I realized calling myself a professional writer didn’t matter as much as I had thought, and that was actually a good thing. It knocked the pedestal out from under this career choice.
I met April Eberhardt this past June while I was at Chautauqua Institution in New York teaching a memoir writing workshop.
Yesterday, August 7, at 7 p.m. we announced something that will happen one year from now: HippoCamp — A Conference for Creative Nonfiction Writers…
I was the kind of nine year old who proudly invited my best friend over to Dad’s place without taking into consideration that most kids my age did not have fathers like mine.
The jolt of cold left me and sleepiness returned… In the corner of the room one of the eighth graders, Vladimir, was threatening to spray a girl with a black water pistol.
My three children, whom I birthed, look nothing like me, thank goodness. I am a six footer, WASP-y, with a long face, a crooked nose, and histrionic hair…
You slid a daisy stem behind your ear. We were fifteen, and you were well, and your bangs were always in your face.
Obsessive-compulsive disorder is sometimes described as a hiccup, or loop, in the brain. Instead of thoughts moving smoothly one to the next, a person with OCD gets stuck on a “bad,” or threatening thought…
As a six foot, four inch man who weighs two-hundred and thirty-five pounds and used to be able to bench two-hundred and fifty, I’ve got this.
I don’t know why I thought the drive from Indiana to California with my boyfriend, Matt, and his sister’s cats would be fun.
