Kate Ryan

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

As an Uber driver, I have the privilege of talking to and eavesdropping on a sampling of L.A.’s finest, ranging from the clinically insane to the simply self-absorbed. As a writer, there is no end to the amount of inspiration my passengers provide.

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

Like booster engines emptied of fuel, my limbs become disposable, useless tanks as the blood rushes from them.

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.