This winter I traveled to a handful of South Texas colonias to hear the stories of the people there. While I encountered many families living in deplorable conditions, I also witnessed countless acts of near-miraculous transformation.
He asked me if I was going to be white my whole life. I was, of course. But because of our friendship, I’m no longer the clueless upper-middle-class kid I once was.
How Texas compares with the other 49 states in everything from the percentage of low-income children with health insurance (we’re dead last) to the number of executions (we’re first!).
What the seventy-plus illegal immigrants smuggled into Texas in the container of an eighteen-wheeler saw, felt, and, in the luckiest cases, survived.
Duking it out, after more than fifty years of friendship, over Ann Coulter, Terri Schiavo, the appeal of golf, and, inevitably, the decline of the Cowboys.
The L.A. life of a girl from Burleson (or, You can take Kelly Clarkson out of Texas . . .).
My short, unhappy life as a romance novelist.
The future is hers to see.
Once upon a time I thought it was cool to question God’s existence. Not anymore.
The awful truth about The Liars’ Club.
No one thinks the Democrats have a chance of winning the 2006 governor’s race. Which is exactly why you shouldn’t write them off.
There was something irresistibly romantic about the gutter punk’s description of stowing away in freight cars. No wonder I wanted to try it—even if, at 38, I probably should have thought to myself, “You’re too old for this.”
Here’s singing for you, kid.
Your not-so-secret identity.
“Kinky, your absence is going to be more devastating than Dan Rather’s leaving the ‘sunken anchor’ biz. Please rethink your aspirations!”
“Nobody doing what I’m doing is important anymore. Not in the way Winchell, Kilgallen, Hedda, and Louella were important.”