|Where I've won:||Where I've been shortlisted:|
|Granta's One Sentence Story Competition
The Kenyon Review's Short Fiction Contest|
Literary Death Match
|BBC's International Radio Playwriting Competition The Paris Review's Flash Fiction Competition|
|Where I've been performed:||Where I've been published:|
Liars' League: London
Liars' League: Hong Kong
Liars' League: New York
The Letters Page (pdf)
My play, REX, has been published and produced several times in the US.
I have a Master's Degree in Creative Writing from the University of Oxford. I have been chosen as the 2017-2019 Fiction Fellow at Emory Universty where I will be teaching and writing a novel about women in the American Southwest.
The Tunisian sky at night was the deepest black he had ever seen—the stars pulsed like living things, and he wanted to run his fingers through them.
The three-years-running champion of the Hemingway look-alike contest moves like a broken-nosed boxer, big and graceful in his size-thirteen penny-loafers.
"We keep the bodies back in the deep freeze till they're good and crunchy," he said. "Then, when the family comes for the viewing, we pull 'em out and let 'em defrost a little. Then there's no smell but that dry, deep-freeze kind of smell."
Leo’s grandmother was half mad and a quarter Navajo and she made a damn fine tequila that was so clear and smooth it drank like water—and could take your legs out from under you in—pretty much—nothing flat.
It was the summer of hats, large brimmed cowboy hats; the kind my grandfather always said made you look like a thumbtack.
It was because my mother was the only white woman in a church of three hundred Mexican Catholics. And it was because no one was talking to us, even though everyone, except for the dead man and the youngest children, could speak English.
If you consider that there are 365 days a year and that I may live for another fifty to sixty years, my lifetime value to this particular informant will be somewhere between $18,250,000 to $21,900,000, and that’s not adjusted for inflation.
It is the uniquely human capacity to create complex culture that has allowed us to become the most dominant and wide ranging animal on the planet.
Some writers that I know are at times so unsure of whether a story is theirs to tell that they will shelve a project for years at a time, waiting for some kind of permission to be granted, or for forgiveness, or for a death.
If you’re anything like me (and lucky for you if you’re not) then you’ve spent most of the last week wallowing your way from one shot glass to another and brushing your teeth with the cuff of your old college sweatshirt
Have you ever found yourself looking at the heteronormative sausage-fest that is the Nobel Prize lineup and said, “I wonder if the hoity-toity Swedish Academy will ever give the Literature Nobel to a genre-bending disabled lesbian children’s book author?” Funny you should ask
First, let’s you and me get in my time machine. . . . Suddenly we are in a world in which the Mexican-American border is being nationally debated, the Mexican-American people are being treated as second-class citizens—are punished for speaking Spanish, for teaching Mexican-American history and culture.
During my first week of college, at the University of Iowa, several of us students were playing cards in my dorm room, when, unrelated to the game or to the conversation, one of the other freshmen asked me, “What are you?”
Some call it Dick Lit, others call it Lad Lit, but many male authors reject both of these genre categories as being reductionist, inaccurate, and for unfairly lumping disparate novels into a single arbitrary category. How can gender be a genre, they ask
A band, made up of eight young Swedes playing steel drums, had set up just outside the bookshop where I work. I didn’t step out of the shop to watch them until, almost without realizing it, I was singing along.
We were discussing the character of teenage girl in a fantasy novel. “I like that the girl is not what you expect,” said one writer, “You expect girls to be sweet and innocent, but she’s strong and takes action,” he said. Huh, I thought. Do we expect girls to...
A writer and I were on the sunny plaza outside the Nobel Museum in central Stockholm and she was telling me about an erotic parody project she’d collaborated on. The project was called Fifty Shelves of Grey and involved a dozen or so British authors doing erotic rewrites of...
Four of us writers were critiquing each other’s novellas which all happened to have female protagonists. Three of the protagonists were victims of sexual assault, which then caused these characters to suddenly and completely change. One of those protagonists became mentally unbalanced and faded away, another was rescued by...