Amy Klinger

Something Wild

Come in close. I have something to tell you that I’d like to keep just between us: I don’t love camping anymore.

Happyish Trails

Yesterday was a stellar weather day: cloudless and 70s, breezy and bursting with birdsong and the greenest greenery of early summer. I played hooky, tagging along with my “summers-off” husband to a mountain biking area we hadn’t been to in over a decade.

Mother’s Day

I’ve had to abandon my plans to write about Barbie this evening (yes, that Barbie) in favor of a meditation on motherhood, one about that pivotal moment that turned our double-income-no-kid life into this one.

Don’t worry, this isn’t a childbirth story.

The Queer E

By definition, a query is a question, but a query letter sent to an agent contains no actual written questions. Rather, the letter’s request is implicit: “Would you please consider helping me deliver to the world this beast I’ve been a creative slave to for eight years?” 

Return to the Desert Island

Reading old work is a lot like hearing a recording of your own voice. You cringe. You groan. That’s what I sound like? Make it stop. Don’t ever do that again.

A Bite

For those new to the publishing process, which I was—am, really—the hard part is not actually writing the book. It’s the wretched query letter.

Going Public

In the era of Facebook and Instagram, Snapchat, Jeepers, Hoodoo, Freetyme and Wheelie (I might have made some of those up), it seems like creating a personal site centered around a blog—particularly for someone who writes for a living—would be a natural progression.

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