Here is a new poem at The Yalobusha Review

Here are two new poems at Housefire

I am teaching a class called Grand Theft Poetics. You can take it if you want. It will be rad. Here is what Blackbook says abt it. Here is more info + reg.

Ellen Frances video-interviewed me at Everyday Genius abt hot boys on beds in pink smoke <3

Also, I’ve started doing some video stuff. I call it ‘video stuff’ not ‘video art’  bc it’s bad.


Something funny is that Fast Company reviewed my twitter feed. Here is what Fast Company says about my twitter feed:

” Melissa Broder’s alter ego lives on Twitter, where each beautiful, neurotic, self-effacing line accumulates in a never-ending poem. Go here when you need to shake your brain up.”

Her neck appears in dioxide probationer.

Her nerves appear in double purple.

Her neverland appears in dogma practicality.

Her nightmare appears in daydream process.

Her nipples appear in disappointment proscenium.

Her nirvana appears in dosed pizza.

Her nocturne appears in domestic plagiarism.

Her noise appears in dead portal.

Her note appears in dossier puritan.

Her nothing appears in din prison.

Her nucleus appears in diarist pretension.

Her nude appears in dicky preview.

Her numskull appears in ding-dong privacy.

Her nurture appears in diehard priestess.

Her nylons appear in decadent puke.

Her oasis appears in dimension prism.

Girls named Ana are forbidden not to have hot moles on their necks.

I’m still riding October 1998 and it’s fine.

I want to do to words what Pink Floyd did to me.

Remember when all the Anas in the world had bad trips under a flight of stairs?

I might still get a pair of Ray-Bans 1000 years late.

I will be an Ana yet.

I hope this is the last blog post I ever make.

How are you?

My darling internet,

I’ve considered the matter and come to the conclusion that my greatest desire is for you to have me in a chokehold. As Pavlovian as all this click-click-clicking feels, as reflexy and involuntary, make no mistake: I have absolutely chosen to give you all my power.

Why do I give you all my power? Well, if I didn’t, I might be forced to admit that there is really no one in control. Or, perhaps, there is one and that one is the great unknown, the universe, the what what as it were.

In the chasm of the what what I am unrecognizable to myself. I do not know me. O but I know you sweet internet; and when I am with you I know exactly who I am. With you I am Captain Shame.

I fear I can never be without you, my beloved. I twitch in your absence.  Without you, I am half a woman. Then again, with you I am half a woman too.

My darling internet, I will see you when the cock crows. No, I will see you way before the cock crows–probably in about a minute. Then I will see you for the rest of the afternoon, then all evening, late into the night and then when I get up to pee at 4 am. I cannot bear to be away for long.



In Conversation: Me and My Twitter Persona

Me: Let’s start the conversation by telling people where we are. That’s how they do it in Vanity Fair.

Twitter Persona: Tell them we’re at The Mandarin Oriental. No wait. Tell them we’re at The Breslin at The Ace Hotel. I’m wearing a heather grey Alexander Wang tank dress, no makeup and my décolletage is showing. I’m picking at a scone. And I’m luminous.

Me: Ok. My first question is: Why do you rarely converse with other Twitterers? Isn’t Twitter supposed to be a conversation.

TP: I like to keep my home unfettered by @’s. Aesthetically it’s more fetching. I have mild OCD and when I’m surrounded by @’s I get uncomfortable.

Me: You do come across as very angsty and self-deprecating. Much more angsty than I am. Why?

TP: I think that’s a question you need to ask yourself.


I Had Some Dreams They Were Clouds in My Coffee

What up yo?

Oh, me. Not much. Just blogging when I’m supposed to be writing poetry. Like, all the feckin’ time. When I die, my literary estate is going to consist of blog posts.

Here’s are some recent greatest hits from the succubus:

Letters To a Young Poet. From a publicist.  new!

Open letter to the significant other of an author with a first book coming out from an indie press.

The groupie’s guide to the galaxy.

Dear HTMLGiant.

How (not) to run a reading series. *poached from this blog…now with more content!

We who are about to diet.

Vice DOs and DON’Ts: dead poets edition.

What not to include in your lit mag submission letter.

Big Titular.

You Had One Eye In the Mirror As You Watched Yourself Gavotte

What up yo?

Oh me? Not much. Fresh off the boat from AWP, alone in an LA hotel room (Cali freaks–come to these readings) making sweet love to a box of Vitamuffins at midnight. You know.


New poems up at Miracle MonacleFive Dials and poems from the book at Swink.


I’m being a joiner and blogging for a blog. Another blog. A group blog called We Who Are About To Die.

These are my posts thus far:

What not to include in your literary submissions letter.

Vice DOs and DON’Ts: dead poets edition.

Big titular.


Talked about a few of my favorite things: poetry, Belle and Sebastian and Gossip Girl on TV.


And Tao Lin turned me and my pet guinea pigs into a hamster.

Oscar Wilde Would Have Twittered

The riveting conclusion to our 2.5-part series.

In our first installment twittering poets wrote about the impact of social networking on their craft. One commenter wrote of the post: “It makes me feel like throwing up…I don’t even know what Twitter is, and I don’t want to know. Sounds like stupid shit. I came here to read about Richard Hugo.”

Self-loathing was imminent. And yet we soldiered on…

In installment 1.5 Brandon ‘Scott’ Gorrell expounded on the techniques of various twittering writers he admires and read the tea leaves of my Twitter style as well (‘confused,’ ‘tired’). He also addressed the proliferation of  ‘scare quotes’ and took what may be his first public step in becoming a more streamlined  ‘Brandon [no Scott] Gorrell.’

Now, for the eye-popping finale, we go the way of so many poets and move on to prose. Below, some of the liveliest twittering prose writers of our generation send this baby home!


Lydia Davis Doesn’t Twitter

Last summer, I curated a reading at Polestar for Brandon Scott Gorrell and other members of the Muumuu House extended family. Brandon is the author of the poetry collection During My Nervous Breakdown I Want to Have a Biographer Present. On Twitter he is @LydiaDavis. I like these.

The reading was July 4th weekend. Two people came. The Muumuus grew silent. They were young, vegan-thin, styled by Vice. I was turning 30, eating animal byproducts on the sneak, looking extra-Jewy. Sorry, I said.

Months later, I wondered what Brandon thought of me. Did he ever think of me at all? Was I at fault for the poor showing on The Lower East Side, or could we all shoulder the blame? One question in particular kept me chewing the Nicorette late into the night: Could I get to the bottom of those ‘scare quotes’?

I had an opportunity to email with Brandon for my last post: Richard Hugo Didn’t Twitter, in which I asked a number of poets how Twitter has affected their craft. Brandon’s response stood out from the fray. I saw my moment. Went Bill Moyers on him:


Richard Hugo Didn’t Twitter

Triggering Town or Trending Topic?

Tao Lin, who is more prolific than Lil Wayne, recently had this to say on Twitter:

someone fb msg’d me re ‘writing tips’ re ‘being focused,’ seems like all i was able to suggest was to ‘not have friends’

I find Lin’s suggestion curious. The energy I spend pre-meditating my tweets (yes) distracts me more from the process of writing poems than does any genuine interaction with other members of the species. On Twitter, I dumb down a notch and ham it up two. I don’t calculate syllabics; I calculate followers. I’m no longer writing for my ideal audience (Jewish girls with a junkie fetish) (me). I’m writing for everyone. I feel like Joan Rivers on HGH.

Below, I’ve conducted a little survey of other poets on Twitter to see what they have to say about if/how Twitter has affected their craft:



As seen on Jezebel.

In Sharing is Creepy, Nick Carr asserts that “Twitter shame” arises from revealing the contents of our brains to total strangers (and assuming they care). Okay, yes.

For me, Twitter shame also pertains to the elusive (and oft unspoken) Twitter ratio: trying to cultivate more followers than people you’re following. The Twitter ratio has the ability to transform a perfectly normal person (who happens to be following twice as many people as she has followers) into Martha Dunnstock from Heathers.

This brings us to Twithers. Anyone who manipulates, contemplates, or is at all conscious of their Twitter ratio probably wants to be a Heather. But some of us are not Heathers. Some of us will never be Heathers. Some of us are Veronicas.

I’ve devised a little quiz.

If you identify with “A” in most of the following, you’re a Twitter Heather McNamara (the yellow one) or a Twitter Heather Duke (Shannen Doherty). You might be bulimic.

If you identify with “B” you’re a Twitter Veronica. Try not to accidentally kill anyone.

If you identify with “C” you’re a Twitter Heather Chandler (red scrunchie). Avoid drano at all costs.

A. You choose to “follow” someone. When the person doesn’t follow you back within two hours, you de-follow them.
B. You choose to “follow” someone. When the person doesn’t follow you back within two hours, you de-follow them. You feel shame.
C. You only follow Derek Blasberg. Everyone else follows you.

A. You send probing “replies” to people whom you don’t yet follow to try to get them to follow you first.
B. You send probing “replies” to people whom you don’t yet follow to try to get them to follow you first. You feel shame.
C. You only reply to Derek Blasberg. Everyone else replies to you.

A. You try to lure innocents, not yet on Twitter, into being on Twitter so you’ll have more followers.
B. You try to lure innocents, not yet on Twitter, into being on Twitter so you’ll have more followers. You feel shame.
C. What’s an innocent?

A. You de-follow your sister because she hasn’t tweeted in six months and is “dead weight” on your ratio.
B. You de-follow your sister because she hasn’t tweeted in six months and is “dead weight” on your ratio. You feel shame.
C. Your sister follows you and tweets often. You don’t follow her. Unless she’s Derek Blasberg.

A. You create a second Twitter account, an alter-ego to lure followers. When you get more followers on that one than you’re own, you “come out.”
B. You create a second Twitter account, an alter-ego to lure followers. When you get more followers on that one than you’re own, you “come out.” You feel shame.
C. You’re Derek Blasberg.


If you don’t know what Twitter is, you’re Veronica’s Dad.

If you’re on Twitter, and starting to get a sinking feeling you might be Martha Dunnstock, don’t panic. On prom night, you’ll get to “pop some popcorn” with Winona Ryder. I hope this post gives you shower-nozzle masturbation material for weeks.

If you’re not on Twitter, but are a “frequent status updater” on Facebook (“Just saw Mr. Big in Union Square!” “Fair trade coffee and a vegan maple-bacon donut!”) you are Peter Dawson at the “Westerberg Feeds the World” table.

And if you’re not on Twitter purely out of defiance, good for you. You’re J.D. Now go be sexy and get your middle finger shot off.

The Tweeter Center

I don’t know.

I feel like I’m supposed to be tweeting the Twit now that the book is 15 days from publication. But I just don’t see myself going peacefully into the dull night of the “Really, Massachusetts? Really?” or “OMFG hahahahaha LMAO BRB LOL!!!!!!!” or “Seriously, dry cleaners? Seriously?” crowd anytime soon.

So for now, I’m running a semi-structured alphabetic poetics experiment from aboard my ‘tweet deck.’ [UPDATE: This didn’t last. Though I did make it all the way backwards to the letter “A.” Once.] Yeah. I figure banal posts about other people people’s poetry (O.P.P.?) can at least be classified as benevolent.

Sounds enticing, eh?

I must admit, though, that it’s tempting to twit the Twat every time I, say, have a thought. Here are some of the tweets I’ve restrained in the past two days, since ‘going public’ on Twitter:

Meditated this morning next to an open toilet.

Apparently my guinea pigs are now too upmarket for baby carrots.

Nicorette in yoga class makes for spicy Savasana.

Yoga Journal hates you.

I hate water.

Guinea pigs now too upmarket for baby carrots AND apple.

Don’t be afraid to brush curls and transform into Stevie Nicks.

Lady on A Train has bottle of Purell carabinered to her purse.

I still love you junkies.

Guinea pigs resemble Puffy and Biggie. The nasty one will surely outlive the sweet one.

Why shouldn’t she be nasty? Consider the collective unconscious of the guinea pig.

Book proof just arrived UPS!!!

Does book resemble a pamphlet?

Crying to publisher (via text)

Spin teacher really believes we are on the open road.

Publisher going to upgrade paper stock!

Why is that Misshape always at Souen?

Why am I always at Souen?

Mother and Mother-in-law are running viral grandchild marketing campaign.

Blackberry has now officially merged with hand. Hanberry. Bland?

Milk Fed


"Milk Fed is a romp…a pageant of bodily juices and exploratory fingers and moan after moan of delight."
–Los Angeles Times

"A dizzily compelling story of love, lust, addiction, faith, maternal longing, and…frozen yogurt."

"A revelation…Melissa Broder has produced one of the strangest and sexiest novels of the new year..."
–Entertainment Weekly

"A thrilling examination of hunger, desire, faith, family and love."

"Milk Fed bravely questions the particularly female lionization of thin and loathing of fat, landing on fresh explanations…deliciously droll…a celebration of bodily liberation."
–The New York Times

"Melissa Broder’s Milk Fed is a delectable exploration of physical and emotional hunger."
–The Washington Post

"A sensuous and delightfully delirious tale… Filled with an unadulterated filthiness that would make Philip Roth blush, Broder’s latest is a devour-it-in-one-sitting wonder."
–O, the Oprah Magazine



The Pisces


"A modern-day mythology for women on the verge — if everything on the surface stops making sense, all you need to do is dive deeper.."
–The New York Times

"The Pisces convincingly romances the void."
–The New Yorker

"Explosive, erotic, scathingly funny…a profound take on connection and longing that digs deep."
–Entertainment Weekly

"The dirtiest, most bizarre, most original works of fiction I’ve read in recent memory…Broder has a talent for distilling graphic sexual thoughts, humor, female neuroses and the rawest kind of emotion into a sort of delightfully nihilistic, anxiety-driven amuse bouche…"

"A page turner of a novel…funny and frank."
–Washington Post

"The Pisces is an intellectual, enthralling voyage into one woman’s swirling mind as she brushes with the extraordinary."

"Get ready to laugh-cry over and over again...a perverse romance that captures the addictive and destructive forces of obsessive love. The Pisces is as hilarious as it is heartbreaking."

Last Sext


So Sad Today


"What separates Broder from her confessional that she doesn’t seem to be out to shock, but to survive."

"Broder presents a dizzying array of intimate dispatches and confessions…She has a near-supernatural ability to not only lay bare her darkest secrets, but to festoon those secrets with jokes, subterfuge, deep shame, bravado, and poetic turns of phrase."
–New York Magazine

"A triumph of unsettlingly relatable prose."
–Vanity Fair

"Her writing is deeply personal, sophisticated in its wit, and at the same time, devastating. SO SAD TODAY is a portrait of modern day existence told with provocative, irreverent honesty."

"At once devastating and delightful, this deeply personal collection of essays…is as raw as it is funny."

"Broder writes about the hot-pink toxins inhaled every day by girls and women...and the seemingly impossible struggle to exhale something pure, maybe even eternal...there's a bleak beauty in the way she articulates her lowest moments."

"Broder may be talking about things like sexts, Botox, and crushes, but these things are considered alongside contemplations about mortality, identity, and the difficulty of finding substance in a world where sometimes it’s so much easier to exist behind a screen."
–The Fader

"…So Sad Today is uplifting and dispiriting in seemingly equal measure. It’s a book that’s incredibly human in the way it allows for deep self-reflection alongside Broder, which speaks not only to her powerful writing but also the internet’s magical ability to foster connections."
–A.V. Club

"...delightful...Broder embarks on an earnest, sophisticated inquiry into the roots and expressions of her own sadness...deeply confessional writing brings disarming humor and self-scrutiny...Broder's central insight is clear: it is ok to be sad, and our problems can't be reduced to a single diagnosis. "
–Publishers Weekly

"Broder is probably the Internet’s most powerful merchant of feelings…"

"Vividly rendered and outspokenly delivered essays…Sordid, compulsively readable entries that lay bare a troubled soul painstakingly on the mend."
–Kirkus Reviews



"Broder manages to conjure a psychic realm best described as one part twisted funhouse and two parts Catholic school, heavy on libido and with a dash of magick. This gritty, cherry soda–black bizarrely sexy in its monstrousness."
–Publishers Weekly

"I don’t know what a book is if not a latch to elsewhere, and Scarecrone has pressed its skull against the hidden door. It is neither drunk nor ecstatic to be here—it is a state unto itself."

"Lushly dark and infused with references to black magic, Broder's work often feels less like a book and more like a mystical text."

Meat Heart


"Out to 'crucify boredom,' her poems show us how any relationship with the divine is no less at risk of engendering grotesque lust...What makes Broder such a pleasure on the page is her insistence that these dramas play out on a workaday stage infused with surreal Pop and imaginative muscle..."
–Publishers Weekly

"With a title recalling Yeats...Broder risks the divine in her second book...shrewd, funny, twisted, sad poems..."
–The Chicago Tribune

"Meat unbelievable and overwhelming for its imaginative power alone, but if you listen past the weird you can hear all sorts of things: sadness, seriousness, life, death, and a whole lot of laughter....Broder is a tremendous talent"

"...Meat Heart embodies that strain of sustenance, that sort of psychosomatic excitement most valiant art more or less tries to pull off…Her poems don’t bore or bear down. They beam oracle energy. They pump a music of visions for the life-lusty death dance."

Melissa Broder's Book Cover


“This debut from Broder is as funny and hip as it is disturbing… a bright and unusual debut.”
–Publishers Weekly

"…obsessive, energetic and pop-culture-infused poetry…"
–Time Out New York

"Broder’s insight and honesty will make your brain light up and your hair stand on end.”
–The San Francisco Examiner

"Broder’s verse is acrobatic and whip-smart… its own creature."