In which the essayist returns to Montevideo, and to his decade-old essay, to update and to reconsider, perhaps to say goodbye...

My entire life was Mount Everest, hovering over my head, but already sliced into halves by the hanging and dangling Sword of Damocles

Sometimes at the kitchen sink, my hands submerged in sudsy water, I experience a slip in perception.

When you finish writing your book, you will die.

A Face to Meet the Face On June 16, 2012, the day after my $500-facial, I luxuriated in the about-to-be-pretty feeling. I was almost...

It’s counterproductive, self-destructive, to compare yourself to another writer...

A resounding answer to a question I did not realize I had posed: you are not an object, but a possibility.

The year finds me in a string of years on the verge of giving up. Ten years out of grad school with little to show for myself.

I didn’t feel worthy. There’s only so many ways you can say broken, suicidal, and stuck in an endless loop of therapy.

The May weather had just begun to spread its palms on our cheeks. The day was bright, save for the dark clouds gathering in the sky.