United States of America
E. C. Kelly has an M.A. in Liberal Arts, which is a fancy way of saying she's studied teaching, acting, and creative writing a lot. What motivates her writing is the queer kid born to an unaccepting family. She wants to reach that kid.
I wish I could say, “Mom. Doctor. I’ve fucked myself with a low-fat mozzarella cheese stick. Can I still get the vaccine? Will it kill me?
The difference between us was this: I was an 11-year-old girl repressing her bisexuality, and Kevin Spacey is a middle-aged man who had been sexually harassing young (and underage) men for decades.
River mud smells like movement. Losing constrictions. It's rich and mythic, fresh and rotting. The smell is the surrender that can occur when I stop resisting the intuitive swells tucked in the folds above my pelvic bone. I first met that smell when I was lying in my parents' backyard at 3 a.m., naked, my...
There’s an anger management technique that tells you to breathe deep and count to ten? I breathe deep, count to ten, and then imagine my labia flapping after Donald Trump like a bat out of hell.
I am five years old, wearing a steeple-shaped princess hat and holding a sparkly thing from my mom's desk. We're at her office on a Saturday so she can catch up on emails. I take the sparkly thing to my mother and ask what it is. She says, "It's a paperweight, honey.
By E.C. Kelly Brené Brown, a wacky woman with great hair, once said, "If you put shame in a petri dish, it needs three ingredients to grow exponentially: secrecy, silence, and judgment." The cure? "Douse it with empathy it can't survive."