Crisp, icy air fills our lungs, whispering, pulling us inward into the fauna-choked landscape of Forks, Washington. Residing inside this quaint town, someone of equal brilliance: perfectly tousled hair, cold skin, brooding saunter, piercing eyes, and a slightly outdated fashion sense. Sound familiar? We’ve stepped into the glorious world of Twilight filled with fantastical vampires, bloody violence, and of course, romance.
My year-round default pastime of choice is reading horror fiction. Thus, you can imagine my excitement when October comes around and horror recommendations are in demand for 31 delightful days.
In the introduction to her groundbreaking sci-fi novel The Left Hand of Darkness, Ursula K. Le Guin rebukes the claim that science fiction is about the future. “Science fiction is not predictive,” she explains, “it is descriptive.” In her view, science fiction is not about the future—everything that happens in it has already happened in some way, shape, or form. Instead, “the future, in fiction, is a metaphor.”
With a long stretch of quarantine behind us and at least a few months of virtual learning still ahead, you have probably found yourself with a free hour or two in between classes where doing your homework sounds as unappealing as looking ahead through your textbook. Why not preoccupy that hour—or three—with one of these queer romances that are guaranteed to make you swoon or maybe, just maybe bring tears to your eyes?
In my story, I supplied characters that cared for my character and asked questions when she wanted to be asked. In my world, she could choose the questions she wanted to answer.
For much of my young adult life, I had a secret. A secret that carried a lot of shame and disappointment. As a person that prided myself on my writing and reading ability from a young age, the circumstances of my secret was devastating. For many years I couldn't speak of it, even if I was alone.
If you’re fortunate enough to have been one of my victims over the past few months, you’ll already be aware that I’ve been occupying my time with an incessant rampage of recommending All My Puny Sorrows by Miriam Toews to anything with eyeballs and a pulse. Every now and then, I’ll read a book so … Continue reading On McSweeney’s Publishing, The Genius of Miriam Toews and Jonathan Plombon, and The Use of Humor as a Gateway into Difficult Subject Matter
Last semester, I took a class on the forgotten literary art of the epistolary. To drive home exactly how forgotten this art form is, I had to look up what epistolary meant. But hey, I thought, I write letters! I don’t usually send them, but if I’m interested in writing them, I should take a … Continue reading Perfume
There is a common misconception that a writer is a particular sort of person. That being a writer is something you’re born into, that someone either can write or can’t. There also is a second common misconception: the idea that people have to want to read what you write for it to be “good.” Given … Continue reading Writing for Non-Writers: or How to Free-Write Free Will
There are points in a writer’s life when the creative juices are not flowing. The juices have hit a block, a wall, and they say to the writer, “let us not be productive today.” The writer complies, justifying the lack of output by thinking that motivation will come later. Then the writer gets the idea … Continue reading All We Need is a Writer Who Writes