So, hey, first things first. Alisa Schreibman is the same person as Allie Berg. Allie’s just a pseudonym for those super-racy romances I probably won’t be writing many more of.
“Hamsa, Hamsa, Hamsa, Tfu, Tfu, Tfu,” is a story I wrote that was included in the anthology, Upside Down: Inverted Tropes in Storytelling that was published last year when I was too crazy to post about it. The kick-ass cover links to Amazon, where you can buy it. The title up there links to Apex Books, who published it, with all the other links where you can buy it. Read On
I had to take a half a Xanax to write this post.
I’d gone out to breakfast with my housemate, co-conspirator, best friend, for the first time in months (and as I write this, I triple-check my reverse alphabetization of appellations and fuss over whether reversing it is ‘wrong’). We finally had enough extra money to do something that we both enjoy and find a necessary part of our creative processes. After we ordered, I opened with, “So I have to write a blog post for this thing…”, realized I hadn’t talked to her about #HoldOnToTheLight, and then did a piss-poor job of explaining, out of my increasing uncertainty that I had a good grasp on the cause or any business contributing to this event. Read On
Good But Not Nice: Deplorables, Hypocrites, and the Liberal Dilemma
I’ve spent DAYS, months, YEARS not saying what I think about politics, sex, a dozen other things so I don’t offend, alienate, or hurt people…the same people who don’t give a good goddamn if their behavior hurts someone else (me). This is the liberal dilemma. The fight to be inclusive, means letting assholes be assholes.
The other day, Hillary did something ugly. She called a spade a spade. No, it isn’t *nice* to call half of Trump’s supporters a “basket of deplorables.” But I’m starting to think, like Sondheim’s Cinderella, that it might be good. Read On
No grand proclamations, no long explanations. Just, these articles are about people who are getting it right, and I want to celebrate them and remember.
Here’s a guy who has won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, and for a damned good book. But when GQ asks him to cover fashion week in Paris, what does he write about? Not himself. Not his reflections on Judaism and fashion, or Jewish designers, or any of the things he could and be lauded for. No, he writes about his son. Read On
An old friend, once very dear but long since traveling a different path, passed away the other day. I wouldn’t know about it at all, but that a current friend, still very dear, thought to pass me the email she’d received, in case I hadn’t heard. I hadn’t. The email asks that we not speak about it on social media until close friends have been spoken to, and I can’t think but that this friend would appreciate her privacy as much as an encomium–for now, anyway. Read On