Abandoned Creative Nonfiction

I could feel the terror in my flesh in the darkness before I opened my eyes. A tightening, here and there, all over my body. …

The first baseball game I ever attended was in old Connie Mack Stadium at 35th and Lehigh. My father had taken me and three others …

Cy-ku. Or cyaiku. Whatever handle you slap on it, it’s hot, it’s new and it’s sweeping the Web. …

There’s a budding young writer camping out on my couch — broken, and broke — who lives under the popular (mis)impression that all writers…

“Second Time Around” and “Drumming for the Pole”

A few years ago, I discovered the Metropolitan Opera’s Live in HD and the Royal Opera House’s Live Cinema Season programs…

Yes, I remember that railroad flat we shared on the third floor, the one with the chandeliers and dumbwaiter closet and wall heater…

The other day in conversation with my old pal JP something triggered a memory of the truly bizarre and occasionally frightening rash…

The waters of Blue Bay are not as blue as the name suggests but more of a greenish aquamarine hue. That is until one goes in. …

Leading to the door of my apartment is a short hall with [a] sort of anti-welcome — a mat before my neighbor’s door which reads: GO AWAY.

We slip into Havana from Cancun near midnight, hours late. The heat on the tarmac is layered with gasoline fumes…

A personal essay recounting the impending loss of the author’s father and the unexpected comfort given her by a stranger…

A personal essay recounting how the writer turned her biggest weakness — anxiety — into her strongest asset.

It was still light out when we left Kerry’s mother’s house: a one level, newly built house … a place where we slept and ate…

It’s been two days since my last ride. My right arm aches, thumb suffers from rigor mortis. Enormous backpack hangs off my shoulders…

Am I still a mother if my children are dead? Merriam-Webster thinks not. A mother is a female parent. I cannot parent a dead child…

2016. Notes. January 23, 2016. 10:47 PM. … When I write this note, I have spent twenty-seven years thinking of myself as a closed circuit…

Years ago, when I was still relatively new to Los Angeles, and newer still to the film business, I was walking to lunch one day …

I am standing in front of the microwave with its door open, ready to insert the bag of popcorn that I’ll have for dinner…

When we put him to sleep, will it hurt?

My sister was paying for lunch at her prestigious law firm cafeteria, and I broke the news to her that I was moving in with my boyfriend …

Sex in your dead mother’s bed is a lousy idea, even four months after her funeral. The grim setting might add a sordid, erotic appeal, but

Some corners are auspicious, some confused. In Iowa I once lived at Sunnyside and Bittersweet.

In the final weeks she lay propped on a stack of pillows, her hospital bed in the dining room now. They’d stopped the chemo …