by Lisa Peet
“I think the process of allowing your hand and heart to make marks without thinking too hard is always going to be therapeutic. Expressing yourself, talking to someone honestly.” Continue reading
Tag Archives: George Orwell
Features / Fiction / Interviews / Nonfiction / Poetry
The Work of Love: A Conversation with Kristin Kovacic
by Nancy Koerbel
“The engine of an essay is doubt. The engine of an essay is doubt and self-reflection and humility, and once you get in that territory I think women are better at it.” Continue reading
Found in Space: Gender and Beyond in Ann Leckie’s Science Fiction
by Joe Schuster
Her parents, who have passed away, did not live long enough to see Leckie’s strongest argument that science fiction can be literature: her publication last year, at 47, of her first novel, Ancillary Justice. Continue reading
BEST OF BLOOM: No Other Way Out
by Scott Sparling
None of this felt late to me, you understand. It felt perfectly right. Occasionally, now, the distant trombones and snare drums of time’s marching band come drifting my way on the wind, and I’ll stop, a little surprised, and ask myself, what the hell is that? Worse, on certain bad nights, an accusing question floats just below the bedroom ceiling: Why did it take you so freaking long? Continue reading
BEST OF BLOOM: Anna Sewell Growing into Compassion
by Amy Weldon
Throughout August we are revisiting some of the “best of” Bloom from the past year: Anna Sewell, spinster invalid, wrote one of the most influential and original books to come out of Victorian England. Continue reading
Growing Into Compassion: On Anna Sewell and Black Beauty
by Amy Weldon
Anna Sewell, spinster invalid, wrote one of the most influential and original books to come out of Victorian England. Continue reading
No Other Way Out
by Scott Sparling
None of this felt late to me, you understand. It felt perfectly right. Occasionally, now, the distant trombones and snare drums of time’s marching band come drifting my way on the wind, and I’ll stop, a little surprised, and ask myself, what the hell is that? Worse, on certain bad nights, an accusing question floats just below the bedroom ceiling: Why did it take you so freaking long? Continue reading
Bloom 