Jana Richman Utah Writer

Selected Writings

Dirt: A Love Story with essay by Jana RichmanDirt Fantasies featured in Dirt

“I dream about digging in dirt. In my fertile imagination dirt begins at sensuality, climbs the trellis of eroticism, and drops into the hole of debauchery where it romps lasciviously before climaxing in rebellious abandon.”

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Stay by Jana Richman published in Fourth RiverStay featured in The Fourth River

“I have not traveled much. In my demographic—middle-aged, middle-class, educated liberal—my nomadic shortcomings are seen as piteous, bordering on disgraceful. I’ve heard the refrain used to explain the full range of human failings: She’s never been anywhere! At the root of most problems, apparently, lies travel negligence—as if stepping on a plane in Cincinnati and off in Bombay immediately transforms one from a nitwit into Ghandi.”

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nytLogoA Desert Beyond Fear featured in The New York Times

“My fear began roiling, slowly at first, but soon popping and splashing out of its shallow container.”

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ComebackWild Thoughts featured in Comeback Wolves

“My father and I lean against a four-pole fence separating us from a 2,300-pound black Simmental bull. The bull throws his head and snorts as he strides toward us to reach the manger at our knees where my father has thrown fresh hay. We are all a little wary of one another—the bull of us, us of him, and my father and I of each other.”

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512JW6MH61L._SL500_Why I Ride featured in In Fact: The Best of Creative Nonfiction

“The fear begins to subside as soon as I’m out of town. The speed of the open road should cause greater fear, but the whir of the engine lulls me into a false sense of safety. A slight vibration from the foot pegs seeps into my toes, travels though my legs and around the curve of my butt, settling in my lower back. I squeeze the grips to send another tremble through my hands and into my elbows to dwell in my chest and shoulders. ”

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dislocateRiver Crossing featured in Dislocate

“I’ll remember her best this way: gracefully entangled in the limbs of a dead tree, globs of muddy hair stuck to her face, blood trickling down her sleek, brown limbs, laughing gleefully. I was angry with her for laughing when she should have been crying, for not having enough sense to be terrified.”

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qwGetting Old featured in Quarterly West

“Every Sunday for the past five weeks, my mother has fainted in church. The doctor’s advice: stop going to church. The first time it happened, an ambulance was summoned and most of the congregation gathered around reverently and moved as one with the gurney as two attendants wheeled her out the door and into the wagon. Upon my mother’s instructions, this procession was not to be repeated.”

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