I have a confession. Left entirely to my own devices, I am the sort of person who forgets lunch until 4 p.m. and then eats a bag of stale tortilla chips over the sink, calling it “dinner.” I sleep in my makeup. I find my keys in the fridge. I start 47 novels and finish …
I found it in a box of old headshots—the ones where I’m wearing a blazer I borrowed from a roommate who later moved to Philadelphia without telling me. The address book was half-filled, the spine cracked like a rehearsal script that’s been carried through a six-week run. Some entries in blue ink, some in pencil, …
The Day I Tried to Become a Bohemian I once read that Jack Kerouac wrote On the Road in three weeks, fuelled by coffee and benzedrine, the scroll of paper taped together so he never had to stop to load a new sheet. I found this deeply romantic. I pictured myself in a Parisian garret, …
I used to think creativity was a lightning bolt. A divine, unpredictable jolt that would yank me out of bed at 3 a.m., force me to scribble genius on a napkin, and then vanish for weeks while I shuffled around in my bathrobe, eating cold pizza and waiting for the next flash. I was a …
I have a confession. Every morning, I brush my teeth for exactly two minutes. Not because I’m a dental hygiene zealot, but because my electric toothbrush has a built-in timer that buzzes every thirty seconds to tell me to switch quadrants. I stand there, half-asleep, moving the brush from lower left to lower right to …