A Year in Reading
This was the year I lived in a log cabin in the redwoods and then — suddenly, crudely — I didn’t.
This year I moved back to San Francisco after moving away just a year earlier, just for a minute, a break, just for some air, and when I returned I found I didn’t love you anymore, SF.
This was the year I found wrinkles around my mouth and eyes, the year of three more tattoos because fuck it, I mean we’re all going to die/become climate chaos refugees anyway, I mean did you notice how crazy the weather was this year?
2015: It was the year of cooking more. Of jazz. It was the year of bupropion, the year of boot camps, the year I sold my first nonfiction book and didn’t finish my first novel. The year my friends all bought houses and I didn’t. A year of trying to be more like an adult, and a year of understanding how I never will be.
In the cabin, books felt realer. The woodstove replaced the TV. I started doing things like baking cookies and hanging bird feeders and sleeping all night. My partner and I stopped going out much, and when we did it was always to a dive bar and always for hamburgers. But we were lonely. We missed our friends. And so I read with friendship in mind, searching for female companionship in a way that I haven’t since junior high school. Most of the novels I read and loved this year were also books I was revisiting. I loved these books because they are at heart about women, about “little” lives, and about what it means to become oneself. … READ THE WHOLE THING
Reading Isn’t a Sprint, It’s a Marathon
The day I decided to read every E.M. Forster novel back-to-back, I had just finished watching five seasons of The Vampire Diaries in a row. It had taken me about five weeks—on average, that’s 22 episodes of a 50-minute teen vampire drama per week. I was worn out, emotionally and eyeball-wise. My brain and sensibilities were overfull with the fictional adventures of a group of teenagers and vampires in a mythical small town called Mystic Falls. Vials of blood and visions of perfectly waxed man-chests kept showing up in my dreams. I had binge-watched, oh yes I had, and binge-watched with abandon and glee. … READ THE WHOLE THING
A Change Is Gonna Come
Sam Cooke’s civil rights song turns 50 – the political made personal, and heartbreak transmuted into fiery action
Snow formed and failed, and tried again to form. I stuck to the margins of the action and kept walking. I put my headphones on. The shiny black of a gendarme’s baton caught my eye as he passed me at arm’s length, chasing a young man wearing a hooded sweatshirt. The smell of teargas drifted across the avenues. Sam Cooke sang. And for the first time in my life I felt it, there, in a moment of private, personal pain and public, political upheaval: something bigger. … READ THE WHOLE THING
Are my emotions making me sick?
I’m not misfiling religion in the science drawer; I know illness is not an emotion. And yet I also know that my grief, like my asthma, is always present. I know that I am deeply sad and I cannot breathe. … READ MORE
The ones that scare us, the ones that take things away from us, and the ones that make us feel in control
1) In a small, unfurnished apartment in Tigard, a depressed suburban town in Oregon, I sat on Lupe’s boyfriend’s gun. … READ MORE
The Best Work in Literature
Virginia Quarterly Review online
Why are writers so eager to leave our jobs behind?
My family’s store was housed in a grand 1910 sandstone building, formerly a bank. The basement was cool and dark. It smelled like damp cement and Styrofoam, but to me it was the shadowy secret headquarters of capital. My grandparents had repurposed the old bank vault as their office, its original meter-thick door permanently propped open like a steel monument to the place’s past as a retailer of money. When I delivered my packing slips to the manager’s filing cabinet, I could see an intricate interior system of old locks and gears in the door’s cross-section. Prior to working at the store, I had been enchanted by the mechanics of the cash register, by its percussive flashes of bells, sliding parts, and coins. But in the basement I realized the sales floor operations were a façade: the real work of business was happening downstairs. The basement was both the physical and fiscal seat of power in the store. This was where the money lived, in the heavy lifting that made those wine glasses shine for the yuppie newlyweds shopping upstairs, and even deeper, behind a steel door as thick as I was tall. I wondered then if everything I knew and experienced might have a similar duplicity—another thing, a working and sweating mechanism beneath the surface. … READ MORE in Scratch
Under the Boardwalk
Longform.org, Maura Magazine
A Memoir of Santa Cruz
A few weeks ago, I drove for an hour and a half down the coast of California from San Francisco to Santa Cruz, where I was born and raised. Santa Cruz is a small city of about 60,000 people that maintains a unique identity due in part to its physical location. It’s not really a suburb of anything. A bay separates it from its nearest southern neighbor, Monterey; to the east, mountains offer a physical barrier against San Jose and the series of strip-mall towns and office-parks that bleed Silicon Valley into the Bay Area. To the north lies Devil’s Slide, a winding oceanside highway pass that makes access from San Francisco more of an adventurous undertaking than a practical one.
I’ve been driving that familiar stretch of coast since I was a teenager, but on this trip, I found it changed. Devil’s Slide was suddenly inaccessible—my car was detoured into a tunnel through the mountain that had been hotly debated and in process for so long I never expected it to actually be finished. I felt uncomfortable. … READ MORE
The Albums of Our Lives: Time (The Revelator)
My first revelation was in a car, a rusted but strong 1985 Toyota Camry I bought from a friend’s older brother for 500 bucks. One hot summer morning in 2002 in Portland, Oregon, I packed it to the windows with everything I owned and pointed it south.
I popped a CD into the Diskman I’d rigged up to play through the car’s cassette player. It was a recent country album, a gift I’d been hesitant to listen to because I was 26 and still thought that rock ‘n’ roll was the only music for me. But I liked the title: Time (The Revelator). A revelator is one that reveals. Messy truths and all. … READ MORE
Some Hustles in Alphabetical Order, 1992-2002
Necklaces form around the throats of young women so easily, without effort or awareness, the shadow impressions left by experience: here lies the bootprint of capital, here the chain of economy, here the encircled habits I’ll forget to take off in the shower every time. … READ MORE
PROFILES & INTERVIEWS
A short-lived but beloved series I wrote for the short-lived but beloved website The Toast. about women, creative work, and money.
The Extra Woman
One in an irregular series of profiles of fabulous older women.
“They told her she was too fat,” Daniller said. “Well, guess what? Her first big film, and she got the Oscar for it! Imagine. Years of being told you are not suitable for thscreen—you’re too fat, too short, you walk like a duck—and you get the Oscar.”
John Vanderslice: Flaws and AllThe Magazine
San Francisco’s indie rock scene is alive and well—and going analog
John Vanderslice wants me to know he’s not a Luddite. We’re sitting on a blue couch of vague vintage in a cluster of brightly painted rooms in a warehouse in San Francisco’s Mission District, and he’s expounding on the awesomeness of computers.
“Computers are fucking fantastic,” says Vanderslice. “Everything is better now. Everything. The only thing in my world that isn’t better is recording technology.”
Vanderslice has an unwavering passion for analog recording technologies, flaws and all. “You know when you’re attracted to someone?” he asks. “It’s because they’re interesting, they’re confident, they’re filled with weird flaws. It’s not that they’re perfect.”
Annotation Tuesday! Susan Orlean and The American Man, Age 10
Manjula Martin: Here are some of Esquire’s cover subjects from 1992, the same year you wrote this story for the magazine: Howard Stern, Clint Eastwood, Spike Lee, George H.W. Bush and Winona Ryder. How does Colin Duffy fit into that lineup?
Susan Orlean: He doesn’t fit at all! He’s a kid and they are all adults; he’s unknown and “ordinary,” and they’re all very public figures.
MM: Your editor at Esquire originally wanted you to write a profile of Macaulay Culkin, star of Home Alone. You said you’d only do the story if you could find a fitter subject than Culkin to illustrate the headline “The American Man, Age Ten.” Your editor agreed. Was it really that easy? How do you sell a cover story to a major magazine about a random un-famous kid?
SO: It really was that easy. I sometimes think it was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. I was so naïve that I didn’t realize how crazy it was to take my first-ever assignment from Esquire and suggest such a radical redirection. I was so naïve that I didn’t realize it would have been much easier to profile Macaulay Culkin than an unknown suburban kid, just because readers come to a story about a celebrity already comfortable — they understand what a celebrity profile is all about. The writer doesn’t have to explain why the story is worthy of their attention. But a story about an ordinary 10-year-old forces the writer to justify why this seemingly unimportant subject deserves time and column inches.
Dear Modern Farmer…
I used to co-write an organic gardening advice column with my dad for Modern Farmer.
It’s like Click and Clack, but for gardening…
MANJULA: Soil is like that guy you dated in college: you can’t change him. You can’t alter your soil’s texture, but you can amend the soil’s components over time to make it more conducive to plant growth. It’s like therapy, but for dirt.
ORIN: I sometimes feel like being a gardening teacher is sort of like being a therapist.
MANJULA: Except you got to skip grad school. So is your advice to Sandy really if her soil sucks, she should move?
ORIN: Well, lucky for Sandy, the panacea for any soil is always the same: Add organic matter (compost and green manure) and distribute it into the soil through cultivation (a.k.a. digging). That’s how organic growers do it and that’s how Big Ag did it until fertilizers were industrialized last century.
—Dear Modern Farmer: Is My Soil Hot or Not?, Modern Farmer