Personal Essays

By exploring the worst in this country, I began to see the best in its people, and by exploring the worst in its people, I began to see the best in this country. 

My best preparation for writing a crime novel could be found in the jagged outline of signs for hourly-rate motels serrating the night sky on my way home from a little-league game; in the headlines about numbers-running, drug-trafficking, and loan-sharking I skimmed while turning to the funny pages; in a dying cityscape maculate with graffiti tags and bullet holes: Meridian, Mississippi.

Outside, spring gently nudged winter out of its way, while inside, the new version of my novel slipped the old version a mickey, rolled it up in a carpet, and dropped it off a dock on Lake Leelanau.

I figured my family’s history, while I fabricated that of another one, would go sit in the corner, keep its filthy mouth shut, and think about what it had done.

On a winter night in New York six years ago, two friends and I were in the back of a cab, heading from one bar to another, when our conversation was interrupted by a loud thump.

The truth is, I never considered my relationship with Clarice as it pertained to my past relationships, the similarities and the differences, the positives and the negatives, until I first met with Dr. Phillips roughly eight months after that night at the bar.

What could have caused the residents of Brooklyn to remove the chips from their shoulders, ready to fling them at anyone who dared trespass into their borough?

The part of me from New York understands the issue of Initiative 26; the part of me from Mississippi does not understand the issue of Occupy Wall Street.

In Lives of the Saints, set in New Orleans during the Reagan era, the narrator, Louise, hides her love for Claude Collier, my novelistic analog, beneath the guise of mere friendship.

Something in my heart has always been recklessly attracted to people who are reckless with my heart.

If I didn’t understand or appreciate the female mindset enough to be friends with a woman, how could I ever hope to cajole, beg, or delude one into sleeping with me?

Across the bed, Tatum, who I had been dating for three months and for whom I was still uncertain about my feelings, looked stunningly beautiful. I could not take my eyes off her. That inability became a problem when, seconds later, she began to make out with the other girl.

My teachers considered it a harmless loss of baby fat. My parents shrugged it off as a symptom of puberty. As I crossed into double digits, however, people began to whisper. I appeared to be wasting away, the victim of some terminal Victorian disease, the poetic and tragic mystique of which pleased my future writer’s self.