a memoir by a lesbian beekeeper.

I flipped the issue open to page twelve, Athena’s story, and found my own words staring back at me. But they weren’t quite my words. Just my feelings, all of my confused and tangled thoughts, articulated in a clean, understated yet sophisticated style that I didn’t then have the eloquence to achieve.

The cultural constructions are clear: so many Chinese ghosts are hungry, angry, voiceless women.

Readers inflict their own expectations, not just on the story, but on your politics, your philosophy, your stance on all things ethical. You, not your writing, become the product—your looks, your wit, your quippy clapbacks and factional alignments with online

But now, I see, author efforts have nothing to do with a book’s success. Bestsellers are chosen. Nothing you do matters. You just get to enjoy the perks along the way.

We cackle about celebrities. We both profess that the latest twink with puppy-dog eyes in fact does nothing for us, but that Cate Blanchett can step on us, always.

They’ve got the classic fledgling talent mentality—they know they’re good, or could be good, but they crave acknowledgment of this fact, and they’re terrified of rejection.

Publishing gossip, it turns out, is a lot of fun when you’re speculating about other people’s misfortune.

a story that anyone can see themselves in.