I moved to the United States from Romania in 2001, and it took a family tragedy for me to understand that I cannot straddle the world and have two homes half a planet apart. Now that I’ve learned the limitations of living in the real world, where the laws of physics apply no matter what we dream of or how hard we pray, there’s this feeling of anticlimax to being uprooted. Maybe my roots are now deeper into this American soil than they were out of the Romanian one sixteen years ago. Or not. Continue reading
The most pressing question since November 8, 2016 (federal election day in the United States). Ever since, I’ve been studying my rights as a US citizen, and donating to various progressive organizations, but still had no idea how to become a part of something larger than myself and my mouse click. Continue reading
Nobody had died there, an elderly woman from Orşova recently told the journalist. Nobody had died there, it was all legends.
“It’s been more than 26 years since the Revolution, and Romania doesn’t remember them anymore. Or doesn’t want to remember,” writes Marina Constantinoiu, the journalist at Mişcarea de Rezistență who, together with her colleague Istvan Deak, is attempting to salvage a piece of history that everyone seems intent on burying.
My protagonist and I crossed paths for the first time in 1989, though I only met him in 2001, when we were both half-a-planet away from our native Romania. Continue reading
“I don’t always know where I’ve been when I write.” – Jack Remick
Blood is the story of ex-mercenary Hank Mitchell who is in prison for stealing women’s underwear. The real reason for being in jail though is because he wants out of the guerilla wars financed by his brother-in-law’s corporation and waged against indigenous Central and South Americans defending the resources of their native lands. Continue reading
“It’s really not worthwhile to write if you don’t write a myth.” – Jack Remick
Jack Remick is a poet, short story writer, novelist and teacher. More than twenty years ago, he and Robert J. Ray started a writing practice group that still meets every Tuesday and Friday at 2:30 p.m. at Louisa’s Café in Seattle. I’ve been going to Louisa’s for three years now and wrote the first draft of my novel there with lots of help from Jack, Bob, and many other talented writers. Continue reading
I stood in front of the classroom fidgeting with the ends of my uniform’s tie belt.
“I don’t want to learn about Lenin, Comrade,” I told my seventh-grade History teacher. Continue reading