Tag: Creative Writing
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Crying in H Mart
With food, family, and death at the centerpiece of this service, “Crying in H Mart,” is a gathering of the ugly side of grief and dying, the little moments of happiness interspersed in-between, and the eventual rise to acceptance of the love that never leaves.
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Mexican Gothic
If Fall of the House of Usher were a song, this would be the remixed version ft. Bad Bunny and written by someone high on shrooms. And you know what? I’m about it.
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Year of the Reaper
The world building is beautifully crafted (familiar but new and not overly complicated). I personally love historical fiction and even more so when it’s fantasy, so I had no problem placing myself in the setting of this novel, which is set during the Black Plague.
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The Lost Apothecary
There are books that grip me so tightly, I find myself revisiting them like I would an old friend. & Then there are books that are so dull, I use them as door stops. The Lost Apothecary is perfectly in the middle— meaning perfectly average.
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Returning a Borrowed Tongue
.In many ways, this anthology is a gift to me and no matter how many more collections I will read, I know without a doubt, I will always revisit this one and take something new from its words each time.
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Let Your Parents Tell You Their Stories
Because what are memories if not drafts of the stories we’ll one day share with others?
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The First Time I Fell In Love
The first time I fell in love, it was with a boy. He was kind and smart and I was 16 and filled with the passionate exuberance of my first time. When I fell in love, it was with my best friend. We sat next to each other during most classes and snuck touches past…
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FAQ: My Master’s Program Part I
& to me, those are my favorite moments because they taught me that even in the midst of all this underlying fear and palpable stress, that we could still find the energy to laugh and have a good time. Those moments really convinced me that no matter what happens, it’ll all be okay.
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“How Do You Know You’re A Writer?”
Sometimes the words fall through the tips of my fingers with the same excruciating slowness as that of the leaves of a hibiscus detaching itself from its stem.