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I was surprised by how much I loved Portland. It is so wonderfully creative without being artsy. Great food scene.

Sloane Crosley

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Sloane Crosley
Age: 46
Born: 1978
Born: August 3
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Writer
New York City
New York
Scene
Loved
Food
Creative
Without
Artsy
Great
Portland
Much
Wonderfully
Surprised

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I'm a summer baby, so I usually have my birthday as a good summer memory.
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I used to think that nails-down-a-chalkboard was the worst sound in the world. Then I moved on to people-eating-cereal-on-the-phone. But only this week did I stumble across the rightful winner: it's the sound of a baggage carousel coming to a grinding halt, having reunited every passenger on your flight with their luggage, except for you.
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No affair that begins with such an orchestrated overture can end on a simple note.
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We are only as good as our most extreme experiences
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I got out on the street and started crying the kind of hysterical tears made justifiable only by turning off one’s cell phone, putting it to the ear, and pretending to be told of a death in the family.
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Unless we're talking about old-school, witchcraft-trial violence, can we please phase out the phrase 'girl crush?' While we're at it, if we can axe 'like, total girl crush' unless Total Girl Crush is the name of a fizzy soft drink, in which case I'll take two, thank you.
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They say it's not the snoring itself but those anxiety-packed moments in between snorts. It's the waiting for the nasal passages of the person lying beside you to strike again. And strike it always does. In the dark, almost against your will, you produce that special glare reserved for people who cannot control their own behaviour.
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I don't understand how you can be a decent writer and not know people.
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We've come to expect so little from online privacy measures that public displays of concern about the matter are more or less for show. Being devastated to discover you've been tagged in somebody else's photo has an air of the melodramatic about it at this point.
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Our brains are like bonsai trees, growing around our private versions of reality.
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As most New Yorkers have done, I have given serious and generous thought to the state of my apartment should I get killed during the day.
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Book tours are such a little tapas meal of where I could live.
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I was compiling a list in my head titled 'Reasons to Get Up: You Don't Have to Leave, but You Can't Pee Here.
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I thought I'd had another few decades before my noise complaint years.
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My grandmother was a kind of Scarsdale, New York, society woman, best known in her day as the author of the 1959 book 'Growing Your Own Way: An Informal Guide for Teen-Agers' - this despite being a person whose parenting style made Joan Crawford's wire hangers look like pool noodles.
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There are two kinds of people in this world: those who know where their high school yearbook is and those who do not.
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It's remarkable the logic we'll build around a misapprehension.
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When I was nine years old, I wrote a short story called 'How to Build a Snowman,' from which no practical snowperson-crafting techniques could be gleaned. The story was an assignment for class and it featured a series of careful but meaningless instructions. Of course, the building of the snowman was a red herring.
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Life starts out with everyone clapping when you take a poo and goes downhill from there.
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In New York and L.A., there is sort of that silent competition to be on the cutting edge of something. You end up having a conversation with how the world receives your work, especially if you are writing narrative, not fiction. Sometimes it is an awkward conversation. It's like group therapy.
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