running from ambition toward grace: the year I stopped wanting all the wrong things

There goes that pineapple again. Let me tell you what I thought I wanted. I wanted to write a New Yorker story and get a blurb from the Michael Cunningham of 2002. And then I read the magazine and didn’t particularly like the stories or their formulas and Michael Cunningham started writing books that drew a chasm between author and reader and it had become an…

on imposter syndrome + being a student

We’ve all read about imposter syndrome, ad nauseam. Some argue that it doesn’t exist, that we’re right to experience self-doubt because we’re grappling with the reality of our limitations, that there will always exist things we know and don’t know, and our paralysis comes from confronting that fear. We’re taught that women experience imposter syndrome more than men because we’re told, straight out of…

the cult of cruel: on duplicity + hate-reading

In high school, Mike B. made it hard for me to get out of bed in the morning. There’s no logic to who gets chosen as the object of one’s vitriol, other than perhaps the fear of someone or something other–disgust toward a person who doesn’t conform or blend in. Mike B. was relentless. His friends vandalized my locker and all the girls on…

there’s beauty in the attempt (and honesty)

I have a friend coming over for brunch today and I’m pulling out all the stops: homemade blueberry waffles topped with fresh compote, maple bacon, fruit salad and brewed coffee. It’s been a while since I’ve had someone over–possibly because my home is my refuge, and I couldn’t imagine anyone in it because I viewed the slightest intrusion as a pillage on my sanctuary….

the whole stretch ahead of you (deliberate randomness)

Who shows a child just as it stands? Who places him within his constellation, with the measuring-rod of distance in his hand. Who makes his death from gray bread that grows hard, -or leaves it there inside his rounded mouth, jagged as the core of a sweet apple? The minds of murderers are easily comprehended. But this: to contain death, the whole of death,…

a woman in her own private Idaho

Photo Credit: Unsplash Male power, whether violently or delicately imposed, is still bent on subordinating us. Too many women are humiliated every day and not just on a symbolic level. And, in the real world, too many are punished, even with death, for their insubordination. —Elena Ferrante As  a woman, I’ve been told to not kick up a fuss, not make a scene, not…

on social media: flowers, coffee, a book on the table + a quivering heart

You should know that it took me a while to find the right fake photo for this post. An image that conveys a mood of a life so messily, yet so beautifully lived–a kind of Kinfolk existence where everyone is preened to dishabille perfection. The kind of life you could live if only you tried harder, if only you purchased that precious mug. The equivalent…

on regret and losing time

For a man can lose neither the past nor the future; for how can one take from him that which is not his? So remember these two points: first, that each thing is of like form from everlasting and comes round again in its cycle, and that it signifies not whether a man shall look upon the same things for a hundred years or…

on hiatus

Just a brief note to share that I’m taking a break from the blog to focus on work, a new writing project, and spending time with my friends and father before I leave for California. I’ll be back in a month with recipes, book recommendations, freelance roundtables and bits from my new life out west. All my love, f.

what you write on the body

Ever since I was small I was aware of my body, of the weight of it. You’re healthy, my mother would say every time I complained of being fat, grabbing folds of skin and offering it up as evidence. I was the opposite of healthy, feasting on cans of Chef Boyardee, fried cutlets and buttery potatoes, Little Debbie cakes and bags of cheese doodles–but…

the long, winding journey to the middle

There was a time when, if you wanted to see someone, you had to pick up a phone, write a letter, or ring a bell. That was the time, I say and my father nods in tacit agreement. We laugh because this is what happens when you arrive at the middle of your life–you look back on the life you never appreciated while you…

the beauty + blindness that come with privilege

Years ago, a friend of mine, a lawyer working on a stop-and-frisk case, talked to me about privilege. He could be someone who walks the city streets carrying drugs, yet he’d never be stopped, never be given more than a passing glance, because he’s an attractive white male who doesn’t look the part. Doesn’t fit the profile. On paper he’s the poster boy of…