I touch the tip of my finger to his lips. “There are secrets in here,” I say. “I want them out.”He tries to bite my finger.I steal it back.

Sylvia Plath is there for me when actual living people upon who I have depended upon my whole life, are not. What I mean to say is, without her words, I’d be exponentially more messed...

Oh, I forgot to mention it: My brother is the kind of man whom women stalk. In cooperative packs.

How many people make a career out of writing anyway?’ Cath snapped. She felt like everything inside her was snapping. Her nerves. Her temper. Her esophagus. ‘I’ll write because I love it, the way other...

But I don’t want to write my own fiction,’ Cath said, as emphatically as she could. ‘I don’t want to write my own characters or my own worlds — I don’t care about them. ....

Here dwell together still two men of note/ Who never lived and so can never die:/ How very near they seem, yet how remote/ That age before the world went all awry./ But still the...

It’s the kind of kiss that inspires stars to climb into the sky and light up the world.