As a child, I wasn’t allowed to watch much television. Books were my main source of entertainment—and a relief and distraction from the conflict around me. I was embarrassed that I didn’t understand my friends’ conversations about the shows they watched, though I tried to pretend I did and I caught glimpses at their houses whenever I could. I often . . .
I don’t keep a journal, but I occasionally write down my dreams and some quick reflections. Looking back through them this week, I was sad–-if not surprised—to notice how often I wrote about my desire to spend less time on social media and my frustration with myself for not having better self-control. I know the sites and apps are made . . .
Anyone who knows me or read my blog during the years it was most active is probably aware that Joan Didion was one of the authors I revered most as a young writer and someone whose work I continued to follow over the decades with an interest bordering on reverence. Spending a short time with her in her apartment for . . .
Before I realized I was writing a nonfiction book about my ancestors, I wrote what ultimately became the second chapter of Ancestor Trouble as an essay for a reading with Alexander Chee at the KGB Bar. I’d been trying and failing for a couple years to write about my great-grandfather, Charley, and his story at last took a preliminary shape as I scrambled to put together something new for that night.