The Best Things I Wrote in 2016 (According to Me)



My favorite pieces of 2016 are about a dead cat, boozy, rich Southerners, murder, having kids and wishing you hadn’t, objectionable chocolate spread, and more. (My best of 2015 is here.)

My recaps of Southern Charm: Previously.TV

The Cost of Funding an Abortion: The Billfold 

Nutella is Gross: Extra Crispy 

August (Over): Diverge

What Happens When an Israeli Woman Admits to Regretting Motherhood?: The Forward 

The Cost of Falling Apart: The Billfold 

What I Mean When I Say “Feminist Murder Podcast”: Ravishly 

In Which the Wanting Comes in Waves: The Billfold 




Move out from under the sun. Stay away from expensive dinners. Collect extension cords. Hang clothes on the line to dry outside, instead of letting them dangle indefinitely in the basement. Call the gas company when you smell something suspicious. The man on the phone who advises you not to touch anything electric and to evacuate the building is just doing his job. Push the peach slices down into the banana bread batter instead of letting them burn on the surface. Cover your coffee cup so that neither bugs nor dust can get in. Water the garden in the front yard, because the sun hits directly there the most. Before it gets dark, take the laundry off the line.


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“I like the idea of writers not seeking to explain, but opening, revealing, uncovering, laying vulnerable.” (Shira Erlichman)

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august (over)


B says that the way we feel now, frustrated and narrow and impotent, is because summer is the time for expansion. We are ruminating, we are kicking at doors, we are imagining how things could be different, but fall is the time to put  newness in place. They say this while we are standing in the garden, which is wet because we have watered it, not because it has rained.


In the lobby of a Korean spa in New Jersey, I buy a tiny cup of coffee for 50 cents. The machine delivers it politely, no splattering, and it tastes exactly how I want all coffee to taste: sweet, and light but assuredly caffeinated. We walk up the hill from the spa to catch the bus back to the city, and it arrives before we do, so we run to catch it. The coffee swishes out of the cup, and I throw the whole thing into the street before I reach the bus. On the way home, I think about how being in the saunas was the opposite of what I expected – restorative instead of maddening, how for a little while I wasn’t sure if what was coming from my eyes was sweat or tears, and it was okay not being able to tell the difference.


My grandmother said I was screaming before I was even born, that you could hear me from inside the birth canal. I don’t know if this is an insult, a fact, or both.  


In Jerusalem, many years ago, I lost a USB drive with a large document on it, along with several pens. I  rode a bike down a mountain. I went with a girl to urgent care, Terem, it’s called, after she spent the whole night throwing up and hoping it would pass. They rehydrated her  intravenously.  I waited with her, I asked her questions about her family, and what she liked to read. She didn’t need me there. She already had what she needed. Fluids.


I grew up in a loud house, where when I thought I heard yelling, I was usually right. We had a television in every room, but the sounds of slamming doors and breaking dishes always came from a person who was real, breathing, occupying space.


H owns a house in a small town upstate, with wooden beams and long hallways and a kitchen full of lemons and light. She did her time, she said, in New York City, and now she’s here, making this house over into another version of itself.


I live in a noisy city now. I’ve chosen it, again and again, over places others might consider easier and kinder.  The noise is part of the city’s appeal. Here, when there is noise, I know it’s coming from the street, from cars, from humans who aren’t looking for me.


In August, I drink water from mason jars packed with ice and slices of cucumber and lime. Good for metabolism, I hear, but also, it’s the only way I’ll drink enough water.  I wear shorts I cut from jeans, covered in splotches of white paint from when we changed the colors of the kitchen cabinets from dark to light, opening the whole room. I water the garden. I think about summers in my loud house, when I’d sit behind my grandmother’s enormous tapestry rocking chair all day, writing stories in spiral notebooks, dripping sweat and waiting out the heat.


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There are two parts of me writing this book: the one who spends an hour trying to make a paragraph, and the one who writes text messages for imaginary people, and the whole trick is knowing that I need both.