When I was in my twenties I lived in a bone house. It isn’t true, but it is not a bad way to start a story. I went to a writing workshop once and maybe never again. Thirteen or sixteen seasoned workshopping folks shared their stories in their practiced reading voices over the course of the long weekend. And out of thirteen or sixteen, I faded into the disappearance zone, making myself the one who got away. The girl who stood out was the one with the bone house. Her sentence was quite magnificent and the teacher even swooned. …

Sara Chandra

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