The Stories We Do Not Tell

rejoice that our lips
did not permit more stragglers,
more detail, more vulnerability
toward those to whom it does not belong.

River Song

for the first time,
i don’t want to go anywhere.

i want to stand Here and let
the rushing water flow on its own,
past my toes, over my chilled skin;

let it pull my hair forward over my face,
blind me and pass me by
instead of carrying me along.

Shaman Song

I dream each night of dark water. Pulsing, swirling, ever approaching, but it does not drown my toes. The threat, but never the reality. Waiting.

Why publishing triggers impostor syndrome

We’re terrified to deceive you into thinking we’re “good enough.” We feel weirdly guilty for making every sale.

I am probably going to offend you.

Why am I so free in my personal life, but then paralyzed when it’s time to put the words out there? Isn’t that the whole of what I do?

That shelf in Kansas means everything

When I write, I aim in my mind not toward New York but toward a vague spot a little to the east of Kansas…

Driving at night

Writing a novel is like driving a car at night…

Why the world needs you to write

Moments are slippery things. We can record them, but there’s no true way to relive them. A ratty T-shirt that smells like your old boyfriend is not your old boyfriend.

Guest post: Yanking the door open

What makes an editor know on the first page whether she will like the story? Look over your work and answer the following questions.

Ever found Neil Gaiman in your falafel?

Flipped the channel to the public television station and left that on for background morning chatter. The first thing I saw was a mini Neil Gaiman. Dispensing writing advice. From within a falafel.