The author of Mother of God discusses the limitations of realism, Frank Bidart, and the anguished duality of shame.
Standing in the wreckage of these spaces unlocks a sensation people often crave, but can’t name.
It’s an imagined past, a pastoral imaginary, an alternate timeline in the multiverse.
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The author of Mother of God discusses the limitations of realism, Frank Bidart, and the anguished duality of shame.
Standing in the wreckage of these spaces unlocks a sensation people often crave, but can’t name.
It’s an imagined past, a pastoral imaginary, an alternate timeline in the multiverse.
“Bird,” he cried, “I come on behalf of the emperor. Your voice is all anyone speaks of.”
She stops to look into her mother's face. It is smooth and blank as a stone. Nothing emerges; nothing shifts.
Three little girls, an Internet boogeyman, and a stabbing in the woods on a sunny afternoon. Inside the trials of Morgan Geyser and Anissa Weier.
Did these women hate themselves, or did they write about a world that hated them?
There comes a moment, and perhaps it has come in 2017, when I need to believe something better is coming.
Being a woman in male spaces is a gradual, embedded process of disloyalty. When it makes you uncomfortable and sad, that, you are told, is the price of safety.
Radical self-care in a randomized order to match all the curveballs coming at us in this new Thunderdome where we are all trapped.
The end of AOL Instant Messenger might be a blip, but it's still a loss for a certain micro-generation—for people who, like me, got their period and their first screen name the same year.