Was it a dream? A nightmare? I felt like I’d been sold a lie. There was no husband or caring partner, no safe home or solid income. Just me, pregnant and alone, in an abortion clinic with my rapist.
What do we as writers tell each other about the intersections of trauma and desire? How do we encourage (or discourage) each other to reveal the power and tensions in those margins?
I would go so far as to say that the entire reason I write is to detect all the irony that language allows and twist it around the truth like razor wire and ivy. That’s how I like my truth: twisted.
Cliches are something every writer has to deal with at some point. This weekend, Steve Edwards acknowledges the cliché and comes to something of a reckoning. Edwards declares: That’s how…
“Surprised and interested, I visited the (The Nervous Breakdown), and what I saw was awesome. Hundreds of contributors–some rock stars, some mid-list, some hacks just getting their wings–all mish-mashed together…
My first preschool tour was not a good experience. It was going okay until I realized I had dirty underwear balled into the leg of my pants. At first I…