Monthly Archives: July 2020
Everyone who gets on is headed their own way—school, work, church, shopping, home—but for a brief moment, the barreling bus brings us all together.
There are several “worst parts” about driving across the country.
I got to sleep eventually.
As evening settles in, the flickering light of the fire illuminates the faces of family and friends gathered around, eager to hear another story from the family elders.
Then, at some point in our spin last night, we caught our collective breath.
The scene, at first, is more akin to Jaws than Blue Planet—a silent silhouette from out of the hazy depths.
Yesterday, as I was beginning to write this, a fly filled the room.
Technically my third home, but my memories begin here.
The episodes are short stories, and, like short stories, they have the boldness to be small, specific, uncomfortable, or shamelessly tender.
But I will often retrace the roads and words I’ve taken and exhale, exultant.
When I got lonely, I would express that feeling by writing about geography, current events, and my personal life, outlining the ways those forces contributed to that loneliness.
Remember when Grandma, a model of self-restraint, shrieked so loudly you could hear her from across the lake?
The laughter flowed freely, as if the devastation of the last few days had dammed it up until it burst from us all at once.
Kindle patience within when the spark of impulse bursts upon me.
Like most people around the world, I have not attended a live performance in months.
Looking around the space, a constellation of memories appear.
The men greeted one group member by erupting “Herman the German!” when he walked in the door.
To be sure, I found several things that made me cringe. But I also found a lot of things to love.
You became a toddler during the pandemic.
For years I had found my most vivid and intimate joy through sound.
I did not need thyme. Or brown sugar. Or the lime.
For those of us who have never been on the blunt end of sexism (or racism, or ableism, etc.), things can look funny or tragic or intriguingly disgusting when they are actually evil.
Seven years later, I am now in Grand Rapids again, which is a kind of beautiful, full-circle moment.
For the novel to improve, for ink-and-paper storytelling to stay relevant, for literature to tell today’s stories to today’s audience, it must learn from the work of screenwriters
The house is, by nature, transient.
But now, in the morning as I dress, I am enthralled by all the stories I carry on me and within me.
And yet, even there, in that peaceful place, my brow furrowed with unrest.
Under the Madison Street bridge, the tree that grows sideways suddenly popped flowers that smelled like corn tortillas.
I am from this place as much as I am from anywhere, and it’s this recognition that helps me know that I can feel this way again.