Our Writing Life column archive, which features an array of guest contributors.
As I’ve delved more…deeply into other great memoirs, and into life in general, I’ve realized that no person, if observed closely, could ever come out on the other end of scrutiny looking anything other than messy,
I wanted to write a memoir called My Life with the Lincolns, paralleling my family’s story with the Lincoln family’s story.
I am learning how to say the words “I’m a writer” without effacing the words with a shoulder shrug or an apologetic smile…
I am barely six months into this whole freelance writing thing. So far I’ve learned it’s a struggle for nearly everyone who attempts it.
One cannot talk about writing essay, without first talking about Joan Didion.
It’s commonplace to assume the best writers struggle with anxiety, depression, or trauma…
For 10 years, I told myself I wasn’t a writer, but almost every single day, I wrote. What was holding me back? Why couldn’t I say the word?
Wordhoard is an Anglo-Saxon epithet for the mind in the chest, seat of reason and emotion—we still speak of getting things off of our chests.
Most of my literary influences didn’t sound a thing like me. Virginia Woolf compulsively detailed upper crust London; David Sedaris laughed about his dysfunctional family…
I had a rather strange experience last week where, in the span of one day, three separate people recommended Elizabeth Gilbert’s latest book to me. It wasn’t even a suggested reading type recommendation. It was a “stare deep in someone’s eyes and whisper, you have to read this book” type recommendation. I was hesitant because…
