Kate Ryan

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.

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

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.

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

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?

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.

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

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

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.