In regards to publishing literary work, it’s said that a writer will wallpaper his/her bedroom with coupon-sized rejection slips before the first major publication. Right now, I could redo my kitchen. However, while the big fish hasn’t been reeled in yet, I’ve had a number of freelance publications that I happily label “creative nonfiction.”
What follows here is a blurb gallery, complete with links to the whole piece, and, where applicable, links to where the piece was originally published.
In 1987, just a few weeks before he died of cancer, my father recorded his final thoughts onto an audiotape. Among his slow, breathy reflections, he made sure to leave messages for his three kids. More
Here and there, I am swirling. The space below where I sit in church and the worn scoop of grass under the swing set is shrinking. I am inside listening to a man at the microphone say, “Christ is the One! He is it!” then I am on the playground feeling the swipe of someone’s small finger slide across my windbreaker, “You’re it! You’re it!” someone yells. More
Whenever a new acquaintance discovers that my father died when I was four, the confession never comes at a moment where such large topics are, or should be discussed. It usually comes as a short side note—rushed through, between a set of implied em dashes—to a banal anecdote. More