The Sign
It was a perfect August day, and the Wolf River was clear and cool. The leaf canopy of spruce and cottonwood sparkled overhead, like shards of brilliant green glass backlit by intermittent bursts of sunlight.
Dave and I were trying out the twin red kayaks that his kids had given us the previous Christmas. Everyone agreed we had been working too hard, and the weight of a business we could no longer save was taking its toll.
We had been together eleven years. The day after my Chicago newspaper career fell victim to the Internet, I joined him in the Northland. Dave was dismantling the world’s biggest grain elevator, reclaiming a forest of old-growth wood, and I became his chief enabling officer. What’s mine is yours; no questions asked. Even when the recession made his business plan look like pie in the sky.
On the water, as in life, Dave led the way. I followed his confident path downriver, my mind blank as I dipped the paddle into the water—right, left, right again—feeling only the warmth of the sun on my forearms and the incipient blisters on my palms.
His son, Chuck, later showed us photographic evidence of the battered and faded warning sign we had missed, the one nailed to a tree on the bank, advising strangers to portage their craft around the falls that loomed just up ahead.
Lazily watching Dave in the red saucer forty feet ahead of me, I was suddenly aware that he was somersaulting up and into the water. Oh, I thought, that’s about to happen to me, too.
One dreary winter day, nearly two years into dating, he ended things rather oddly: “I don’t think you’ll be okay if we break up,” he explained, “which is why we have to break up.” Though confounding, I suppose it was not surprising—he often resented how much I seemed to need him.
A mass of white caps on a disheveled sea crisscrosses the horizon, the aftermath of a hurricane that skidded up the western face of Baja from Cabo past Punta Hughes. The storm made a westerly turn on its northern trajectory, just far enough off the coast to send a small amount of rain and mountainous surf to our small pueblo. Wave after wave, a tight fetch. a disorganized army of marching swell lines with little space between them, and out the far points, close-out walls of water.
It is 10:34 p.m. I am journaling about the difference between what I eat and how I taste it.
In other words, it’s not about the chocolate cake. It’s about the pool of saliva swirling through each bite. It’s about the tongue pressing crumb into ganache, the esophagus readying itself to carry each sweet offering down. It is about my body knowing it is safe. Safe to sit, to enjoy, to receive.
In the Beginning
I went to a Christian elementary school that taught me A. God loves me and B. God can send me to hell.
We had a tradition for birthdays: a call once it was midnight so that we’d be the first of everyone else to groggily whisper our well wishes for each other. It started as a promise from me that I’d do it every year for you, no matter what I was doing, who I was with, or how tired I was.
A few summers ago, I sat next to my dog on a pile of ice-coated rocks in the Brooks Range of Alaska, afraid that my soon-to-be-husband had fallen off a cliff.
I read an article in our local newspaper about a high school coach who had just been fired for abusing his male students. I was in my early forties, and remember taking in the article (yes, back in the day when people still read an actual newspaper) and contemplating the unpleasant information that a football coach in a city just north of where I lived had inappropriately touched his male students. My next thought was, Oh, that happened to me.
You listened to Joni Mitchell’s Blue while you were abroad. Some say an unhealthy amount, but you beg to differ. Something about the timbre of her voice resonates with traveling, long-distance train rides and loneliness. Because that’s what the feeling was, right? Loneliness?
One of the reasons I love children's books is that there's always an invitation to loosen and lighten up, be poured into, be lulled into a place of deeper reflection—to see yourself in mid-grapple. For that reason, happy to be nappy is much more than a children's story.
In June of 1993, I was twenty-three and pregnant—again. Despite having been on the pill for years and using a diaphragm correctly, this was the third time my body tried to make me a mother before I was ready. Nothing had changed since the last time it happened: I was still living in the Ocean Beach enclave of San Diego, still in a rocky relationship with Richard, still a part-time student inching my way toward a bachelor’s degree, still a waitress, still broke. Things were worse, in fact. My roommate informed me that she was moving to Guatemala, and as I couldn’t afford the whole apartment, I had to move out. Richard had just graduated college and planned to ride his motorcycle up the west coast to Seattle, so we decided to break up (again). When a co-worker heard me complaining about a lack of summer plans, he suggested a hospitality company that hired seasonal workers in Yellowstone National Park. Employment included room and board, so I applied, they accepted, and I packed my bags.
We found the perfect place to camp. At eleven-thousand feet in the mountains of Eastern Nepal—the sky filled with puffy white clouds and a panoramic view of Kanchenjunga, the third highest mountain in the world. My friend Elizabeth and I traveled with five porters, two cooks and a guide. The porters set up four tents—a toilet tent with a hole dug into the ground inside, a larger dining tent where the guys, after dinner, rolled out their sleeping bags and one tent each for Elizabeth and me. I threw my duffel bag into my tent and turned to look at Kanchenjunga. I knew these clouds, swirling, changing, growing darker, moving as if the hilltop itself was spinning.
It’s my first Christmas Day with my family in two years and Scott’s first Christmas with us ever. After packing up our lives in Austin and moving to Brooklyn to fulfill a mid-twenties obligation to ourselves, we spend our vacation time not on vacation and instead doing the work of family visits. Now that I’ve dragged him for the four hour flight and the five hour car ride to the southernmost tip in Texas, he can enjoy December in shorts and a tee in what locals call the Valley.
We stand together near the bus station, inhaling the smell of cow shit, watching miniature dust devils swirling around in the street like tiny tornados. Two hippie imposters, my boyfriend Don and I, wait for a Greyhound bus to take us from Stockton to Pasadena, California.
Before I could wonder what it would feel like, I was catapulted into the frothy white water, tumbling over and over like a load of sodden sheets in a heavy-duty washing machine. My limbs banged silently against underwater rocks, and I held my breath. When the ride was over, I was grateful for the return of sight and sound, but relief was short-lived. I was being swept downstream and I needed to get to the big flat rock on the bank where Dave was lying prone like a dead alewife.
The next few moments were consumed by a monstrous attempt to swim against the current, flailing harder and faster to attain the bank while the rushing river pulled me away from it. But then I was gripping the edge of the rock table, and Dave was standing up, blinking stupidly without his glasses.
He extended one pale, trembling arm to pull me up and we assessed the damage. No broken bones. No apparent concussions. No wristwatches or eyeglasses, either. But Dave’s iPhone, bundled protectively in its OtterBox case, had survived. A few hundred yards from the river, he was able to call for help.
It would be weeks before my bruises healed—months before the scars on my left shin faded—and a couple of years before I understood the significance of that event: I would never again follow a man unthinking. I would have to plan my own adventures and watch for the warning signs myself.
-Judy Peres
Many writers feel drawn to write about their lives but struggle with uncertainty: Why this story? Why now? And who is it really for? This workshop is designed to help writers move beyond doubt and toward clarity by focusing on the deeper meaning and purpose beneath their story.
In this interactive, craft-forward session, participants will be introduced to the Memoir Compass, a practical framework that helps writers articulate their motivation (why they are writing), mission (who the story serves), and message (what meaning or insight the story carries). Through guided reflection and writing exercises, participants will begin shaping a personal narrative rooted in intention rather than overwhelm.
This workshop is ideal for writers interested in memoir or personal narrative, as well as fiction writers drawing from lived experience, who want to move forward with greater confidence, focus, and direction.
Some of the most compelling creative nonfiction begins with the feelings we are tempted to avoid: anger, resentment, shame, fear, or the sense that we have an axe to grind. In this six-week workshop, writers will explore how to follow that emotional heat toward deeper, more honest work—without sacrificing compassion, complexity, or craft. Through close readings, writing exercises, discussion, and constructive feedback, we’ll consider how to transform strong feelings into writing that reaches beyond catharsis and connects with readers.
IT’S NO SECRET THAT FEEDBACK IS AN IMPORTANT PART OF THE WRITING PROCESS.
In fact, we argue that it might be the most important part of the process.
But it’s hard to find a writing community. It’s hard to find the people who are willing to take the time and the effort to read your work and give the feedback you really, truly deserves.
That’s where HerStry Critique Groups come in!
HerStry Critique Groups are small groups of 6 women who gather online for 6 weeks to share their writing, give constructive feedback and gain skills as writers.
Weekly online sessions last approximately ninety minutes, with three women sharing their work each week. Writers of all genres and levels are welcome and you may share both works of fiction and nonfiction.
Sessions take place on Mondays 7PM CT, Tuesdays 11AM CT, Fridays 11AM CT
WHAT’S INCLUDED IN THE HERSTRY CRITIQUE GROUPS?
Six 90 minute live workshop sessions
Three 20 minutes sessions in the “hot seat” to get you work critiqued
Written and verbal feedback from your fellow workshop participants
A weekly in depth edit and critique of your work from the group leader after each session
Weekly writing goals and accountability check ins
Full video recordings of each session to keep for your records
Say goodbye to the lonely, stuck in your head writing life!
LET’S WRITE!
From conception to submission. Let’s make summer sizzle with stories.
Writing a short story doesn’t happen in one session. It takes multiple drafts to get it exactly right, to create characters that come to life for the reader and a world they can’t stop thinking about. In this seven week course we will work on a single short story from conception to submission ready. The seven week session will include generative brainstorming sessions, short story craft talks, multiple workshops for feedback from fellow writers, and detailed line by line feedback and edits from your instructor. Plus, we’ll talk about submission venues, cover letters, and when to know if your story is ‘finished.’
IT’S NO SECRET THAT FEEDBACK IS AN IMPORTANT PART OF THE WRITING PROCESS.
In fact, we argue that it might be the most important part of the process.
But it’s hard to find a writing community. It’s hard to find the people who are willing to take the time and the effort to read your work and give the feedback you really, truly deserves.
That’s where HerStry Critique Groups come in!
HerStry Critique Groups are small groups of 6 women who gather online for 6 weeks to share their writing, give constructive feedback and gain skills as writers.
Weekly online sessions last approximately ninety minutes, with three women sharing their work each week. Writers of all genres and levels are welcome and you may share both works of fiction and nonfiction.
Sessions take place on Mondays 7PM CT, Tuesdays 11AM CT, Fridays 11AM CT
WHAT’S INCLUDED IN THE HERSTRY CRITIQUE GROUPS?
Six 90 minute live workshop sessions
Three 20 minutes sessions in the “hot seat” to get you work critiqued
Written and verbal feedback from your fellow workshop participants
A weekly in depth edit and critique of your work from the group leader after each session
Weekly writing goals and accountability check ins
Full video recordings of each session to keep for your records
Say goodbye to the lonely, stuck in your head writing life!
October 7, 14, 21, 28, November 4 and 11 CT
WRITING THE SEX SCENE.
Writing a sex scene can be delirious fun, a harrowing challenge, a literary milestone—possibly the most important part of building your short story or book. In our six weeks together, you’ll experience just about every possible emotion as you explore the erotic in different modes: comic, tender, harrowing, soul-shattering … because it really is all about the characters’ feelings, not just the mechanics. So we’ll talk about tone. Vocabulary. Metaphor. Sensory detail. How to get big emotions on the page … and when to pull back and let the reader’s imagination go to work.
This is a course for writers who want to explore the intersection between the novel and short stories, and would like to weave their short stories into a story cycle (or collection of "linked stories" or "composite novel"). This is also a class about the interaction of form and content, and how one influences the other. We will read works of interlinked stories by writers from diverse cultural and ethnic backgrounds, focusing on modern classics and contemporary practitioners of these hybrid forms. Weekly discussions will center on elements of craft, such as the expansion and compression of time, setting as an organizing and connecting principle, character development within and between stories, structure and plot for interconnected stories, and responding to literary influences in the same genre.
This six-week course guides writers through the literary submission process, offering insider insight and practical tools to help you get your work into the world. We’ll demystify everything from reading submission calls to writing cover letters and choosing the right journals. Along the way, we’ll workshop short bios, develop submission trackers, and build personalized plans that align with your voice and goals.
By the end of the course, you’ll walk away with a polished piece ready to send, a tailored submission list, and the confidence to navigate the lit mag world with clarity and purpose.
Ideal for writers of literary fiction, poetry, personal essay, memoir, and hybrid forms.
Tension feels tangible to a reader, an active experience. But from a craft perspective, tension is often a function of restraint, palpable from what is withheld, delayed or left unresolved. Why do some stories feel urgent even in stillness while others fall flat despite dramatic events? Our impulse to resolve tension often comes from a deeply human instinct to seek coherence and moral clarity, but resisting that instinct creates compelling narratives. When we let characters misbehave or allow ambiguity in their actions, we pull readers closer to them.
This course examines tension as a narrative force. We’ll consider how writers can counter the impulse to resolve too quickly, to justify wrongful acts or to redeem a character’s behavior. By looking at ways to sustain tension without escalation into spectacle, we’ll experiment with evoking it in the ordinary and the unspoken. The class will combine close reading, craft reflection and writing prompts to practice distinct approaches to writing tension. This course is designed for writers working in fiction, nonfiction, and hybrid forms who are interested in deepening the psychological and structural complexity of their work. Ultimately, tension is what compels the reader to turn the page.
In this generative writing workshop, ecologist and poet Anne Marie Wells will introduce participants to some of today's eco-poets and essayists and guide participants through a series of writing prompts that will use the outdoors and personal experience as inspiration for creative expression. No writing experience is necessary to participate.
Judy Peres is a veteran journalist whose work has appeared in the Chicago Tribune, the Jerusalem (Israel) Post, The Plentitudes, and numerous other publications. After retiring from her last real job, she joined her partner in Superior, Wis., in an ambitious project to take down the world's biggest grain elevator and reclaim its old-growth wood - a venture that ultimately went up in smoke, She is currently living in Chicago and working on a memoir, Woodchuck.
LOVE
noun | \ lev : an intense feeling of deep affection; a great interest and pleasure in something.
LUST
noun | \ lest : very strong sexual desire.