I wouldn’t be much of a book columnist if I didn’t celebrate Alice Munro and her much deserved Nobel Prize for Literature. It surprises me, the number of people who…
The headaches, my difficulty focusing, my specimen-daze, that floating island, my spastic, nervous heart—which are side effects from drinking, and which were inevitable?
Guns formed me—there’s no denying it. They worked on my body, bruising it in all the right places. Recoil and report learned they couldn’t scare me off. Each weapon wrote angry truth on me.
So now it’s 2013 and a souvenir of that ’70s divorce-era design resides in the dark, shared bed of a slim drawer in our kitchen, in the house of my first and only marriage.
I like to imagine him out there on his beast of burden, vast grey country on all sides and a book of poetry open in his hand. It is a romantic image and, when I think only of it, I can almost forget why he was there.
Rosie Schaap discusses Drinking with Men, her love of poetry, her intriguing family members, and what she would do with her life if she weren’t a writer.
My dad smells like myrrh. My younger sister Madeline and I hide beneath his robes while he shakes parishioners’ hands at the back of the church. We think we’re hidden,…
I’m a reluctant decorator. Maybe it’s because I’m really a poet, or maybe because I’m a slob. Either way, despite a life long fascination with my own personal mise en…