Essays

Last summer, my husband and I went on a self-led artist’s retreat in Connecticut – ten days in our friend’s converted barn.

I try to remind him that the miso isn’t his canvas but an hour later, we are literally crying into our soup.

I know she speaks like a drunken fairy from the Bronx and that she's shy long enough for you to lean in.

There is nothing in the world quite as exquisite as hearing the right song in the right moment.

On the night before my mother married, she confessed to her eldest sister – she didn’t love him.

The storm hit but there was no thunder.