply beneath the weight of a bad day.