You can hold the truth in your mouth and decide whether to swallow or speak. You can brush and floss every day or lie to your dentist once a year. But donuts are a nonnegotiable.
Halloween is coming next week, and while we think the scariest thing about that is the fact that November is practically here, these stories have their own gruesome fear factor.
Not all poems are forks. And certainly not all forks are poems. Some are just forks. Some should really be spoons. Utensils, like writing, are tools for the job. Sporks are always useless.
In tarot and in horror movies, death is only the beginning. In life, death is both an end and a beginning, as we must figure out how to move forward without someone, but keeping them with us.
Things that are squishy: jellyfish, breasts bouncing in brassieres, gooseberry jam, promises, and the meaning of words. Also: our heads after this week.
It's been a hot, humid summer in New York. Sweaty, sticky. It's been a hot, political couple of years. Sweaty, sticky. We hope that fall will bring with it crisp weather and crisp apples, but the political stakes will only get higher and more hotly contested. Here, some pieces that feel the heat.
It can be easy to get stuck in your head. Especially writers obsess over our imaginations, turning over words until we find just the right one. Sometimes we forget that even the most ethereal ideas are being kept inside our physical selves. Selves that need to be fed and, more importantly, caffeinated. We are blood, bone, muscle, and fat. And at least some percent coffee.
Writing may often be a solitary act, but being a writer is not a solitary identity. Scattered across the world are fellow writers supporting each other, sharing work and offering optimism after an unpersonalized rejection from a dream journal. This week's recommended readings come from writers we know either personally, from a reading event, or through the power (sometimes misused) of Twitter.