Peace of mind only comes when you realize that peace of mind is all you need for peace of mind.

I am ashamed at what I think the intelligentsia thinks of me. Of course, the intelligentsia isn't thinking of me at all (save for the few rejected submissions I've made to The New Yorker), but I imagine

Heeeeey. So, I've been batting this idea around and there are enthusiasts and then of course skeptics. I hate that The Paris Review probably gets 20,000 submissions for every 20 or 50 stories or poems

“Well, the truth is I don’t know what to do with you.” That’s what God said when I met It for the first time in the middle of a very dark ether, a bit of light emanating from His or Her or Its great gold

For some reason, this is the freest I've ever felt. I have an MFA in writing. I've been published in a few respectable outlets. Many of my friends and mentors are bestselling authors, and yet...I feel

Branding yourself as a writer or artist cuts off your arms, legs, and, most importantly, your brain, because it asks you to do the thing that all capitalists (not artists or spiritualists) love—specialize.

Now, this interesting timing. The revelation that I need to release the Man of My Dreams is coinciding with a free (donation-based) Buddhist retreat here in Chiang Mai. The retreat is scheduled on the

All the east coasters are so incredulous about our LA holiday season: "How can you celebrate Christmas in 80-degree weather without snow??!" Newsflash: There are lots of people--outside of like