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I generally prefer fiction to memoir because there’s always a better chance, however slight, of a giant robot attack on the next page.
In the hot new reality show The Bachelard, a houseful of philosopher contestants compete to interpret the material space they share.
When Halloween comes, remind me I want to go as Linked In. I’ll just knock on the same door over and over.
How do I turn off "track changes" in my mirror?
Had to take down the birch tree where my agent lives (you’ll recall he’s a squirrel). Hope I don’t come to regret this, professionally.
My daughter says my new glasses make me look like I know what I’m talking about. So I’ll have to keep them through her teen years.
“The characters in this novel did not grow at all! The font was the same size at the beginning as the end. One star."
Fun fact: There isn’t a single personal essay left online that hasn’t been referred to as “brave” by someone on Twitter.
Books happen because of the publishing business; literature happens despite it.
If you’re telling more or less the same story as every third writer in the queue, the impetus for reading needs to come from style.
Watching Charlie Brown Thanksgiving with my daughter, who'll never quite get the scene with kids all piled in the rear of a station wagon.
I’ve just heard that FRAM has gone to the printer, to become an actual book. Cue the anxious, nervous waiting music.
Among dark coats of wool and fleece on a crowded commuter train platform, a young monk’s saffron robes become a beacon toward something.
Every month starts as NaNoTryMo. Most of them turn into NaNoWhyMo and too many end as NaNoCryMo.
With my new social app Gruber, you can summon Alan Rickman to wait for a taxi with you in menacing German fashion.
Father, teacher, writer, editor, cheeseburger enthusiast. My second novel FRAM is coming from @igpublishing in Jan 2015.
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