Now it's become very popular in the Taylor Swift way of pop singers writing about all of their publicly aired break-ups, which I don't find interesting at all. I think it's a little bit boring for me to write about myself. Even if I've had a really interesting day, I feel like I've already lived that, I don't need to go through it every time I sing this song.
I was supposed to host the awards this Saturday, a day of celebrating the hard work of artists in one of the strongest unions in the U.S. But could we really celebrate while the staff, who help support the union are asking to be heard of their needs? I'm honored to stand with them.
I had an eating disorder, and it took time, and it took a lot of help, and also it was depression... I didn't know how to be alive the way I wanted to be, and it was difficult, but I do not for a second regret it, and I think I've been able to transform it and recognise our vulnerabilities as humans in the world.
I didn't know who I was as a writer. I didn't know my voice or style. I was trying to be whatever writer I loved at the moment. You have to find authenticity, find your own voice. Marie's class gave me the ability to be a storyteller.
It follows a young Syrian boy, Ahmet, who arrives in the UK without his parents. He joins a school and befriends a group of kids who hear that the government is going to close the gates. They don't fully understand what it means other than that Ahmet's parents, who must be looking for him, won't be able to get into the country. So they decide, in a beautifully innocent way, to go to the most powerful person they can think of—the queen!—and ask for help to find Ahmet's parents and keep the gates open.
She wrote 10 books while she was here, and that includes children's books, you know, volumes of poetry. It was a busy and bustling place back then. Lucille and her husband, Fred Clifton, had six kids running around. Neighbors were in and out. Artist friends were over constantly. But Lucille Clifton managed to carve out time and space to write.
It's kind of crazy, but I just get ideas all the time. I genuinely thought: wouldn't it be cool if you could borrow scents like books? And would that work? Would people do it? Would they just think it was stupid? So far, no one seems to think it is stupid.
To deny one's own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one's own life. It is no less than a denial of the soul. The concept I stick to - my core principle - is simple: I write in plain English, and only when I actually have something to say.
I said, 'Yeah, sure.' Then I put the phone down. I thought, Well, what about me? I'm not inducted. Now John's going to go in. The thing about John Lennon and McCartney was we were always equal. But, of course, once John got murdered, he became the martyr - the Buddy Holly, the James Dean character - because of the atrocity. So a revisionism started to go on.
The best argument I can make for why I like reading fiction in translation is because it facilitates the psychedelic experience of encountering someone else's subjectivity twice over. The translator must act as a prismatic filter, faithfully attempting the impossible task of replicating someone else's experiences and ideas. To read in translation is to read two stories in harmony with each other: The one the author wants to tell and the one the translator has brought into your linguistic world.
In an age where we are all drowning in electronic communication, handwritten notes really stand out. The company's website brags that its robo-scrawl is virtually indistinguishable from human writing, produced with unmatched speed, quality, and realism through a large language model that generates content and a proprietary robot that inks it onto stationary.
The Center for Literary Arts presents acclaimed author Venita Blackburn, Compton-born creative writing professor and founder of Live, Write, an organization offering free creative writing workshops.
Anytime an Oregon author, or any other prominent writer, gave a reading at Powell's Books, Steve Arndt would show up early, sometimes by a couple hours, and reserve front-row seats for his fellow writers. He wanted the writer giving the reading to know they had the support of Portland's literary community. His friends say that habit embodies Arndt's kindness, generosity, thoughtfulness, and the way he fostered and strengthened a sense of community in Portland's literary scene.
We've all been there. Someone starts telling a story, and within seconds, your mind starts wandering. Maybe you pull out your phone, suddenly remember an urgent email, or find yourself mentally reorganizing your weekend plans. The storyteller doesn't notice. They keep going, completely unaware that they've lost their audience. After interviewing over 200 people for various articles, I've noticed patterns in how people communicate their experiences. Some captivate you from the first word, while others lose you before they've even gotten to the point.
The term "conspiracy theory" calls to mind a variety of dubious claims and controversies, like rumors about Area 51, claims that the Earth is flat, and the movement known as QAnon. At first blush, these phenomena would seem to have little in common with bogus word origins. But there are a variety of false etymologies that spread virally and refuse to go away, in much the same way that stories about chemtrails, black helicopters, and UFOs refuse to die.
Many lawyers have eagerly adopted the buzzword "BLUF"-bottom line up front-as if invoking the acronym were synonymous with careful thinking. The catch is that almost no one stops to ask the important question: What exactly is meant by "bottom line"? The answer isn't obvious, and it shifts with context. In military writing, the "bottom line" is a concrete decision or action a commander must take-stated at the very start because the commander already knows the mission, the terrain and the stakes.
A crack of thunder, a flash of light, and a sulfurous mist flooded my apartment. Marax, President of Hell, stood before me. Marax entered my summoning circle, eyes burning with unholy fire, and I gave him the stack of homework to flip through while I brushed my teeth. Marax marked up the papers and fleshed out my bullet points into thoughtful feedback before I even got to my molars. Then-three hours of my life, saved!-I banished him back to Hell.
A little rice? A little soup? I'd rather die reading the early texts you sent about my breasts. I wouldn't take a picture- infidelity!- and so instead had conjured them with words, for which, with words, you gave me back a tongue we dragged across the skin of common thought. Such is our lot, our shared disease or gift. Like Bernini's angels propped somewhere in Rome
Back in December, when SFWA announced that it was updating its rules for the Nebula Awards. Works written entirely by large language models would not be eligible, while authors who used LLMs "at any point during the writing process" had to disclose that use, allowing award voters to make their own decisions about whether that usage would affect their support.
1. Tongue in cheek 2. Old wives' tales 3. Statute of limitations 4. To be specific 5. Nipped in the bud 6. Get down to brass tacks 7. Deep-seated hatred 8. All intents and purposes 9. Wheelbarrow 10. Champing at the bit 11. Jury-rigged 12. Ulterior motive 13. Bald-faced lie 14. Dog eat dog world 15. Chump change 16. Dime a dozen 17. Duct tape 18. Can't see the forest for the trees 19. Quote unquote 20. Could have 21. Chalk it up 22. Iced tea 23. Take for granted 24. Blessing in disguise 25. Bated breath
The English language is a marvelous thing. In just the past few years, we've been treated to the invention of words or terms that have captured new technologies or given voice to how it feels to be alive in 2026: rage bait, rizz, slop, hard pants, nepo baby, brain rot. But occasionally, new phrases arise that describe something much older-perhaps even ancient-to which no one has given a name.
cardiganed grandmothers eating roadside picnics beside Morris Minors, pale men sunbathing in shoes and socks on stripy deckchairs, Raleigh Choppers and caged budgerigars and faux leather pouffes I feel a wave of what can't properly be called nostalgia, because the last thing I'd want is to return to that age and those places where I was often profoundly unhappy and from which I'd have been desperate to escape if escape had been a possibility.
I'm one of those authors whose books AI ate for lunch a few years back. At some point I might get a check to pay me for a dozen years' work on the three books it stole, but really, there's no way to compensate for the fallout. AI seems to think no, it can't think, only shuffle what real people thought that a machine can write as well as a person can.
It was the first Wednesday of December and the last One-Page Wednesday of 2025. Hosted by Portland novelist Emme Lund (The Boy with a Bird in His Chest) at the Literary Arts bookstore, the free monthly event is an open mic that functions more like a public writers' group. Students, aspiring writers, and National Book Award-winning authors hang out and read aloud one page from a work in progress.
