FICTION | NONFICTION | POETRY
SUBMIT STORE DONATE OPPORTUNITIES INTERVIEWS WRITERS WE PUBLISH
Epiphany's Holiday Party is December 12th at Francis Kite Club!
All tagged Yoojin Na
On nights that I can't sleep, I feel sorry for my eggs. I worry that they're suffering in their own snow country of liquid nitrogen. I know such concerns are beyond ridiculous. After all, my eggs are not tiny, microscopic people. They aren't even embryos.
We could shave our heads, burn our bras, protest the patriarchy, and criticize the male gaze, but Cha suggests a simpler solution: true friendship among women.
If someone as intelligent as Alexander Chee could believe in the occult, why couldn’t I? Perhaps the supernatural was not the opposite of natural, just the part of it that was yet to be explained.
On the train back to Grand Central, the city itself did not feel enough for me. I longed for the presence of another human being—a person I can touch, feel, and shelter with—to save me from the coming isolation of the second wave.
by Yoojin Na
Members Only author Sameer Pandya talks with Yoojin Na about the ideal measure of novelistic time, India, layered moments in fiction, and the grace of tennis.
by Yoojin Na
Yoojin talks with Epiphany EIC about writing during a pandemic, the similarities between working on a draft and being pregnant, and how our professional lives intertwine with our personal lives.
by Yoojin Na
When can I see you? we asked each other, but we really wanted to know, when can we be in the same room? When can we kiss, touch, and hold one another? How long must we emulate the sexless lives of hermits? A few more weeks, a few more months, a whole year?
by Yoojin Na
The reasons why my own family chose to immigrate illegally are so complex and personal. How could someone who has not shared this fear or uncertainty know our estrangement, let alone write about it?
by Yoojin Na
Lara Vapnyar discusses the “mysterious Russian soul”, childhood, and how she learned she is a powerful writer.
by Yoojin Na
Levy, who cries on escalators, doesn’t hate her children. She doesn’t hate her soon-to-be-ex-husband. Rather, she hates that a woman must extend herself to assume a domestic role and become a stranger to the person she once was.
