I Hope Someone Steals My Book

Thoughts of a former book thief after reading The Book Thief by Markus Zusak: I want someone to steal my book someday. I know that sounds counterintuitive but I consider it a strange rite of passage. It sounds weird, but if someone should come upon my book in a library or bookstore, and they don’t…

The Patient Game of Writing

The game of writing is a patient one. One that requires stops and turns, breaks and many, many deletions as your characters take over in fiction or as you mull over syntax and wonder if “stop” or “thwart” would be a better descriptive choice to best convey your meaning in creative nonfiction. As far as…

My Atypical Writing Sessions: How Insomnia Shapes My Writing

Dear Lovelies, A quick look through the WordPress Reader reveals that I’m not the only one struggling to drift off to sleep. I’ve been up for the past three hours now, alternating between scrolling through Facebook on my phone and staring at my window to catch the first peaks of dawn. My body baffles me…

Tackling Creative Nonfiction: An Adventure in Self-Discovery

Dear Lovelies, I have recently started a new journey: writing a book. But not just any book, no. This book is excruciatingly personal, which automatically makes it a different kind of painful than my fiction novel I’ve left on the shelf. This book is unlike anything I ever thought I’d write because it’s not dealing…

True Success for the Creative Writer

“In American culture, success is defended almost solely in monetary terms — we are defined by what we do for a living, and our success is measured by how sumptuous a living we earn. It is an easy jump to assume that if we cannot manage to earn a living through our creative work, then we…

6 Reasons for Midnight Tears

I’m sitting on my bed, crying because all the floors in my parents’ house are tile, which is a problem because I want to sit and be as small as possible but I can’t because tile hurts differently than carpet. I’m crying because this is the second, no, third anxiety attack I’ve had in a…

On the Rare Mornings I Feel Too Much

On the rare mornings I feel too much, my heart slams itself against my trachea and the world nestles hard on my esophagus. It is not unlike a hummingbird flinging itself against a still, sharp, rain-washed window. On the rare mornings I feel too much, my breathing collapses upon itself, repeatedly, like someone squeezing my…