Browsing Tag

dating

Guest Posts, love

COULD I LOVE YOU?

December 5, 2016
love

By Mary McLaurine

Is that pet hair on your coat sleeve? There’s enough there to make me wonder whether you’re an animal lover or perhaps you live alone with a cat and just don’t care enough to pick up a lint roller and remove it before you leave home.

On the one hand, if you’re an animal lover, this would be terrific because as fate would have it, so am I. However, if you just don’t give a damn about your appearance and the very obvious presence of animal hair on a fairly nice overcoat, I’m afraid I probably can’t love you.

These are the thoughts that run through my single-at-60 mind. The left side of my brain is way too judgmental while the right side is willing to entertain myriad reasons as to why that pet hair is there. Both have their place when it comes to love or the possibility of it. Continue Reading…

Guest Posts, Relationships

Independent Woman Still Wants the Right Man

October 19, 2016
relationship

By Chelsey Drysdale

“From a simple supply and demand point of view, women do have something to worry about,” Stanford economist Paul Oyer said earlier this year during an interview with the Dear Sugar Radio podcast. Based on his research, scarcity in the straight world is real; there’s an imbalance when it comes to women seeking men vs. men seeking women.

Oyer’s data supporting the notion “all the good ones are taken” confirmed what I’d been thinking for years.  I found it oddly reassuring, as if a doctor had finally diagnosed unique symptoms of which there appeared to be no real origin.

“…and it gets much worse as [women] age,” Oyer said. “The numbers change dramatically starting really at age 30, but once you hit 40, it’s just pretty dramatic.”

I nodded as I drove near my tiny studio apartment in Long Beach, where I worked and lived alone.

Finally, I thought. Proof of what I already know. I’ve often thought, I’ve aged out of the market.

Maybe this information serves to reinforce my fear of “getting back out there,” providing me with an excuse to hide in an impenetrable bubble. The pain of loss is excruciating; the pain of loss multiple times is unbearable. But loneliness is debilitating too, and I don’t want to be alone forever. It’s not in my nature. Continue Reading…

Girl Power: You Are Enough, Guest Posts, Letter to myself, Self Love, Young Voices

Dear Younger Me

January 6, 2016

By Angela Kirchner

Dear Younger Me,

If you were reading this now you would probably be staring at it wondering when you got so serious. It probably barely has your attention as you think about some boy. Is it Dylan? Or have you not met him yet? That is what I am here to talk to you about. Whoever that boy in your head is, and I know there is one, he does not matter. The next five won’t matter either. I know that sounds crazy because you are supposed to date as you grow up and it is supposed to be fun and it is. It is fun until you realize you did not do it out of love. You dated to say you could have.

The funny thing is, through all this I broke hearts more often than I had my heart broken so the fact that I want you to change almost does not make sense. But the thing is, when you break someone else’s heart it hurts you too. Date the boy you like, but do not date the boy who just likes you. Someday you will come across someone who is both of those things and I know because I did and I am you and when you break up you will have a real reason. It will not be because you got bored. It will not be because talking to him annoyed you more than it made you happy. Do not date the boy that you can walk away from and not think about how much it hurts afterwards. That boy does not matter.

I know you only dated him because his friend said you were not enough and you just want to prove that you are. I know because I did that and I took someone’s time just to prove my worth to another boy. In the end none of the boys ever mattered. Not a single one. The only one who really matters is you. And you will be happy and laugh at your own jokes. You will sit in a dorm room next to your makeshift sister and laugh about things you saw online while you try and write that paper that is so easy but will take so much time. These are all things I have done without a boy by my side. The only difference is, I can feel in my heart all the boys I hurt and all the ones who hurt me.

So, younger Angela, you are beautiful. And you are worth it. And no matter how many times you are told by family members that your sister is so pretty and no matter how many times you think that means you are not it will not change anything. Breaking the heart of a boy will not change anything either. The boys do not matter, and until you are much older, they never will.

Love, Me.

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Angela Kirchner is an undergraduate student at Emmanuel College in Boston, MA. An English major, she is working on progressing her writing and hopes to publish her own works someday.  A former cheerleader, she is often upbeat and optimistic with a competitive drive. She comes from the small town of Billerica, MA with three siblings. She holds a love of books and speaks her mind on social issues.

 

 

Join Jen for a weekend retreat at Kripalu Center in Western Massachusetts Feb 19-21, 2016. Get ready to connect to your joy, manifest the life of your dreams, and tell the truth about who you are. This program is an excavation of the self, a deep and fun journey into questions such as: If I wasn’t afraid, what would I do? Who would I be if no one told me who I was? Jennifer Pastiloff, creator of Manifestation Yoga and author of the forthcoming Girl Power: You Are Enough, invites you beyond your comfort zone to explore what it means to be creative, human, and free—through writing, asana, and maybe a dance party or two! Jennifer’s focus is less on yoga postures and more on diving into life in all its unpredictable, messy beauty. Note Bring a journal, an open heart, and a sense of humor. Click the photo to sign up.

Join Jen for a weekend retreat at Kripalu Center in Western Massachusetts Feb 19-21, 2016.
Get ready to connect to your joy, manifest the life of your dreams, and tell the truth about who you are. This program is an excavation of the self, a deep and fun journey into questions such as: If I wasn’t afraid, what would I do? Who would I be if no one told me who I was?
Jennifer Pastiloff, creator of Manifestation Yoga and author of the forthcoming Girl Power: You Are Enough, invites you beyond your comfort zone to explore what it means to be creative, human, and free—through writing, asana, and maybe a dance party or two! Jennifer’s focus is less on yoga postures and more on diving into life in all its unpredictable, messy beauty.
Note Bring a journal, an open heart, and a sense of humor. Click the photo to sign up.

Binders, Guest Posts, Sex, Sexuality

The Near Miss

July 19, 2015

beauty-hunting-jen-logo-black1-300x88By Lindsay Miller

When I was in high school, I dated an appalling-in-retrospect string of men five years or more my senior. I met most of them at the Rocky Horror Picture Show, which was where my friends and I spent our adolescent Saturday nights. The twentysomething men who hung out there treated us like adults, or what we imagined that to mean at fifteen: they smiled and nodded thoughtfully when we spoke, leaned in as though our every stray thought was fascinating. They made us feel respected, intelligent, mature.

I knew, abstractly, that older men who dated younger women – not women but girls, high school girls, girls not even old enough to drive – were creepy and better avoided. But for some reason it never occurred to me that that applied to my own life. The guys my friends and I dated made it seem like there was nothing strange about men in their twenties sexually pursuing teenage girls – after all, we were so old for our age. We were so wise. They had never met girls like us, girls who knew so much, girls who understood them so well. They told us this over and over, every one of them, like reading from a script: You’re so cool. You’re so different from all the others. When I was young, I didn’t understand that as an insult, lifting girls up in the singular while putting us down in the plural. I was dying to feel older, which I accomplished by wearing impossibly short skirts and sky-high platform shoes, carrying a tiny knife disguised as a tube of lipstick in my purse and feeling sly and dangerous. I wanted to feel desired, and the men I met were more than happy to comply – to tell me I was beautiful in my Hot Topic bustiers, breasts hiked to the collarbone, boots laced up to the knee.

On Saturday nights in high school, my curfew was five a.m. I told my parents that I spent those early morning hours hanging out in a diner with my friends, girls a year or two older than me who would drive me home. Some nights that was true. Some nights, though, I caught rides with men I’d never met before, circled the city endlessly or found places to park where the streetlights didn’t reach. Or my friends and I ended up back at someone’s house, one of those horrible shared houses that all men in their twenties seemed to live in: broken furniture, cigarette butts in beer bottles, nothing in the refrigerator. We sat awkwardly on lopsided couches making tense small talk while one girl or another disappeared into a bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom, giggling, hand in hand with a man five, seven, ten years her senior.

When I was fifteen, I dated a man named Michael. He was twenty-three and already divorced, had fled the state of Texas to get away from his ex-wife, who he said had broken his heart so badly he didn’t know if he could go on living. I found this tragically romantic, imagining I might be the one to heal his wounded soul. On Valentine’s Day, he gave me a rose, already wilting. He offered to buy me a cell phone so that he would be able to hear my voice whenever he wanted.

Later that year there was Steven. I don’t remember exactly how old he was, but he must have been at least twenty. The night we met, he pulled me away from my friends, around the dark side of a building into an alley where he pushed me up against a wall and kissed me so hard it made my teeth hurt. In the gray early morning hours, he took my friend Jocelyn and me back to his apartment, where we sat on the edge of a filthy couch watching Steven and his roommates smoke cigarettes and complain about their jobs. I can see now that their lives were small and grimy, with little joy besides driving fast and listening to loud music, playing pool in bars where the very air felt gritty and making out with girls too young to know better. But to me, back then, it seemed glamorous and important. Continue Reading…

Abuse, Binders, Guest Posts, Relationships

Finding Love After Trauma.

May 13, 2015

beauty-hunting-jen-logo-black1-300x88By Alana Saltz

Everything terrible he did to me was supposed to be a joke. The first time I made a self-deprecating comment, he slapped me hard in the face. When I was being indecisive, he put his hands around my throat. During a phone conversation, he said that he would lock me in a box and throw me in the ocean if I ever cheated on him. I told him that his comment bothered me, and he said, “Don’t cheat on me then.”

Whenever I managed to gather my courage and confront him about the things he did, he told me he was just joking. He didn’t seem to understand that I didn’t like the way he was joking. It really wasn’t funny.

Several times during the course of our relationship, I ended up going home from his apartment and throwing up. The first time it happened was after he slapped me. I felt the nausea coming on and rushed out of his place so he wouldn’t see what I knew was about to happen. He was a smoker, so I blamed it on the cigarette smoke. And maybe it was. But the fear and anxiety that rose up in me when he slapped me, or put his hands on my neck, or made threats that weren’t enough like jokes, made my stomach turn even harder.

I found myself throwing up several more times, something that rarely happened to me, despite having a history of anxiety disorder and anxiety-related nausea. This was something new.

We were only together for six weeks. I couldn’t handle the nausea and the fear I felt around him anymore. He didn’t make me feel safe. When I broke up with him, he yelled at me. He told me he never should have trusted me or opened up to me. I kept saying I was sorry. I couldn’t make the real reason why I was leaving him come out.

You scare me.

– – –

I’d never been in any sort of abusive relationship before. I wasn’t sure this even counted as one. I felt shaken but was afraid of overreacting. After a few months, I took steps to move on. I went to a “Geeks and Nerds” singles mixer held by a Meetup group in Culver City. There, I met a very chatty, very eager guy who latched onto me for the entire night.

He decided we were meant for each other because we were both in our mid-20s, had Jewish backgrounds, loved music, and grew up on the east coast. At the end of the night, he kissed me and told me he wanted to see me again the next day. When I got home from the mixer, I spent the night curled up in my bed clutching my stomach, waves of nausea hitting me hard.

I didn’t see him again. For the next six months, at the end of every date I went on with someone I met online, I came home with a bad stomachache. It got to the point where just the thought of dating was enough to bring queasiness.

I began to see a new therapist who specialized in anxiety disorder and cognitive behavioral therapy. CBT was something that had helped me in the past. It focused on fixing distorted thought patterns and the behaviors caused by them. Anxiety had made me nauseated many times, but it had never made me throw up before. Obviously something was very wrong.

My therapist assured me that, although it would take time to recover from the trauma I’d experienced, I would eventually be able to be with someone again. She taught me meditation and breathing techniques. She trained me to think of the situation in new ways. Still, the stomachaches came. I felt like I’d resolved things in my mind, but my body wouldn’t let me date.

“Will I ever get better?” I asked her, over and over again.

“Yes,” she told me. “When you find someone you feel safe with, this will go away. But you have to work on it too. You have to retrain your mind and body not to associate men with danger.”

But I couldn’t make it stop.

– – –

Almost a year after the breakup, I went on a first date with a man named PJ. We had been in touch online for almost two years but hadn’t met in person yet. We talked now and then, each time never quite connecting, never taking it to that next step of actually meeting.

But there was something about PJ. I liked his round glasses and funny beard, the fact that he was an artist and creative, and the things he said in his profile about how he tried to always be there for people. I had a feeling that he might be someone I could trust, someone who could really care about me. I still had my worries about the anxiety and nausea, but I didn’t think he would make me feel nervous or pressured. He seemed safe.

PJ and I met up at a café halfway between his place in Redondo Beach and mine in Pasadena. We chatted for a few hours about art, writing, and Doctor Who while sipping boba teas. He was intelligent but not arrogant, laid back but energetic, interested but respectful of my boundaries. We spent the week before our second date talking online and on Skype. I shared some of my short stories and essays, and in return, he showed me his art and sent me a poem. His poem, “a wake,” was about wanting someone to see him. He wanted someone to see who he really was and then tell him not to wake up.

It was his dream, and it was my dream too. That was when I knew that we might be onto something. Continue Reading…

Dear Life., Guest Posts, Relationships

Dear Life: Help! Dating Is Hard.

January 20, 2015

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Welcome to Dear Life: An Unconventional Advice Column.*

Your questions get sent to various authors from around the world to answer (and please keep sending because I have like 567 writers that want to answer your burning questions. Click here to submit a letter or email dearlife@jenniferpastiloff.com.) Different writers offer their input when it comes to navigating through life’s messiness. We are “making messy okay.” Today’s letter is answered by A. Wolfe!

Send us your questions because there loads of crazy authors waiting to answer ‘em. Just kidding, they aren’t crazy.

Well okay, maybe a little. Aren’t we all? xo, Jen Pastiloff, Crazy Beauty Hunter. ps, I will see you in London Feb 14th!! Only 5 spots left!

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Dear Life,

I don’t mean to brag, but I’m a pretty cool person. Well, maybe not “cool,” I’ve never been cool (other than for a few inexplicable months in second grade), but I have a lot to offer the world, as a worker, as a thinker, as a friend, as a girlfriend.

The girlfriend part is hypothetical; I’ve never really had a boyfriend. I think I could be a pretty good girlfriend, accounting for a learning curve. And I’ll admit, I don’t come across this brashly in real life, there’s just something about writing that gives me confidence. The point is, I’m a good person, and I think I’d be a good girlfriend. But I’m just terrible at meeting guys! I find myself accidentally leading more and more towards a monastic lifestyle. I work from home, and when I go out for dinner or whatever, I’m usually catching up with a friend and focusing on them, not on trying to flirt with boys. I’ve tried online dating, but I’m not really in an online dating “mood” right now (and I definitely need to be in the right mood for it).

I’m at peace with being single, don’t get me wrong, but I’d like to try having a boyfriend for a bit. In my 23 years on this planet, I’ve occasionally gotten close to a relationship, but never quite reached that point. But please, life, give me the kick in the butt I need to get out there and meet some boys! And some how-to tips would be most appreciated.

K.

Jen Pastiloff is the founder of The Manifest-Station. Join her in Tuscany for her annual Manifestation Retreat. Click the Tuscan hills above. No yoga experience required. Only requirement: Just be a human being.

Jen Pastiloff is the founder of The Manifest-Station. Join her in Tuscany for her annual Manifestation Retreat. Click the Tuscan hills above. No yoga experience required. Only requirement: Just be a human being.

Continue Reading…

Guest Posts, Relationships, Self Image

The Single Girl’s Saga. What I learned After 5 years On The Dating Scene.

December 14, 2014

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By Brittney Van Matre

After my 10 year relationship ended, 10 years too long and a lot of angst culminating to the anti-climactic ending, I slowly began dating. I was not ready to be emotional entrenched with someone new; however, this realization didn’t quench my desire. I thirsted to find love in another. And therein began my 5 year saga on the dating scene.

I watched from afar while my best friends fell in love, flaunted sparkling diamonds, bought gorgeous gowns, and painstakingly planned every detail of their “big day”. “Why couldn’t I find a love like that?” I asked myself as I purchased my sixth bridesmaid dress, this time in lavender. Another ugly dress to be worn one night, and one night only. All these frocks were destined for a life of dust collection; soon-to-be second hand store merchandise where they’d likely be purchased as Halloween costumes.

Of course I was elated for my friends’ obvious good fortune; however, I was simultaneously in despair over my own ill-fate with love. My supposed inability to land a good guy of my own easily transitioned to second guessing everything about myself from my appearance, to my personality, to my choice in Facebook profile pictures.

My impatient quest for love included embarrassing words like coercing, manipulating, forcing, controlling, and dramatizing. I endured many years of unnecessary heartache while trying to work for a love that was not yet meant for me. I became more obsessed with the idea of a relationship than I was with any person themselves. Essentially, my ego was in complete control. Continue Reading…

Beating Fear with a Stick, Guest Posts, R Rated, Sex

I Chose The Wave.

August 20, 2014

By Amy Botula.

Leave it to high school juniors to determine what their English teacher needed. I was invited to the School of Rock Showcase only to discover later my students had appointed themselves yentas. It had taken 14 years to happen, this gesture of match-making. Not when I was teaching elementary school in a mostly Mormon community, still in my twenties, and reminding parents to refer to me as “Ms.” Not when I taught middle school and was settling into my thirties. But now, at 40, courtesy of three shaggy punk rock kids.

Continue Reading…

Eating Disorders/Healing, Things I Have Lost Along The Way, Vulnerability, writing

Survival. By Jen Pastiloff.

May 1, 2014

By Jen Pastiloff.

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I often think about the choices we make as humans and about how sometimes those choices, seem futile, naïve, masochistic. Un-human even. How sometimes, they lock us into a life we never imagined. You may want to pound your head into the wall (as I have done) upon looking back, say, at the choice to stay the night with an ex-boyfriend, who, when you ask if he can give you a ride to the Philadelphia airport the next morning, says, with a breath full of alcohol from the night before, “I’ll give you a ride to the airport for a hummer.”

The choice as to whether to give him a blowjob in exchange for a ride was simple one. Continue Reading…

Guest Posts

Eight Days in Paradise. By Bernadette Murphy.

April 25, 2014

Eight Days in Paradise. By Bernadette Murphy.

The air temperature on the island of Mo’orea in French Polynesia is 84 degrees right at this very moment. There’s a slight breeze blowing. The water, not a 30-second stroll from where I sit overlooking it, is 80 degrees, the most sparkling, crystalline turquoise I have ever seen, visibility measured in the tens of meters. I watch paddlers glide by in outrigger canoes. The occasional sailboat crosses the lagoon. Palm trees ripple in the wind. A flying fish breaks the placid surface. The day is nearly silent. A coconut bobs on the water.

Be. Here. Now.

I look at my feet – where am I on this planet? – and repeat those three mantra-like words. Because if I don’t, I will ruin the eight days I have left here in paradise, thinking about, wishing for, waiting for what has not yet, and may not ever, come to pass.

I have been living here for nearly three months, on sabbatical from my university teaching job. I’m here to write a book, to SCUBA dive and snorkel endangered coral reefs, get the closest approximation of a suntan I’m ever likely to experience, swim in the picturesque Cook’s Bay, visit sparsely populated atolls, wear a pareo around my hips and a flower in my hair, drink mango juice and eat papayas from the tree outside my bedroom. I have enjoyed my time here to the very core of the experience. It’s the first time in nearly 30 years I’ve been away from the pressures of daily life like this. I’m relishing everything I do.

Yet I want to go home.

And I want to hit myself upside the head for even having that desire.

When I return to my one-room above-a-garage studio apartment in Los Angeles next week, I will be go back to regular working hours, resume paying rent and commuting through traffic, have to schedule a dental appointment for what I fear is a needed crown, be required to deal with the sticky details of a nearly finished divorce and the sale of what had been our family home, issues I’ve avoided by my absence. Who wants to go back to that?

So why then am I counting down the days until I climb aboard a jumbo airliner and fly across the Pacific Ocean? I’m leaving, on a jet plane. Don’t know when I’ll be back again.

What’s next? That seems to be the question I’ve been asking my entire life, unable, unwilling to stay with what is, expecting whatever’s next to be better somehow than what’s happening now. The grass is always greener. Except that it isn’t. And I’m old enough to know better.

I remember being pregnant with my daughter, our third child (now 19) and the antsy-ness I felt at the end of the pregnancy. Can’t we just get this over with already? Can’t we move on to what’s next: to meeting this child and starting a relationship with her? There are times now when I wish I could go back there, to the impatient, tetchy woman I had been and sit with her, experience fully the last time she’d ever feel a child move within her. Or the last time she’d nurse a child. Or the last time the family she’d created would all live together under the same roof. But she can’t.

I can’t. I wished every one of those moments away, looking for what was next, and they are gone forever.

So why do I want to leave so badly now?

Part of the problem is a man.

I made a terrible error a little over a month ago. In doing research for the book I’m writing and looking into personality types, I happened upon a dating website whose concept of personality typology appealed in a vague way. In the year and a half I’ve been single, I’ve set up countless online dating profiles only to pull them down the moment emails started coming in. I couldn’t respond to a single one; they simply freaked me out too much. So, I figured, I could explore this online dating world from the distance of some 4,000 miles and then nothing much would be at stake. I could flirt like crazy – or more accurately, start to develop some flirting muscle after 25 year’s atrophy– and not have to meet anyone! It was the perfect training-wheels situation.

Except that I met someone. Only we haven’t met.

He suggested we become “pen pals” since I’d be out of the country for the next six weeks. I said yes. We’ve been writing and texting and emailing, sending photos, talking via the smartphone app Viber, exploring every form of long-distance communication possible. There’s something about the anonymity of the Internet that allows for a deeper intimacy to develop. But is it a false intimacy? Is this sense of connection real or only digitally enhanced? If he wasn’t so far away, perhaps I would not have been so forthcoming. If I wasn’t so out of my element, maybe I would not have wanted connection so much?

But here I am, having this exchange and enjoying the daylights out of myself. Our discussions are wide-ranging and interesting. He’s smart and charming and funny. And I want to meet him, which will require ending my paradise hiatus and the wholesale destruction of this innocent just-getting-to-know-you phase. And, who knows? In so doing, I may blow this whole fantasy of deep relationship potential right out of the water.

How mad I will be at myself if I return home to find out this vacation romance isn’t much of anything and that I squandered my last few days in paradise thinking about something that was only a flimsy form of cotton candy, an illusion! And yet, from this perspective, 4,000 miles away, it’s all so alluring. So tempting. So reach-out-and-touch-it real.

Be. Here. Now.

I know the truth: if it wasn’t for this romantic appeal, I would have found something else, some other “next” to draw me away from what’s here and now. I have always been a hopeless optimist, so sure that whatever’s coming is going to be better than what’s happening now. But it isn’t. Not always. Sometimes it’s mind-blowingly wonderful. Other times, tragic. But either way, things change. What was great at first becomes less great over time. What was skull-crushingly painful eventually heals. Nothing holds still. There will never be a day in my life in which every detail lines up in perfect harmony and then I can capture that scene and press it in a book for posterity. Or freeze it under amber. Life doesn’t work that way.

Besides, thinking about home is another way to distract myself from the pain of being awake. Being fully present, even in paradise, is not always pleasant or easy. The three months I’ve been away from my daily life have given me time to put things into perspective, to come to see who I am as a human in this world rather than the wife and mother I’ve been for the past 26 years. I have cried a lagoon worth of tears over the end of my marriage and how I should have known better, intervened sooner, been smarter, sexier, somehow changed the course of events. I have also missed my three grown children in a way that hurts when I breathe and that will be, I must remind myself, the new normal. I have struggled and failed to write the draft of this book I was so cocky I would nail when I got on that plane 90 days ago heading to the South Pacific, the very one I’m waiting to whisk me back home.

Be. Here. Now.

I have few plans for the next eight days. Some writing. An afternoon swim. A walk or two. Everything seems to be winding down and that’s the hardest time for me. I’m good at the planning stage, the “kids: let’s put on a show!” stage. I’m not so good at the seeing it through part. But that’s what I’m hoping to do now. To feel the water as it’s on my skin, smell the fruity air near the pineapple plantation, enjoy the warmth of the breeze and try not to wish I were somewhere else. Because we all know the truth: the moment I get home, I’ll start wishing I was back here again.

So I keep reminding myself of today’s reality. The air temperature on the island of Mo’orea in French Polynesia is 84 degrees right at this very moment. There’s a slight breeze blowing. The water is 80 degrees…

Be. Here. Now.

Bernadette Murphy-1 copy 2

Bernadette Murphy is currently writing “Look, Lean, Roll,”a book about women, motorcycles and risk taking, Bernadette Murphy has published three books of narrative nonfiction (including the bestselling “Zen and the Art of Knitting”) and teaches creative writing at the Antioch University Los Angeles MFA program.

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Jennifer Pastiloff is a writer living on an airplane. Her work has been featured on The Rumpus, Salon, The Nervous Breakdown, Jezebel, among others. She’s the founder of The Manifest-Station. Jen’s leading a weekend retreat over Labor Day in Ojai, Calif. All retreats are a combo of yoga/writing for all levels. She and bestselling author Emily Rapp will be leading another writing retreat to Vermont in October. Check out her site jenniferpastiloff.com for all retreat listings and workshops. Next up is Seattle and London July 6.