Lawrence Wright is an author, screenwriter, playwright, and a staff writer for the New Yorker. He has also written for Rolling Stone and Southern Voices, a publication of the Southern Regional Council in Atlanta. His history of Al Qaeda, The Looming Tower: Al-Qaeda and the Road to 9/11 (Knopf, 2006), spent eight weeks on the New York Times best-seller list and was translated into 25 languages. The book was nominated for the National Book Award and won numerous awards, including the Pulitzer Prize for General Nonfiction. Wright’s one-man play, My Trip to al-Qaeda, was made into a documentary film and aired on HBO. Wright’s seventh book, Going Clear: Scientology, Hollywood and the Prison of Belief (Knopf 2013), is based on a profile he wrote of the writer-director Paul Haggis in the New Yorker that won the National Magazine Award in 2012.
A great man was dead and an outraged world desperately wanted someplace to lay blame. It chose Dallas and changed the city forever.
Every son sees his father as his greatest competitor—until the day he becomes a father himself.
The failed ambitions of the father become the triumphs of the son, or so most fathers would hope.
When the time comes for the last child in the family to relinquish her tattered baby blanket, she’s not the only one who’s a little shaky about it.
Of course parents do everything they can to protect their children. But at some point they must learn to let go.
When the wife goes back to work and the husband takes on chores and children, the real problem is not laundry or lunch boxes. It’s the battle between love and ambition.
Cradle Cap was nothing, diaper rash was a breeze. But when my son brought home head lice—well, it made the plague look good.
Once San Antonio’s elite took pride in their support of the city’s fine symphony. When the cream of that elite, the Symphony Society board, abruptly canceled the upcoming season, it was time for some soul-searching.
The Hollywood epics have left Texas, to be replaced by miniatures like Nadine.
An agnostic parent is forced to face one of life’s biggest questions.
The ghosts of bowl games past recall an era when cotton and the Cotton Bowl were king in Texas.
He had a wife and a girlfriend. His ambition was unchecked. He tried to commit suicide. But when I came face to face with the minister of my boyhood church, the sin we talked about was murder.