Category Archives: creative nonfiction

The back entry is cramped and haphazard, a bent coat rack pushed in under high cupboards, an old bureau with drawers that won’t open full of mittens, scarves and unused kitchen utensils. A worn door mat fills most of the … Continue reading →

Her real name is Lenore, but in college a punk singer named Lene Lovich inspired us to redub her Lena. She was game, and it stuck. When she lived in Japan, Lena was easier to pronounce than Lenore, so it … Continue reading →

I is for me. The first person narrator, which is me. I am I. Or am I? I try. Which I am I? The angry teen I? That’s an easy I to slip into. She’s fun to write, though being … Continue reading →

I dreamt about my house again last night. As the dream often goes, turns out my parents never actually moved out, or they moved out but then moved back in, because they couldn’t sell it. All the old stuff is … Continue reading →

I wrote Birdie yesterday, though it had been bumping around in my head for a few days before, and that memory has been with me for nearly 50 years (gasp). It is mostly true, though I added details that seemed … Continue reading →

Birdie lived across the street from me, and she was a year younger, so of course I couldn’t like her. Plus, her brother was in my grade and a boy. And our angry fathers did not like each other. So … Continue reading →