Manhattan is rife with lumberjacks, Los Angeles is hot for Appalachia, and the latest trend in pornography is cabins. Yes, cabins. But when a woman leaves New York for a log structure of her own, a metamorphosis occurs.
How do you see what mushers see? You mush. An adventure on the Beringia, a dog sled race stretching over Russia’s easternmost tundra. If in the process you see more than you ever expected—more of humanity, more of yourself—then thank the people of 685 miles of snow.
A long-ignored home improvement project awaits. The tools and materials are at the ready, and there’s nothing to stop you. Then enters a cat named Jeeves.
When a Frankenstorm arrives from Haiti with destructive powers, the semi-professional student of zombie literature and history has a unique ability to perceive the arrival of end times. Welcome to America’s new normal: the nonfictional apocalypse.
Elections once conferred a larger knowledge that made us feel more connected to what’s important. But this cycle’s meaningless content overload has delivered little more a desire to unplug.
Small donations comprise more than half of President Obama’s war chest. Small donors, on the other hand, constitute some of the world’s most overwhelmed email recipients. But all that follow-up isn’t just about cash—it’s about subtle changes being made inside your head.
When you’re a competition-level grocery-store bagger, it’s easy to overlook the messy lives of your co-workers. But when one of them goes missing, and you start to grow up, the picture changes.
When a voiceover artist temporarily loses the use of her primary asset, the struggle back to speaking unearths what’s gone unsaid for too long.
Even through the prism of life in the tumultuous Middle East, the U.S. in an election year looks divided, fractious, frustrating. But there’s still a ray of hope—in Queens.
Imperceptibly and without warning, your pulse accelerates, your mind races, and panic grips your body—for anxiety attack sufferers, every day is a case in survival. A journey to the wild to confront the fear.
Read between the lines of a to-do list, and you’ll find an artfully constructed maze of excuses. A challenge to complete five things before the end of summer, or before you die—whichever comes first.
Stunt memoirs are ubiquitous: writers who eat, pray, and love straight into their bank accounts. But what happens when the material for your book—for which you took a dozen amusement park jobs to acquire—isn’t all hijinks and zany locals? What if it’s rather nice?