Somewhere in an empty office sits an empty chair. This chair was filled once, was party to a purpose only one person could realize. Like many of us, this person was a writer, but to so many, she was much, much more. An inspiration. A community leader. A mother. A wife. This writer was one… Continue reading A Death Unlike Any Other
Imagine me, aged twenty-three, in a cramped room with a tin roof, the only furnishings a collapsible aluminum table, a plastic lawn chair, and a ragged futon pressed against the far wall. Black rot blossoms along the molding, and every dog in the city barks at passersby who blink too loudly. This is where I… Continue reading Writing is Like Using a Washing Machine. Kind of.