I saw a bit of trash this morning. It was in the parking lot: cups, straws, water bottles, and a grocery sack in a meandering line. They were all plastic, their bodies formed by last week’s whims and built to last forever, now streaked with grime and morning dew.
I put too much pepper in my soup today, but don't worry. I did it on purpose. It's getting cold outside, so I put extra pepper in the broth to force that lingering warm feeling in my chest. I wanted my body to know that as
The cultural landscape of modern America is characterized by uncertainty. In my deepest analytical conversations exploring politics, faith, technology, and the future, someone always ends up crying. Someone always says “I don’t know,” with an air of finality. I don’t know either. Nobody seems to know, and the
As a child, I adored disk defragmentation. This was a part of a larger sense that computers were magic, a sense that even computer utilities were a kind of inspired play, the conversation between metal and sand and electricity. I watched defrag run for long minutes, tiny colored blocks shifting
One of the most common questions fiction writers face (after “you’re not quitting your day job, are you?”) is the question of where we get our ideas. It’s a question that has always frustrated me because the answer is complicated, and also because the question is somewhat broken.