Writer, editor, publisher———
up for almost anything.

Talk to me about: bird watching, gourmet bathing, lay-flat binding, the bubble multiverse, micro-museums, the ethics of ambiguity, feats of strength, the complete discography of ELO, spontaneous haircuts, idle thought, rocks, commas, keeping a paper planner, collecting hobbies (and the joy of being bad at them)

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More info than you need to know:
I was born in Pasadena, California, which anyone will tell you is a very safe place to live, but since I was born I’ve had two concussions, cracked and chipped my front tooth (and grown a full extra set of teeth, like a shark, 13 of which became cavities), split open my lip, been stung by a stingray, and broken my arm (all the way up to my shoulder). When the cast came off I had a scar on my elbow in the shape of a nipple. I have a scar on my chin where I cut it wide open falling out of bed. I have scars on my knees from playing little league as a little girl and then softball as a Panda at an all-girls high school in L.A. During one practice I blacked out and fell on my face in center field and got a scab on my upper lip in the exact shape of Hitler’s mustache. Luckily, it didn’t leave a mark.

I went to the College of Santa Fe (which was later briefly called Santa Fe University of Art and Design before it went out of business), where I played cricket recreationally and didn’t get hurt once. I got a BA in creative writing and studio art, and then an MFA in fiction from Vermont College of Fine Arts. I wrote my thesis on satire and humor, though I often write stories that aren’t funny at all.

I live in Brooklyn and work as an editor and publisher, a job you’d think is pretty safe, but in the past few years I’ve been thrown from my bike twice, torn my rotator cuff, twisted my knee out of its socket, undergone minor toe surgery, and survived two rounds of eye surgery. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Before all the stuff I do now, I founded AIGA’s Eye on Design, and co-founded food + design platform MOLD while working as a senior editor at Condé Nast (Details, RIP). I’ve held editor positions at Adobe, The Architect's Newspaper, and The Sundance Channel. I’ve interned at more magazines than I can count, among them: The Paris Review, V Magazine and VMAN, and Swindle.

My writing has appeared in New York Magazine, The Paris Review Daily, Interview, GQ, Print, Frieze, Slate, Riposte, Art in America, Artforum, Departures, V Magazine, Vogue, Cool Hunting, and Core77. My fiction has been published far and wide in my own notebooks as well as in The Arkansas Review. In a former life I was a ghost writer for TED speakers (you think they write all that stuff themselves?).

Listen to me blather about it on a podcast.


Language: English
ISBN-10: 0882681281
ISBN-13: 978-0882681283
  I died. Deader and deader.
"Little joke corpse!" Yeah, I
shrank beyond belief; I'd even fit quite neatly
inside the bowl of my ridiculously
miniscule briarwood pipe.
  Ishmael they call me, Father
Ishmael. I'm such a pipsqueak, though,
they have got to be kidding.
  Being dead means
    very light housekeeping.
  It's dark,
    and cold.
  Cold as the dawn of a new
Ice Age. A sage frostbitten
under gelid palmtrees. The pallor
of one's foibles.
  Dark: A rat standing
at attention on the tip of his
hairless tail squealing bloody
murder without the slightest movement of his snout.
  Cold: Across an almond-green plain
a procession of pale blue elephants
walking backwards.
  Dark: A diminutive stringbean of a rat hovers
on dragonfly wings.
  Cold: A wee purple face glares out of a winejar's
bulging glassy midriff.
  Dark: Two perfectly identical human mouths
kiss each other to death.
  Cold: A truncated male torso
gives with a significant wink.
  Dark: Above clouds or
black sands. Idols of old religions
set up. Facing them,
horror in tar: the grin of certain dead people.
Cold ...—Polar ...— I'm entombed