I Have My Father's Lopsided Mouth. When

There Are Some Things That Are So Unforgivable That They Make Other Things Easily Forgivable.

The Problem With Gender Is That It Prescribes How We Should Be, Rather Than Recognising How We Are.

When The Writing Is Going Well, I'm Obsessive. I Don't Shower, I Don't Take Phone Calls, I Hardly Respond To Text Messages, I Don't Do Email. I Take Breaks Only To Read, And Usually I Read Poetry. When It's Not Going Well, I Just Lie In Bed And Eat Chocolate.

Because Of Writers Like Chinua Achebe And Camara Laye … I Realized That People Like Me, Girls With Skin The Color Of Chocolate, Whose Kinky Hair Could Not Form Ponytails, Could Also Exist In Literature.

Her Blog Was Doing Well, With Thousands Of Unique Visitors Each Month, And She Was Earning Good Speaking Fees, And She Had A Fellowship At Princeton And A Relationship With Blaine - "you Are The Absolute Love Of My Life," He'd Written In Her Last Birthday Card - And Yet There Was Cement In Her Soul. It Had Been There For A While, An Early Morning Disease Of Fatigue, Shapeless Desires, Brief Imaginary Glints Of Other Lives She Could Be Living, That Over The Months Melded Into A Piercing Homesickness.