Literary citizenship essentially boils down to community engagement—what writers, readers, and other booklovers can do to support the literary community in their own backyards, nationally, and beyond.
In the year following my mother’s passing, it felt as if her ghost draped afterimages heavy as a shearling coat over me. My body took on her limitations. I developed sciatica.
… I step outside and meet a squirrel standing between my car’s back tire and the curb.
I moved to Los Angeles with one suitcase and three boxes in transit via FedEx from New York City.
The changing moon…lingers over Acapulco Bay… . We take our honeymoon there although my heart isn’t in it, hopelessly lost on the one who got away.
Spring sprung on a Tuesday in New York, and change was in the air. Actually, not change, dog shit.
You’re doing it wrong! a brassy voice informs me…I turn from the stove to find an elfin Creole woman with four gold teeth and bright red lipstick watching me…
… that long, rope-like braid would swish back and forth. She was an aging Pocahontas, a tribal medicine woman
During our weekly Skype session, my therapist, Margaret, suggests I’m an alcoholic. What? I already stopped drinking, can’t remember my last hangover.
… as I entered…fourth grade…I was short one father, and my male role models were a dull preacher and a photo of a half-naked hippie nailed to a board.
