Yes, I’m Still Writing My Novel
Writing makes me feel alive. It’s the strong current beneath the ice, calm and powerful, a kind of steady thunder.
Writing makes me feel alive. It’s the strong current beneath the ice, calm and powerful, a kind of steady thunder.
Frankly, the idea of giving a team of strangers editing control over my inevitable mistakes and embarrassing moments before broadcasting them on a national stage is terrifying.
Spice means flavor. It means sensation. It means reaction.
It feels wrong to type into the chat box, “please add more hopeful language into this article.”
Why do just a phone call when you can do a call while descending into skull caverns with an inventory full of cheese and bombs?
In other words, did humanity deserve it?
American society has a contradictory relationship with sexuality, one that manages to be simultaneously horny and prudish.
“Wow, you’re so lucky. You get to stay up late on your birthday!”
I’m keeping you guessing—which means I’m cool.
I’m certainly not above following a viral food trend (see: the aforementioned cucumber salad).