Category: Writing

  • Short Story Review: “Marseille” by Ayşegül Savaş

    (The short story “Marseille” by Ayşegül Savaş appeared in the April 7th, 2025 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Illustration by Virginie Morgand

    Old friends are the best friends you can have! There, I said it, and I am willing to die on this completely uncontroversial hill! See, I know that my old friends, some that I have known since grade school, have made my life better, funnier, and have given me perspective in immeasurable ways. Mainly because we have grown older together. Reading “Marseille” by Ayşegül Savaş reminded me of the virtues of having old friends.

    Here’s an Overly Simplistic Synopsis: Amina, who recently had a baby, goes out for a weekend in Marseille with two of her old university friends, Alba and Lisa.

    I try to keep an open mind, and not to jump to conclusions when I start reading a story, but by the time I made it to the third paragraph, and read that this was going to be a story about three old friends going away for a weekend, the cliché and trope sirens started going off in my head. And I can admit that I was totally wrong for doing that. Though, I feel that this “red herring” of a situation was part of Ayşegül Savaş’ plan all along, lulling us in to the story.

    The story’s opening paragraph describes how Amina and her husband have been trying to give each other space and time away from each other, in an attempt to reclaim their lives, “which had been on hold since the baby was born.” So, from the start, the premise of the work is reclaiming one’s self, even after change has occurred. And as we follow Amina and her friends around for these few days, that theme is repeated, in which change is coming, or has already occurred.

    And Ayşegül Savaş handles this theme very smartly. Again, so many times this story could have fallen into the land of middle-aged people tropes, but it never goes there. For one reason, our three characters aren’t that old, perhaps just entering into their thirties. The other way this theme is handled well is that Amina comes into contact with three women, two in the setting of the story and one as a memory, over the stretch of the piece; the first is a new mother on the train out to Marseille, the next is an older woman that explains that desire goes aware after giving birth but will return, the third is a young woman on the ferry ride. It’s as if Amina encounters her present self, her future self, and her past self – these interactions don’t represent warnings of the future, or regrets of the past, but are more like mile posts signaling the changes that happen in life. But what I appreciated most that this was a story about three friends who discover that they have changed by getting older, and still remain friends.

    In the end, “Marseille” is a story about that moment that we all know is coming – that moment when we get the first hint that we aren’t young anymore.

  • ODDS and ENDS: Real Spring, Writing in Cafes, and Teaching My Daughter Important Stuff

    (What you tryin’ to hand me…)

    Well, today felt like the first day of Real Spring. Not that fake Spring where it’s warm for like an hour or two, and then it goes back to being cold. No, Real Spring is when it’s cool in the morning, sunny sky, and you know that by afternoon you will need to take off your coat. Yeah, flowers are coming up, and a few buds are showing up on trees. I even saw a squirrel waving at people. I will be happy to have the windows open again, and there is something reassuring about sleeping with the windows open at night. The kid is excited because she says that she will be able to start wearing shorts again. (She equates Spring as a lower version of Summer, but who am I to burst that bubble…) Real Spring does mean that change is on the wind, and life is about to renew. It’s also when the wife and I switch from sipping bourbon to enjoying a gin and tonic after work.

    I have started writing in cafes and coffee shops again. I’m not a huge fan of it; the act boarders on the side of performative art. But I have to also admit that writing at home has become a difficult situation for me. Difficult because Mario Cart is so tempting, and sitting in the apartment reminds me of how many home improvement projects I haven’t finished. So, to the neighborhood cafe I go. Luckily, I am not alone when I work there. I have been arriving at the same time each day, but haven’t discovered any regulars. As far as I can tell, I think I am the only writer. Seems like everyone else is working on code. And they all seem younger than me.

    I am still trying to figure out this parenting thing. Most of the time, I do believe that I am doing a good job raising her, making sure she is prepared for the world that she will enter sooner than I would like. And I do drop the ball from time to time, and make mistakes. But, I have learned to own up to my mistakes, and apologize to her when I do fail. And then on other days, I make her sit and watch the MST3k episode of “Bride of the Monster,” because I want her to be funny. Or at least appreciate weird funny stuff. She seemed to have enjoyed it. I just need to wait and see if I hear her make Lobo jokes around her friends.

  • Short Story Review: “Hatagaya Lore” by Bryan Washington

    (The short story “Hatagaya Lore” by Bryan Washington appeared in the March 31st, 2025 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Illustration by Kotori Mamata

    When I moved to New York City, a place I always wanted to live in, it took years before it felt like my home. It took even longer for the guy who works at the bodega at the end of the block to acknowledge me at a regular in the neighborhood. (He now calls me “chief” instead of “you.”) But gradually, it started to feel like my home, and now it’s hard to think of it as anything but. Bryan Washington’s “Hatagaya Lore” examines how a place can become your community, and then your indispensable home.

    Here’s an overly simplified synopsis: The narrator and his husband move to Tokyo from Dallas. At first the narrator isn’t sure how to fit in, but soon finds his community, which leads to changes and growth.

    What I loved about Bryan Washington’s story is how he intersects community and intimacy, and the connections that are created from it. The narrator goes out and finds a community that he can connect to that sustains him as he journey in Japan. Yet, there is also a need in the narrator for more of an intimate connection with people, which isn’t always sexual, but is necessary to keep the narrator grounded, as the person he is growing into is beginning to flourish. Also, I liked Washington’s choice to have the narrator tells us, ever so briefly, about other relationships the he has had over the years in this story, but aren’t explained in detail, thus creating a feeling of trust and confidence between the narrator and us the reader; that we are only being told what is most important to the narrator, and nothing superfluous. It’s as if we are being added into the narrator’s community. Finally, I commend that the climax of this story is not the narrator “realizing” something profound, but is the narrator listening and observing.

    Bryan Washington’s writing skills are just phenomenal. He is one of my favorite “less is more” writers out there. Spartan is a fair description of how he describes most things in this story, but I am never left wanting for more, or feeling that details are missing. I appreciated how subtly the disillusion of the marriage was shown. In this story, a scene of their breakup isn’t needed, but showing that moment when the trust between the couple, that break in emotional intimacy, spoke volumes about the state of their relationship. And this story is peppered with moments like that, where there is a breath and space in this writing that allows weight to be infused in these situations.

    I’m a fan of Bryan Washington, and I can admit that I might not be the most objective person when it comes to evaluating this story, but eh… It’s a good story all around. I enjoyed being with these characters, seeing them interact, and watching them grow and find their place in the world. Some homes are made, while others are discovered.

  • That’s One Half-Assed Blog Post

    Sometimes you show up to dance, and then you don’t feel like dancing.

    I am 100% forcing myself to write something, anything, as I am running out of time today. The goal here, as it is every day, is to at least write 250 words. And for the past hour, I have been looking at Wikipedia pages, and listening to music. I also digressed to looking at Block Island on a map, and thought about making plans to go there. Though, I’m pretty sure I won’t be going there this year.

    See, I had a real tight schedule today to get everything done. This included moving the car, grocery shopping, journaling, working out, and getting a blog done. The one thing that looks like it will get left off is reading a new book of short stories that I have, and have also been putting of reading for a month now. I thought if I scheduled time to read, instead of reading when I felt like it, I would get a jump on the book… didn’t work out like I thought.

    I do have a procrastination problem. I can admit that.

    I think if I had a choice, I would always choose a nap. And that’s what I have been fighting all day.

    But here I am, trying to check all the boxes for today. Trying to feel like I accomplished something. That I followed through when I said I would. I do have a good chunk of the day left, but that will be occupied by picking up the kid and getting her to soccer practice.

    Okay, that’s 273 words. That’ll do.

  • I Let AI Rewrite My Blog

    I Let AI Rewrite My Blog

    I am sticking my toes in, and dabbling a little more with AI. You know, to see how it works, and also to hunt down the ghost in that ChatGPT machine.

    I have been reading about people using AI to write a “first draft” of letters and reports, and then they go through and make the text sound more human and personal. The thought I had this morning was what would happen if I reversed that process. What if I fed to AI, ChatGPT in this case, was an old blog from May 6th, 2024, and asked it to rewrite the post to make it funnier and more accessible.

    This is what it produced:

    Something weird has been happening to me over the past couple of years—I’ve developed an unstoppable urge to buy blue clothing. Not just any blue, but deep, rich, “navy captain who lost his ship” blue. Oxford button-down? Yes. Jeans so blue they make the ocean jealous. Absolutely. I’m even considering a blue suit for a wedding, because nothing says “I’m here to celebrate love” like looking like a well-dressed blueberry.

    And then there’s my newfound appreciation for khakis paired with a blue shirt. A strong combo, but I swear, if I ever add a puffer vest to complete the look, you have full permission to slap me. Hard. Unless, of course, I’m working deep undercover as a Finance Bro infiltrating a hedge fund happy hour.

    Not sure why this is happening, but it’s happening. My wardrobe is slowly turning into a monochrome tribute to the color blue, and I have no control over it.

    At first, I thought maybe it was some deep, psychological reflection of my mental state—was I subconsciously craving serenity? Was I low-key depressed? But no, I feel neither particularly Zen nor like I need to stare wistfully out of rain-streaked windows.

    To mix things up, I started throwing on my old army coat over my blue shirts, hoping it would give me that rugged Quint from Jaws energy. In my head, I’m a grizzled, sea-hardened badass. In reality? Probably just a guy who looks like he got dressed in the dark at an Army-Navy surplus store.

    Is this a middle-age thing? A subtle cry for help? Or have I just reached the evolutionary stage where a man must choose his signature color, and mine happens to be “50 Shades of Blue”?

    Does blue make me stand out? Blend in? Who knows. But if that blue comes in a plaid pattern. Game over. I have to own it. It’s like some kind of involuntary response—I see a blue plaid shirt, and my brain just whispers, “Yes. This is who we are now.”

    The evidence is stacking up: blue pajamas, navy ballcap, even my car is blue. Sure, my wife technically picked it out, but I’m pretty sure the universe was just reinforcing my aesthetic destiny.

    It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I wore a lot of black—back in my pretentious arts phase, which overlapped nicely with my stage crew phase (a time when I believed dressing like an off-duty ninja was peak coolness).

    Maybe I’ll grow out of this blue obsession. Maybe I’ll evolve into a paisley guy. Or worse… argyle.

    And here was my original:

    Something happened to me over the past couple of years, where if I go shopping for clothes, I want to buy the color blue. I especially like the color navy, but wouldn’t pass up the blue of an oxford style button down shirt. The bluer the blue jeans, the better, and I’m even thinking about getting a blue suit for a wedding I’m supposed to attend. I’m even starting to like the look of khaki pants, and a blue shirt, but swear to God, if I add a puffer vest to that look, you should walk up to me and slap the hell outta my face… unless I’m working undercover as a “Finance Bro.”

    I’m not sure why this is happening, but I know that it is.

    I thought that it could be a reflection of my mental state, but I feel neither depressed nor calm and relaxed.

    I started putting on my old army coat when I have a blue shirt on. I would like to believe that I look like Quint, but I know that’s not true.

    Is this a middle age thing? Does blue help me stand out, or blend in?

    And if the blue is in a plaid pattern, good lord, I have to own it.

    I have blue pajamas. A navy blue ballcap. My car is blue, but the wife did pick it out, but still…

    There was a time when I wore a lot of black, but that was my pretentious arts phase, which coincided with my stage crew phase.

    Maybe I’ll grow out of it. Maybe I move into a paisley phase.

    Clearly, I am the better writer. I’m also funnier, as the AI seems to be trying way too hard to fit in a joke.

    Besides, I like argyle.