For a period of a few months, I spread pages of the Sunday paper under my son’s high chair. Overlooked articles came to my attention as I stooped to clear fallen banana and beans.
One day, splat on tight columns of tiny text: The obituaries, the paid-for kind. The beautiful woman caught my eye, as they do, breezy 1970s center-part, direct gaze into the lens, and a camera in her hands.
Shook, Melissa, devoted single mother who documented her biracial daughter’s life from the age of one to 18. Images from this “Krissy” series were acquired by the Museum of…
To the uninitiated, walking is just putting one foot in front of the other. When the destination is the goal, walking is indeed a slow approach and sometimes considered a waste of time. Walking can also be interpreted purely as a form of exercise without the walker having any other expectation.
But “going for a walk” evokes something quite different from “walking.” In “going for a walk” neither destination nor effort need be the prime motivators. Instead, when “going for a walk,” whether it be in the city or country, one takes a voyage into the self that lets the…
What is the point of a very long walk? It doesn’t generally count as exercise, or maybe it could but that’s usually not what it’s really about. A long meandering walk is almost the opposite of the way most of us work out—those carefully timed-out accumulations of moves meant to be as efficient as possible. Walking isn’t efficient. It’s slow, and unflashy, and either stolidly utilitarian or annoyingly whimsical. (A walk has also become, in pandemic-times, all there is to do — both great and not-great for Long Walks’ PR.) What, actually, is the point?
We hear it incessantly: We’re living in unprecedented times. Something we hear just as often but talk about a lot less is this: We’re all under constant pressure to use this unprecedented time. Everyone, it seems, has been taking up hobbies, baking banana bread, nurturing houseplants and sourdough starters, developing and fine-tuning complex skin care routines. Time is a gift, and who are we to waste it?
By all accounts, this past year should’ve been a boom time for creatives. While we were once expected to pick out outfits and commute and dine in restaurants and attend friends’ gigs and…
I’ve had a lot of lives as a writer. I started out as a poet. At 26, I was in grad school for fiction. By 29, I freelanced personal essays and worked as an editor at an alt-weekly, writing art criticism. At 31, I wrote my first book, a memoir. By 33, I was writing widely on gender and culture. At 34, I wrote my second book, a reported memoir. By 37, I’d tried my hand at my first episode of television. And now, at 40, I’m working on my first feature film script.
Some people might accuse me of…
SETTING: A dark, bare stage. Beaten wood floors, well-trod. Two chairs are set out at oblique angles to one another.
YOUR CHARACTER: Can we talk?
YOU: Sure. What’s up?
YOUR CHARACTER: I feel like we’re growing apart. Like we don’t know each other anymore.
YOU: Oh. (scratches chin) Okay.
YOUR CHARACTER: Don’t get defensive.
YOU: No, I’m not —
YOUR CHARACTER: Don’t make excuses either.
YOU: I —
YOUR CHARACTER: Just hear me out.
YOU: Okay, okay! You got it. What’s this about? What can I do?
YOUR CHARACTER: Thank you. This means a lot to me. Because this is…
Here’s the thing about the afterlife. It’s a lot like life, only a little worse. There exists no heaven or hell, no cashmere clouds and raging infernos — it’s a place like any other place except the pizza is never any good.
There’s no cable or Wi-Fi or the Trader Joe’s cheese enchiladas I like so much. On the jukebox, there’s one song I want to listen to, but everyone keeps playing Carole fucking King. …
My earliest childhood memory was stressful.
I was about five years old, and it started with me waking up from an afternoon nap.
Since I was a child with many needs, the first thing I did was ask for my mom.
The way my father tells the story, I am four years old, and we are on our way to the beach, my arm in a cast. I had broken it falling off a swing set.
My parents have talked up the trip all week, and I am dying from excitement. We ride forever until my father stops the old Buick. He wants to show my mother a ritzy golf course where he played once. He parks beside a pond, pointing to it out the window. Then we’re off. As we drive away, I start to cry.
When he tells this…
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