Recent Work By Diana Spechler


After I killed my father, he taught me that honesty is optional. But, of course, I’d always known that. This was why I loathed being naked—my choices were stripped away.

It was the first day of Staff Training, forty-eight hours before I would meet Eden Bellham, and I was naked among strangers. Well, naked enough. We all whispered, “I feel so naked!” and giggled, awaiting commiseration, because who wants to be the Most Naked Person, to let her body blab her secrets? We stood in bathing suits and flip-flops. We were goose bumps sheathed in towels. We were vulnerable knees, scars with stories, fading bruises, February flesh. We were yellow-tinged toenails, awkward tattoos, scratched mosquito bites, suspicious moles. We were shamefully unshaven. We were birthmarks meant for lovers.
We were eyes stealing glances. We were eyes pretending not to steal glances.

Why does this feel so natural?

Maybe because I question myself all the time, especially when I write. Is that the perfect word? Is this scene pointless? Is my protagonist having another boring conversation with another character who’s going to get cut in the next draft?