Category: creative nonfiction
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Last week I got a new car. At 23, in post-college autumn, I bought my first car just days after my birthday. I was moving to the Poconos for a job and a car was a necessity. I got a loan from my grandparents and bought a 2012 Ford Escape with 42,000 miles on it.…
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I read 46 books in 2024—a little over 13,000 pages—and here are some of my favs, in no particular order.
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Before Here’s what you need to know about my before: I studied abroad in India and the mountains wedged themselves somewhere between my fifth and eleventh vertebrae. I vowed to go back, to feel the Himalaya more deeply, to venture beyond the Garhwali range. I wanted to go for my 30th, but I didn’t quite…
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Another journey in the outdoors. Trying to get outside more, trying to write more. There & back again. For HCV 5725. For Terry Tempest Williams.
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My first job out of college–minus a short stint at Dunkin–was at Highlights magazine. I was hired as an intern at their editorial offices based in Small Town, PA (why don’t I want to say the name? Why does that seem like the part of this story that is too much?). I had two job…
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everything I miss / is a monument / I cannot see through ****** It is midterms and finals week at the school I taught at this past fall. Semester over. New block classes beginning in February, a strange freshness in an otherwise stagnant, gray month. My e-mail account is still active, and notifications flash on…
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Everything you know about Aspen is true. Everything and more. Calling it a small Colorado ski town is like calling a humvee a car—you’re not wrong, but you’re not really right either. Aspen is a town wedged into a northward-slicing valley, mountains cradling it like arms. Everything about it is pristine, from the level sidewalks,…
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“I am not physically tired, just filled with a deep, vague, undefined sense of spiritual distress, as if I had a deep wound running inside me and it had to be stanched.” –Thomas Merton It’s all about language these days. Still. Even with the lilacs in bloom and the damp magnolia petals carpeting the sidewalk.…
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April is the cruellest month, breedingLilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory and desire, stirringDull roots with spring rain.— T. S. Eliot What do you want to be when you grow up? It is ninth period on a Friday, and I am the only teacher in a classroom full of seventh graders. The question catches…
