Theme Essay by Karen J. Ohlson
Even as I tamp down my dread, I feel a frisson of secret pleasure: I’m storing the details of this house in my mind.
Even as I tamp down my dread, I feel a frisson of secret pleasure: I’m storing the details of this house in my mind.
What is imagination, really? Maybe it’s just the little brother of Miss Creativity?
Caught in the tension between explosive anger and locking it down, I backed away—fast.
I was a gawky teen when I found out from Shakespeare that skinny people can’t be trusted.
I sat alone in the darkened living room, abandoned by family, scorned by the dog, nursing a jam jar of Jim Beam.
Having sensed that Adam felt shy and awkward with women, I made Pam his teacher.
If human beings were perfect, there would be no stories.
Turning one’s attention away is the quintessence of sloth—and it’s the opposite of what writers need to do.
It’s not easy, neutralizing the venom inside my head.
I promised the Devil my soul, and in return he promised me that everything I was going to experience hereafter would be turned into tales.