Essays

Though our house had no special distinction, she had chosen our porch for the delivery, heaving across the dusty tiles, trusting us.

I’m into porn. Cookbook porn. It’s a terrible habit.

The origin of my writing desire is obscure. There was no childhood epiphany, no early need to express myself through the written word, no family influence to credit or blame. The writing bug didn’t so much bite as burrow, so that by the time I finished graduate school it had tunneled into my mind.

How exactly has it come to pass that Memphis, more than any of the places I have lived, speaks to me the loudest? Why exactly has Memphis gotten in my blood?

It’s impossible for humans to know the end from the beginning, whether writing a poem or attending a solemn ceremony.

Fifty years ago, Richard Nixon concluded his farewell speech with advice he probably wished he’d heeded. “Always remember,” he said, putting away his prepared remarks and looking out at the supporters whose trust he had betrayed, “others may hate you, but those who hate you don’t win unless you hate them, and then you destroy yourself.”