My writing voice.

On my voice.

My writing voice is wild. It is unconstrained by clichés and history. It is as contemporary as possible, with a nod to the past. It has respect for the authority of grammar, but also the courage to know when to deviate from the plan. It started with Dr. Seuss, learned to grow with Shel Silverstein, Judy Blume, and S.E. Hinton, and matured surrounded by Julia Alvarez, Faulkner, Vonnegut, and Ben Lerner.

Short story excerpt.

Little house. Yellow house with screeching salty windows, and paper-thin walls. A shore town, with too many rows of water front houses. It might be crazy to stay there, on that slender, windy little barrier island, but it’s worth it to every single soul who has ever driven with white knuckles over the bridge. A place where tight sheds filled with bicycles, late night adventures for ice cream, and early runs permeated with misty breeze are all I have ever needed. A place where we drove frantically through deserted streets in 2012 to make sure that everything was alright. Remember the 4th of July, when I ran to the shore just in time to feel my face light up, a shining backdrop for each firework? Or all those times I forgot to rinse off sandy toes before dancing on the new carpet? Remember that time I wobbled to the shore when no one was looking, and Dad taught me to never turn my back on the ocean waves? My parents bicker lightly about the neighbors on the porch with fresh hazelnut coffee. I never want to be scared to be living by the ocean. 

Poetry sample.

One existence.

That's it. 

Let that drip into the caverns 

of your soul 

A leaking faucet, 

Until you mean it when you say it 

Until you realize the finality 

Of the lights in Times Square above you. 

Let that permeate through screen protectors

Let that be the reception you need to have now.