Recently, I read a story about a writer who wrote a story that landed her in hot water.
In an essay published on a blog, the writer said she wrote a short story satirizing close family friends. The friends read her manuscript without her permission, and were wounded. One refused to speak to her and sent an intermediary to her door, to tell her that their relationship was now over. Continue reading “Bait and Switch”
A rainy night, many years ago, I struck up a conversation with a stranger at a bar. He wore checkered pants and an oversize jacket, reminding me of Rodolfo, the poet in the opera La Bohème. Turns out, he was a poet by profession (though it’s never been easy to make a living as a poet, and well-nigh impossible now). Continue reading “A Touch of the Poet”
“You call it excavation; I call it being triggered.”
My Memoir I class was midway through the term, which meant everyone had submitted pages for critique, and written homework assignments, and jumped into writing exercises many times in class. Continue reading “Give It a Name”