Around the Garden Stone

And when she opened her eyes and looked over and saw the sunlight on his arm and his chest rising slowly, she knew she loved him.


He looked calm, lying on his back in faded blue jeans and fuzzy socks.

Errant Crumbs

I rearticulate the tired chestnut that if you wish to survive as a writer, you must develop impenetrable skin and learn to enjoy rejection.

Nothing Has Happened Yet

He gestures at the other cars. The cars freakishly stuffed with people, people crammed against and hanging out of open windows, windows gaping with motion and noise, a noise so loud it blocks the senses and becomes a physical quiet, a quiet that rocks the streets and sky. Like an earthquake inside your skin.

Thought Row podcast

I was recently a guest on the Thought Row podcast, where I discussed writing and disability.

Fool’s Gold

We’ll be smashed down, he said, by our privilege. Into nothing. And all the glitter we’ve spent our lives adorning ourselves with will make the mediocrity we’ve nurtured shine. Like fool’s gold.

The Cake Eater

I picture the man existing in a state of bewildering splendor. Paying a butler to polish his car so he can read the Wall Street Journal and listen to Gershwin while a panel of chefs puzzles over his dinner. I picture the man trading texts and phone calls with his accountants. I see him visualizing methods to make more money than he did last year and last month and last week and yesterday and two minutes ago…

Residue of Yesterday

I had never seen a demolished house before I came to Seattle. Now, they lay in smoking heaps, propping up corners of every street…