Kate Ryan

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

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.

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

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.

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

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

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