Hey — In 1989, my mother gave me a glitter-encrusted t-shirt that said: “I’m a writer!” (She gave my sister one that said, “I’m PMSing.”) “You’re always saying you don’t think you’re a real writer,” my mom said, “but you are.” I appreciated the sentiment. But I never wore the t-shirt. Telling the world that

I don’t know about you, but I never, ever in my life wrote a paper ahead of time. I wrote it when it was due. Why would you spend six weeks writing a paper that you know you can write in six hours? Our best work is a lot like us: It doesn’t get up

Who couldn’t use a little more attention? Your dog. Your kid. That table teeming with junk mail. And you. You could use a bit more attention, too. I don’t care if you’re an introvert, extrovert, a Libra, a Pisces moon, ENFJ-whatever. Attention is air, and water, and light. And we all thrive with just the

I just finished a book called A Brief History of Misogyny by Jack Holland. You know, a real lighthearted read.  It was fantastic, actually, and gave a clear, if painful, context for the very deep roots of misogyny, which has been embedded in our culture, our psyche, and our lives for longer than anyone can

If you and I met at a party in the very early aughts, I would have told you with glee that I was a copywriter at a wig company because, one, I was, and two, it was fun to say it, to put it in front of you like a gag gift so that you

I went to dinner last night with strangers. That might sound like a nightmare to you. Or not. But given that nights out have been so incredibly rare, I was beside myself excited. It was hosted by my friend Dorie Clark, who’s impressive in every way you can think of (bestselling author many times over,

A woman (we’ll call her Debbie) told me this story the other day. Debbie was meeting a new contact, the wife of a friend, for coffee. She cozied up in a chair with her latte. The sun leaned through the window, the espresso machine burbled and whirred. Then the other woman asked the most natural

My mother and my sister Kim were arguing at the hair salon. Kim texted me: Mom swears that you went stag to your senior prom. I didn’t. I know. Tell her that. My mother had misremembered: My sister Lori went stag. I went with my boyfriend. He was my first boyfriend, and I was his