Afterthought 41: The Injury Is the Premise, Not the Story
A factory accident is a plot point. A handshake is a piece of writing.
When I Should Have Died
Writing When I Should Have Died—a braided memoir linking my father’s Holocaust survival to my Israeli childhood under terror. Inherited war. Inherited silence. Breaking both. New post every Thursday. whenishouldhavedied.substack.com
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The Forty-First Echo: Eddie's Handshake
He taught me how to meet the world with a hand that could no longer meet it itself.
“Why I Wrote THIS” Wednesday #41: He performed it like a magic trick. Every single time.
The hand that taught me how to meet the world could no longer meet it itself. That sentence took me thirty-five years to write.
Afterthought 40: From the (would be) Stage to the Page
The specific is always stronger than the universal. The scene is always stronger than the sermon. The closer that trusts the reader will outperform the closer that draws the conclusion for them.
The Fortieth Echo: Yalla
What twenty years of hiding my Hebrew cost me.
“Why I Wrote THIS” Wednesday #40: "I Wanted to Own the Lived Experience Without Living the Living Experience Itself."
A writing exchange asked how where I grew up shaped me. My answer was about where I left.
Yalla
What twenty years of hiding my Hebrew cost me.
Afterthought 39: Writing the Instinct Before the Decision
The instinct is not proof that the conditions were acceptable. The conditions are not undone by the usefulness of what they produced.
The Thirty-Ninth Echo: Unarmed at Drop-Off
The first two times, I survived by geometry. This time I walked into the center deliberately. My children were inside.
"Why I Wrote THIS"-Wednesday #39: "I Was Ready to Do Whatever I Needed to Do."
October 8th. A school parking lot in North Carolina. A car that didn't belong. And forty-five years of training that didn't ask permission.
Afterthought 38: Writing the Person Who Made You Uncomfortable
The person at rest tells you more than the person in relationship with you. His dominos table on Saturday afternoon was the whole man.
The Thirty-Eighth Echo: The Farmer
He came from Morocco with almost nothing and built everything from that land forward. I was a city kid who complained the entire time. He went pale looking for me anyway.