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On Weirdness and Play: Or an Ode to the Creative Haven That Was My Uncle’s House
I stared up at my second grade teacher with a probably drifting eye, probably long tangled brown hair, maybe even wearing the XXL shirt with the giant printed cow on the front I loved so much around this time. And the way she responded to me has never left my brain in thirty years.
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Ode to My Graphic Designer: A Story of Violent Affection
My best friend is a Berrett cousin I’ve patiently corrupted. We were both in junior high when we discovered our mutual love of writing and spent the weekends co-writing stories that featured our wish-fulfilling counterparts, one blond and blue-eyed like my cousin and the other a brown-skinned brunette. This is the story of how I lured her to the Cuevas ways.
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Sleuths of 642 South: Ode to Hyperbole and a Half
I was an enthusiastic fan of Encyclopedia Brown, so the plan was to journey outward, beyond the walls of our house, even beyond the cul-de-sac, and to gather clues. We had a magnifying glass and a notepad for just that purpose. The only thing we were missing was an actual mystery to solve.
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A New Ending to My Marriage: Dreaming Up a Better Story
There’s a reason I dreamt a better story five years later: "I was a shit wife" and "We were better as friends" or "I married too young" are reasons and excuses all in one, and less fun than invention.
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Prone to Swoons: How Not to Write Cliche When You Are One
I blue-screened in front of the mirror, addled by a full day of beer and wine and a prolonged period of undereating. My body just didn’t have enough of what it needed to keep me conscious right then, overwhelmed as it had been many times before: after my wisdom tooth surgery, four-wheeling accident, childhood fever. I swooned, as I have discovered myself prone to do.
