Creativity

St. Lydia’s is a dinner church. It is an exercise in radical hospitality and a place where I find community here in New York City, a city both inhumane and all too human. St. Lydia’s is grounded in the Christian story of life, death, and resurrection. It is a community that welcomes each stranger as

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I got nothin'. Some nights, it feels like everything you write is a bird into a window.

I live on the liminal sounds of the city, not even a mile from the harbor, where the boats mourn to one another. Their sorrowful cries echo about the sleeping streets. The water is cold. The air is cold. Taxis hiss down below me. Brooklyn is waking. Rosy-fingered dawn runs her hands along my windows and

Writing is not difficult. Writing well, however, can be. And what I find as difficult as writing well is writing at all. There worst thing a writer can do instead of writing is to think about writing. By this I don't mean criticism. No, I mean thinking about the fact that I could be writing when