The Next Write Thing: Real Life Stories by Nan Tepper

A boob roundup? What the heck is a boob roundup? I giggled to myself as I imagined a bunch of us in a rodeo corral, riding on horses, topless and flaunting it. We were attempting to lasso each other’s beauties to win a double-D loving cup in the shape of a bra, for having the most sensational set of knockers. Knockers? Who have I become? I’m like a teenage boy. And I'm mortified. Boobs are beautif...

I have to write a love story today. My original intention for the coming week was to write about anger, to write about rage. To write about being a woman in a world that’s truly unkind to women. Brutal, in fact. To write about being a woman who’s hated solely because of my sex. Once you add in my confidence, my brains, my moral compass, my political views, my sexuality, my sense of humor, my weigh...

“Wait? What? Why is my alarm going off? It’s still dark out. Did I set it wrong? ” Then, I remember. I’ve got to get up NOW because I’m flying to Los Angeles this morning. This isn’t a pleasure trip. I’m visiting my brother, who was in a motorcycle accident in June. He’s in a rehab at the beginning of a long road to recovery. It’s the first time I’m seeing him since the accident and I’m a nervous...

In the frenzy of organizing and packing to attend a writers workshop in Cape Cod and tying up loose ends, I decided to give myself a week off from writing a new story––that’s the first break I’ve taken in 83 weeks of new essays. I’ll be working on my memoir-in-progress this week and I’m excited! So, this week, I thought I’d treat you to a story that I wrote for my local Story Slam, an event I part...

I originally wrote this piece for a storytelling event that took place a long while back. I thought it would be fun to tell it to you today. This one may be more fun to listen to…you know by now that I’m a ham. Some folks who share their lives, homes, and hearts with animals refer to themselves as “Pet Owners.” Who are they kidding? What are they thinking? My pets own me . My babies are “Nan Owner...

My therapist leaned forward a little bit in her chair, but not too close, as she explained her special strategy to me. It consists of always wearing an imaginary hula hoop around my waist. Really? Yes. I wear the hoop to help me remember where I begin and end, and where other people start. My very own perimeter, a boundary. Of course, this works even better if the person I’m interacting with is sp...

My parents are having a dinner party, and I’m not invited. I’m 5 years old, so maybe that’s why. The upstairs neighbors are coming over, and I’m excited, because I love Carol so much. She’s really, really tall, taller than my father, who isn’t short, and she’s very skinny (maybe a little too skinny) and she’s beautiful, and has blond curly hair. I’m fascinated by her hair. No one in my family has...

My father died on the last day of June in 2011, during Pride month. I’m mentioning it was Pride because my father was gay. He officially came out in midlife, when I was 16 years old, around the same time that I came out. My parents divorced and they began new lives, both of them living more honestly, and finally getting what they needed and had been unable to provide for each other. I was devoted...

I wake up on a Monday in February to get ready for my day. Mondays are a busy day for me because I attend my 12-Step meeting for an hour, go directly into a 1-hour Zoom with my 12-Step sponsor, and then I proceed to an hour of therapy. The perfect trifecta. I’m introspective on other days of the week, too. But on those other days, my personal exploration isn’t squeezed into 3 consecutive hours of...

It’s Saturday night in the summer of 1996. I’m in my bedroom in the huge house I’m sharing with 4 other people. It’s a new living situation for me. I’m trying it out, but it’s difficult. I don’t like having housemates. I like my privacy and quiet, but the opportunity arose when I was looking for housing, and I thought, why not give it a try? At least I’d save some money. I walk down the hall to th...

She’s a nervous little thing. The world makes her tremble. A raised voice makes her cringe. A sudden sneeze sends her flying into another room, as if she’s running for her life. I try to console her, but she’s just who she is. So, I work with her needs. I’m patient and kind. I remember never to yell at her or raise my voice in her presence. She cowers at the sound of loud voices. Sometimes she spo...

“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...

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, b...

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¢, c...

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 wa...

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 be...

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...

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 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...

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...

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...

Episode 6 of Real Life Stories from The Next Write Thing. "The Spy Who Loves Me" by Nan Tepper. Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

Finding clothing that fit, and looked good at me, was hard enough. Having to do it in front of a room of partially naked women as a fat teenager, was more than I could bear. Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

The text of the story: This is how it started. This is what I believe. Memory can be unreliable, but memory can also be a starting point. Even if my memory isn’t completely accurate, it’s provided me with clues to understanding what happened that I believe contribute to the way I am. This is the story I’ve told myself for years. I do think it’s true. The memory is so strong, I can still feel it in...

Nan Tepper tells a story that took place in 1968 suburban Long Island. She found a man's gold, diamond, and ruby ring in the aisle of a hardware store and then she reveals what happens next. Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe