When I lived in Shanghai for six months in 2004, I didn’t know I’d set a novel there. I started writing the first draft of Besotted five months after I returned to the U.S.
Alone in California, extended in fog, you hitched me down the PCH. One-hundred miles of snaking highway and strangers’ confessions. Then her. Last ride, straight through to Caspar.
Every poem should have eight lines, two stanzas. Perhaps one stanza, six lines, should the topic call for it (see last week’s handout).
Fall in love with a litter of tiger cubs born at your city’s zoo. Develop an obsession. Follow it, even though it makes no sense. Understand that your life is going to change. Fail to understand why. Fail to care that you don’t understand why.
When I first joined Grindr, I was lucky enough to meet a man who coached me through the shivering that came over me every time I slipped into bed with men.
A mantra thrums through the pages of A Girl Goes Into The Forest: “No one can deter a person from her mistakes.”
Wendell Ford owned and operated a two-chair barbershop in a dying strip mall, catty-corner from the Fullerton Public Library. Even Wendell had difficulty listing the two or three other businesses.
And when you eventually let it slip that you authored something that someone else for whatever screwy reasons agreed to publish, you will hear it pointed back at you.
The purpose of this PIP is to identify gaps in your performance as my best friend and provide you an opportunity to demonstrate improvement and mitment.
Today, Luigi Pirandello is best known as a playwright. He won the 1934 Nobel Prize in Literature primarily “for his bold and ingenious revival of dramatic and scenic art,” and with plays such as Six Characters in Search of an Author, he influenced such dramatists as Jean Anouilh, Jean-Paul Sartre, Eugène Ionesco, and Samuel Beckett.
The Walgreens air is buzzing a faint yellow-green that mutes everything inside you except the pain clenching and loosening its fist in your belly at intervals too random to decipher.