I just want to know what it feels like to be a writer.

“Are all writers self-destructive?” she’d asked me, her eyes merely inquisitive, as if I were a tour guide and she was asking about the weather in Timbuktu.

PERFIDY BY JAN ALEXANDER 23THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 32

For twenty years I’ve had this picture frozen in my head: Elise in her green satin dress, the light going out of her fine-boned face as she wat…

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