Noa Jones writes fiction and creative nonfiction. She is a graduate of the MFA fiction program at Hunter College in New York City, where she was a Hertog Fellow and taught creative writing. She has written for the The New York Times, Vice Magazine, The Los Angeles Times, Travel + Leisure, Shambhala Sun, Seventeen Magazine, and many other newspapers and magazines. She was a food columnist for Tricycle Magazine for five years. Her essay "Where the Buddha Woke Up" was selected for Philip Zaleski's Best Spiritual Writing 2012 (Penguin Books). She wrote Travellers & Magicians, about the first film to be made in Bhutan, and Art Into Action: Nature, Creativity, and Our Collective Future. Her short story "Brother Ron" won first prize in Glimmer Train Magazine's fiction open and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. As recipient of the Lava Thomas and Peter Danzig Artful Harvest Circle Gold Fellowship, she was a resident at Djerassi Artist Residency Program and as a Hemera Foundation Fellow, she was a resident at Vermont Studio Center and attended the 2015 Bread Loaf Writer's Conference. She is mostly from New York and Colorado. After nine years living out of her suitcase, she's back in the woods by a creek called the Beaverkill, writing about death and other types of endings. She's also starting a Buddhist preparatory school. But more on that elsewhere. Her work can be found in books, on screens, and engraved on jewelry, printed on billboards, on pre-recorded 800 numbers, credited to other people, on museum walls, in gently prodding press releases for push-up plunge brassieres, in letters to her loved ones, tattooed on arms, and crumpled up into balls in the wastepaper basket.
I was born on Easter Sunday in Manhattan the year of the first moon landing. We moved to California and I began commuting across the continent between parents. In Bolinas, at the age of four, I stuck my thumb out and hitchhiked to the candy store. I wanted some chocolate and a man in a light blue VW bug gave me a ride. Then we moved to Boulder to a house up the canyon where there was fools gold in the creek and snow drifts so big we could carve out igloos. I wore the same red, white, and blue shirt for all of 1976. Then we moved even higher, to a ski resort which was a very fun place to be eleven and twelve. I sold newspapers on Thursdays, cross country skied on Fridays, and sold honey door to door on the weekends. I was almost killed by a Doberman Pinscher. Next we moved to New Mexico whose dry scrub I hated for about a month and then I loved it more than any other place before or since. I had friends with life sized giraffes carved out of wood in their living rooms and real llamas out back and fireplaces in every room. I kissed a boy in a tent in an aspen grove. He looked like a small version of tennis legend John McEnroe. Then we moved back to Colorado and I rebelled, shaved one side of my head, dressed like Madonna while cursing her for being mainstream. I refused to move again and said goodbye to the parental units when they moved to Rhode Island. I lived alone junior and senior years in an apartment near the Diagonal. After high school I went to live on a kibbutz for almost a whole year, picking avocados and helping sheep give birth. From there I spent a spring in Florence, Italy and then a year in Florence, Massachusetts, then Denver, New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Himachal Pradesh, Daisy Lake, Manhattan, Berlin, Thimphu, Dewathang, Woodstock. It goes on and on like this. I have never stayed in one place. And I think that's why I'm a writer, because I've had to explain what is often foreign and complex, quickly and succinctly. I have learned to cater to short attention spans. I won't even begin describing where I am at the present moment as I type this. It's just too complicated here and I haven't yet found the words.