like the man in Robert Frost’s poem, took the less travelled path, then continued up, half running, half walking, towards the brow of the hill, thinking how Frost’s poem had been misconstrued as an argument for taking less obvious choices in life, when in fact it had simply been meant as a joke about an indecisive friend. I had read somewhere that

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She told me that most cleaners at the hostel were artists and often collaborated on projects. But when I told her I was a writer, she didn’t bother to ask what kind. Was it because I wasn’t dressed like a Berlin artist (my pants were black but my T-shirt was white) (and I don’t own any combat boots) or could she tell from my eyes that I haven’t wri

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There is also a kind of writer who believes that human experience is universal, so his experience is enough to know everyone else’s. What’s the big deal, these privileged writers will ask: Why not encourage writers to reach a “wide” “mainstream” audience? Even if they want to experiment, they should know tradition first. In other words: “You have t

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