images-21.jpgAll writers face those classic dreaded questions. (Thanks, Jade!)

They’re not meant to be awkward, or upsetting, but when you’re standing around at a party, or soccer game, or wedding, and someone says, “So, what do you do?” there is that certain deer-in-the-headlights feeling. And if you are confident stupid enough to say, “I’m a writer,” then the inevitable dreaded questions come around:

  • So, have you been published anywhere? (not as a leading question, please no–though you can ask me at some point).
  • So, do you have a literary agent?
  • How long have you been working on that novel? (Once, someone asked me that question and then followed up with, “How come it takes so long? I have a friend who wrote a novel in one month! Like *snaps her fingers* THAT!”)
  • Is there really a point to getting an MFA? What do you DO with an MFA?
  • Why would you want to be a writer?
  • So, does your husband support your hobby your writing career?
  • Are you going to write about me?
  • What do you do all day at home?
  • Do you make any money?
  • What’s your novel about? (followed by glazed eyes–if you are really interested, this can have a very cool outcome).

My personal unfavorite is, “What have you written that I might have read?” Because my awkward, uncomfortable answer is, “Probably nothing.” Unless you subscribe(d) to some obscure little literary magazine(s) that went out of print a hundred years ago.

But I’ve actually published a fair quantity of stuff. My fleshed-out CV, that includes every literary thing I’ve ever done, is three and a half pages long. But most people out on the street, or on an airplane, have never read a word of mine and they most likely never will.

So I’ve decided to pull out a bunch of my older writings and put them here. It’s the only way that anyone will be able to read anything I’ve read, unless they happen to stumble upon an ancient copy of American Airline’s inflight magazine at a garage sale, or if they happen to work at some big recycle center. Most of it is older work, except for the column, because for the past ten thousand years I’ve been working on various book length projects that still have not seen the light of day. One day, I hope.

Here you can read about: my grandmother’s riceball-making hands, a poem OR a story about a girl who eats poison mushrooms, a story about a man whose uncle wants his liver, an essay about being half n’ half, or a poem about the daughter that Albert Einstein’s wife gave up for adoption.

Now you can say you’ve read something I’ve written. Besides this blog.