There is a specific feeling I associate with the summer of 2005, when I was seventeen and working the closing shift at a bookstore that has since been replaced.
This isn't as dramatic as it sounds. I was a literature graduate student — I read constantly. But somewhere between the required syllabi and the critical.
I need to start by admitting something: when my son Eli was first evaluated for autism at age five, my first instinct was to ask what we could do to make him.
My neighbor has a cat named Miso, and for six months after my dad sent that letter I couldn't talk about, Miso was the only living thing I had regular contact.
The moment happened somewhere between Bozeman and the west entrance, in the kind of silence that in my house usually means someone is upset about something. My.
I was twenty-two years old, sitting on the floor of a bathroom stall between seminars at UC Davis, convinced I was dying. My heart was doing something I didn't.
I used to think nonfiction was medicine. The kind you take because it is good for you, not because you want to. I had this image of a person at a desk with a.
There is a particular kind of morning I know well — the one where you surface from sleep and the anxiety is already there before you're fully conscious of it.
I learned the hard way that the wrong book can ruin a road trip. It was somewhere outside Barstow, maybe mile 80 of a 400-mile stretch I was driving alone, and.
I still remember the summer I tried to read my first "serious" thriller and ended up falling asleep on page twelve. It wasn't that the story wasn't gripping—it.
