My paper doll of a mother likes to put on different cutout kits and try to convince people of things. She’s not very good at it, though, because she’s a paper doll and so when she stands in the light to make her speeches we can see right through her.
Robert Hoekman Jr. thinks you die when you stop wanting. He writes and writes and writes. He lives on a farm in Virginia and refuses to be put into a box.
He had so many abilities to bestow, my dad. He could tie shoes, tell time, build tables, fix carburetors, throw, catch, hit. But for all his superhuman powers, he contained almost nothing else, and he withheld most of it.
And stoicism, I’ve since learned, is far less heroic than advertised.
Robert Hoekman Jr. is a writer and editor, and part of the Litmus Collective. His nonfiction work has been featured by Fast Company, WIRED, Huckberry, and many others.
He saw her across the gate, three rows over, reading a paperback with eyes wide, ponytail in place, and imagined her next to him, picking at the leftovers of a fight from last week, always hauling up their baggage just before they travel.
Ponytails always look better from a distance.
Robert Hoekman Jr is a writer and the cohost of Spillers, downtown Phoenix’s premier short fiction storytelling event. Learn more about him at rhjr.net.
I read just one novel, the Great American one. I don’t recall what it said. I didn’t read it for its words. I read it for its intentions, its wonders, its accidents and daydreams. I read it slow and neat and kind, and when it was over, I wrote voraciously.
Robert Hoekman Jr is a writer and the cohost of Spillers, downtown Phoenix’s premier short fiction storytelling event. Learn more about him at rhjr.net