Columns

Dear Leo # 5

 Talk to Someone Weird (and leave the house) by Leonora Desar When I was at journalism school I was always super curious—and jealous—of the fiction people. They got to make stuff up while I had to hang out at the bodega with weird men named Gabe. I had to get...

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Dear Leo # 4

How to talk to dead writers—and get them to talk back (aka another off-the-rails-column-by-dear-leo) by Leonora Desar My favorite writer is Ned Vizzini. There’s this book, It’s Kind of a Funny Story. It’s sitting here right now. It has a yellow cover and a map of a...

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Dear Leo # 3

Dylan McKay is Not that Into Me Or using your lit mag crush to be a better writer By Leonora Desar            I’m obsessed with a certain magazine. Let’s call him Dylan—after Dylan McKay, the hot surfer boy on 90210. I was obsessed with Dylan. I am obsessed with this...

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Dear Leo # 2

Even If It Was Crap This column is now officially four days late. Actually, make that 11. It was my idea to do one of these every three weeks. This would give me a deadline. I would HAVE to write something, even if it was crap. There are about 13 (an unlucky 13) of...

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Dear Leo # 1

How to deal with being a failed writer, writing to get in someone’s pants, writing with the blood, and a bunch of other stuff by Leonora Desar Truth alert! (Usually I write fiction and I lie.) The other week I spoke to my friend’s class. Then I wrote them this...

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Carry On by Lucinda Kempe

Once there was a man who loved his donkey, but his donkey didn’t love him back. The donkey loved an eggshell, but the eggshell didn’t love it back.

The Bronze Medal by Vincent James Perrone

She wants to meet the pig—snout down, paraded through the town square of sodden earth and
stump dimples, now trailed by serpentine line of freshly showered farmer with tomato noses and
breath prematurely soured from all that auctioneer talk.

You, Visitor by Jane O’Sullivan

You don’t like her much, not that you can tell her that. Slugging along behind you, hands in pockets. Sullen as a fish despite the fucking dawn rising over the city, the glory of it.

Prudence by Christy Stillwell

They put the shock collar on the boy and that was it for the nanny. First they put the collar on one another. They were professors in English and Philosophy, all of them smart people.

Glass Flamingos by Catherine Roberts

I smash them all. Because who the fuck collects glass flamingos? Around me, pink shards sparkle in the carpet like pretty vomit.

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