Kate Ryan

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

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

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.

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

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

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.