- From "Lick" by William Fargason
The imposter syndrome, the fear of failure, the fear of rejection stopped me before I even started. Escaping was easier, and perhaps it’s necessary for a while. Sooner or later, though, every writer must decide—if not now, when will I write?
While I had (and still have) a lot to learn, at its core, expressing myself through writing has always come intuitively to me, whereas from fifth grade on, I’ve spent countless nights in tears while trying to complete math homework.
I don’t know exactly when Phoebe Bridgers came into my life, whether she showed up on my Spotify daily mixes or if I had Shazamed one of her songs at a cafe. I will always associate her music, her lyrics, with the late southern summer and its transition into fall.
“Where did you find her?” I ask.
Cigarette butts, wilted leaves, and little gray feathers fall into the sink as water runs through her arteries.
“Leaking by the Bethesda Terrace,” he responds. He takes a seat at my two-person kitchen table. He keeps his arms and legs close to his body. His hands rub at the red stain on his sweatshirt.
I nod, that’s where she always goes.
I believed in god until I stopped believing in heaven. I believed in heaven until I stopped believing in hell. I stopped believing in hell when I was seven, because I knew there could be no such place unless it was made up to scare me.
met a stranger. on the street. he said, “you good?” / well, he actually said “ni hao?” which we all know is “hello”
For a book publisher like Gian—a purveyor of trade make-believe—labeling “narrative” senseless is a paradoxical statement. Like, would Magellan have said it’s silly that water keeps his ship afloat? Gotta believe in the craft that carries you along the medium, don’t you?