The Speed of Metaphors

Ten years ago I wrote that my daughter was a river: My daughter is a river. She is whitewater and I am a canoe, struggling to stay upright. I can’t let the speed, the turns, or the swirling caps of white foam drag me under. My daughter… Read More

Ready

I once had a nearly completed novel about a twenty-seven-year-old, leaving her job on a whim and finding herself out in Eastern Europe. It was perfectly fine, a novel that I had begun when I was fresh out of college and applying to Master’s programs.… Read More