Essay by Steve Adams
For days, weeks, even months, you slog onward as if hacking through switchgrass with a machete.
For days, weeks, even months, you slog onward as if hacking through switchgrass with a machete.
Dinner gets done. Books get abandoned, bungled, finished, finally published, and ultimately forgotten.
Last spring and summer, my voice—and my writing—deserted me.
Nora Ephron’s pearls of wisdom could not make the grain of sand at their core any less irritating.
I assumed that Columbine had nothing new to teach me this time around, but my students showed me I was wrong.
I am a shy person. I have struggled my whole life to put myself out there.
On November 20, 2011, I became the first person in my family to walk Brzeziny’s slanting, potholed streets in nearly seventy years.
Essential to preparing for work is getting things organized. But—first things first—I need to make my coffee.
Like Walden was for Thoreau, Chelsea was my experiment in living simply.
It’s easy to spot hypocrisy in others, not so easy to spot it in oneself.