Why Mr. McCourt’s memoirs are amazing

The pile of memoirs on my desk is, lately, the most pleasant sight. This year started well for my reading life, especially that I got all three of Frank McCourt's works and The Trip to Echo Spring: On Writers and Drinking by Olivia Laing, mostly through my cousin's help (Ate Flor, my book angel). I'm... Continue Reading →

Why Aspiring Writers Aspire

Writing, per se, is scary. Writing to be read is horrifying. Imagine that risk you put yourself in when you expose your choice of words, your thoughts, and a precious piece of yourself to - who knows how many - people. You throw a sentence or two onto their table and give them the permission... Continue Reading →

I Should Go Back There

If you would browse my stack of old, worn-out, messed-up-to-the-last-page journals, you'll see how plenty of check boxes I've drawn in there with the words "write and publish a book" beside them. Month after month, year after year, I would write on the last page of my diary and get a new one. But those... Continue Reading →

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