If Kumar had his way they would leave for Fiji every year just before Thanksgiving and not return until the New Year rang in and the decorations came down. They would swim with the fishes and lie on t...
Writing must not be compartmentalized. You don't step outside of the stream of your life to do your work. Work was the life. And who you were as a mother, a teacher, friend, citizen, activist, and art...
He is fifteen and ten and five. He is an instant. He is flying back to her. He is hers again. She feels the weight of him in her chest as he comes into her arms. He is her son, her beloved child, and...
Questions are for the benefit of every student, not just the one raising his hand. If you don't have the starch to stand up in class and admit what you don't understand, then I don't have the time to...
Catholicism is an obsessive-compulsive faith.
We shared ideas like sweaters, with easy exchange and lack of ownership.
It was a miraculous thing to be able to watch the person you love undetected,
The sleep he went back to was never the one he left.
But together they moved through the world quite easily, two small halves of courage making a brave whole.
If a novel was a map of a country, a story was the bright silver pin that marked the crossroads.
You don't see many shy terrorists.
Sand, waves, beach roses
I missed my mother's father. Is that even possible? Maybe I had fallen asleep for a while. Maybe I was like her, just waking up and looking for him to be there. I wondered how it would have changed th...
Had been looking. The water on the glass was steady
I’ve always been a believer in repression.
I’m not company. I’m your mother. She said it lightly.
When well told, a story captured the subtle movement of change. If a novel was a map of a country, a story was the bright silver pin that marked the crossroads.
The women in the kitchen took turns making a fuss over the baby, acting like it was their job to keep her entertained until the Magi arrived. But the baby wasn't entertained. Her blue eyes were glazed...
A pain exploded up high in her chest and spit her out of this terrible world.
As far as I’m concerned, writer’s block is a myth.