It’s her (excellent) debut novel — the story of a rock duo that rises to fame in 1970s New York City. Walton worked as a journalist and media executive before the story of Opal Jewel inspired her to go all-in on pursuing her dream:
I was working full-time, and I would wake up at like 5 a.m. and try to squeeze in some writing time before I had to get ready to go to work. If I wasn’t too tired at the end of the day, I would also write at the end of the day.
It was an idea that gripped me, more than any idea has ever gripped me. And that’s what kept me coming back to that computer. I probably shouldn’t admit this, I was thinking about while I was at meetings at my job, I was thinking about it when I was cooking dinner.
If you open the notes in my phone, they’re like a disaster of old notes and little ideas that I wanted to jot down. I was working on this novel around the edges of my day. Until it reached a point where I felt like, I’m ready to devote more to this.
Telecommuting is an inexpensive way to get single-occupancy vehicles off the freeways, but it’s going to take city, county, and state leadership to convince companies and CEOs to commit to it. (I would suggest federal, too, but well, you know.) Continue reading “Seattle: Remote Work City”→
Obama was born into a country where laws barring his very conception—let alone his ascendancy to the presidency—had long stood in force. A black president would always be a contradiction for a government that, throughout most of its history, had oppressed black people. The attempt to resolve this contradiction through Obama—a black man with deep roots in the white world—was remarkable. The price it exacted, incredible. The world it gave way to, unthinkable.
Ashley arrived for her prenatal appointment at Black Hills Obstetrics and Gynecology, in Rapid City, South Dakota, wearing a black zip-up hoodie and Converse sneakers.1 To explain her absence from work that morning — a Tuesday in April 2015 — she had told a co-worker that she was having “female issues.” She was twenty-five years old and eight weeks pregnant. She had been separated from her husband, with whom she had a five-year-old son, for the better part of a year. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant was someone she’d met at the gym, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Ashley found herself hoping that the doctor would discover some kind of fetal defect, so that her decision would be easier. She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. “Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.”