"That afternoon we sat for an hour and a half while Finn painted us. He had on Mozart’s Requiem, which Finn and I both loved. Even though I don’t believe in God, last year I convinced my mother to let me join the Catholic church choir in our town just so I could sing the Mozart Kyrie at Easter. I can’t even really sing, but the thing is, if you close your eyes when you sing in Latin, and if you stand right at the back so you can keep one hand against the cold stone wall of the church, you can pretend you’re in the Middle Ages. That’s why I did it. That’s what I was in it for."
- Tell the Wolves I’m Home by Carol Rifka Brunt
I am shamelessly distressed by this situation.
"Everyone is moving away and making it look so easy. They seem so happy, breaking down their lives and building them up somewhere else. I can’t imagine living anywhere but Heart’s Horn. I know which neighbors to steer clear of and which Taco Bell will screw up your order and which cops will look the other way if you’re speeding a bit on your way to work or enjoying a joint after. Now my last real friend, Tasha, is moving tomorrow. When she told me three weeks ago I felt like someone had propelled me into space, my ears abruptly plugged with silence and every bit of me boiling and freezing."
- Heart’s Horn, my new story in WhiskeyPaper.
Logan’s work is humming with dreamy, erotic energy.
"Frida had imagined a child inside of her so many times, it was a wonder she had never actually given birth to one. She had felt her hips expanding, conjured morning sickness and swollen breasts, and sent love to an imagined fetus: fingerless and translucent, its heart glowing in its chest, tiny but there. Frida knew better and, in fact, often wished away the baby she had imagined. And maybe the wishing worked, because she never was actually pregnant."
- California by Edan Lepucki
The lead in my Utah novel will definitely be wearing this at some point.
"I was drawn to this novel for many reasons. First of all, it’s set in Ohio, where I’ve always lived. I’m also fascinated by familial drama and the cultural atmosphere of the 1970s and the author’s name is lovely: Celeste Ng, pronounced ing. It’s aesthetically and phonetically pleasing. And chiefly, it explores the lives of an interracial couple and their children—being an African-American with very fair skin, I grew up being identified and treated like a multiracial person, even though I’m not (I have white ancestry but it’s too far back to matter). Those feelings of isolation and social anxiety and mild body dysmorphia forever in my marrow. The various racially-charged interpersonal dramas. So what are you? What are you? No one looking like me, not anywhere I looked, not ever. When the local newspaper writes about Lydia after her death, they mention how alone she was, how she didn’t have any friends, and the editorialist always mentions directly before or after that she was the only Asian girl at the school, that she stood out in the halls. No one looked like her, not there, where she looked."
- Celeste Ng’s Everything I Never Told You: A Review (by me.)