The life and death of a freelance journalism career: "I guess I wonder why some writers still do it. I hope they still want to make a difference—or just have amazing experiences—because there’s value in that."
"Sometimes a CEO would come in and pace. He needed to “think out loud.” We’d have pastries, coffee; I remember feeling at a loss: how do I behave in front of this client when I have truly no idea what I’m supposed to do or be?"
Is this the last magazine I'll read before I die?
A love letter to the Tiki Adult Theater: "When it’s gone, where will all these lost souls go?"
I don’t feel like a scared person, someone who is constantly afraid of being hurt. I try hard, actually, not to be that way.
Ten years after one of the deadliest tornadoes in history ripped through his town, an ex-newspaper reporter remembers all that was lost and all that was left.
Wishing I looked as good as a man in a dress is an ancient feeling for me.
If I’ve learned anything this past year, living in a somewhat unstable foreign country during a vicious global pandemic, it’s to trust my survival instinct: Stock up on rice and beans, make sure my bills are paid, check in with family and friends, and stay away from vaccines that sound like Captain Beefheart album titles.
"Your pictures rob her of dignity," someone white says, because to them there is no dignity in aging, and especially not in dying. To me, dignity is nearly all Maurie Jo has left.