The Next Write Thing: Real Life Stories by Nan Tepper

“Where would you fly if you could?” she asked.*

“What do you mean, If I could? I can! I can fly anywhere I want. I’ve done it. Hundreds of times,” I reply.

Yeah, yeah. So, what if I can only fly when I’m sleeping, when I’m dreaming? It sure as hell feels real for me every time. When I soar in my dreams, I’m unencumbered by things as hefty, as ungainly, as the enormous shell of an airplane wrapped around me, all metal and plastic, engines roaring a never-ending din. When I’m flying in my...

When you were a little girl, your name was Nancy Ellen. The name your parents gave you. You were named for a man you never knew, your grandfather Norman. You were given a name that started with the letter “N”–– Nancy. You found out later that Nancy means “grace.” You liked that, you still do. Norman’s Hebrew name was Nachum. Your Hebrew name was a feminized version, Nechama, which means comfort, but you didn’t know the meaning for years.

Your cousin was born 5 months before you, so she got Norma. You were always grateful that she came first...

From the time I was a little girl I was motivated to earn money. When I was 5 years-old my family spent the summer in Fire Island and my playmates and I were tasked with the important work of finding beach glass in the sand by the ocean. Our parents paid us different amounts based on how rare the color of the glass was. Orange was the most rare and paid a whole dollar, turquoise and red got 25¢, cobalt blue 10¢, green 5¢, and brown and white glass only rated a penny.

Back in the day, when there were no pla...

When I was in first grade, my class would gather together on Monday mornings to talk about what we did over the weekend. There was a little girl who said the same thing every week, “I went to Indianapolis.” Every week. I didn’t know what Indianapolis was, or where it was, but I thought she was lying. We lived in New York City. Whatever this “Indianapolis” was, I didn’t think it was possible she was going every week. It sounded so far away, so foreign. Finally, after weeks of hearing her say “I went to Indianapolis,” I couldn’t stand i...

I live in the Hudson Valley, two hours north of New York City. But in the 1980s I lived in Manhattan in a trendy neighborhood (Chelsea) in a fabulous rent-controlled apartment. I ate at great restaurants that stayed open really late and went to the clubs and danced until 4am. I was young, I was cool, I was free, and somehow, I was pretty brave. Maybe even a little reckless.

In 1992 I moved away because I was burnt out. I had lived through thirteen years of watching young men, gay men mostly, get sick with HIV and...

Books are my lifeblood. I’ve always been a reader and always will be.

I can’t imagine my life without books. I can’t imagine being a person who isn't called to read. Even the act of holding a book in my hands, and inhaling the dusty scent that’s between the boards is heaven to me.

I was lucky. I grew up in a family that read. As a young child, my mother read to me every night. She was the bedtime storyteller. Now in her 80s, she can still recite Madeline by heart wi...

Note: I originally published this essay on March 17, 2024 without audio, so I thought I’d come back and add it to my new podcast. It’s also somewhat coincidentally connected to the new story I published this week, There’s a Pill for That.

Check it out if you haven’t read it, yet.

One morning when I was getting ready to go to school, my mom said she thought I looked ill, and wanted me to stay home. I refused, because I had studied hard for a spelling test, and I felt fine. I knew eve...

I share my birthday with International Women’s Day, March 8th. I just looked it up and it’s MUCH older than I am. 50 years older! I love International Women’s Day. It’s woman-powered. Like me.

From the time I was a little girl I always expected my birthday to feel magical. For the most part, it did. My mom and dad loved celebrating all kinds of occasions. For one day every year, I was the star. I ate what I wanted: CAKE! I got presents, cards, phone calls, and checks from my grandparents. But there was alwa...

That’s the question I’m asked every time I’m invited to dinner at a friend’s house, or make plans to go out. My wonderful accommodating friends. But oh, that question. That question is a nod to my history of eating behaviors, my “dieting” behaviors, my “I’m going to find the cure to my food issues” behaviors. What are you not eating these days?

I always have an answer. I’m not eating meat, chicken, pork or fish. I’m not eating fat or carbs. I’m not eating sugar, or flour, or grains (whole or refined). No da...

I started the day with a plan, with a purpose. I was visiting Long Island for a special occasion, and decided that while I was there, I’d take a drive and visit the place that informed much of my life. The place where I grew up. My hometown. The place that fueled my resentments, sadness, anger, and the hard memories I’ve carried for over fifty years.

There aren’t many people left there that I knew back then, but there was one person I had to see.

Our neighbor, Phyllis. She was family for me...