Hundreds of newsletters land in my inbox each week. I use Gmail filters to route most of them into one big feed, and only a handful go into a separate folder for easier visibility. Erika Hayasaki’s The Reported Essay is one of them. In each edition, Hayasaki—a professor at the University of California, Irvine’s Literary Journalism Program—writes about the craft of nonfiction and shares conversations with fellow journalists. She offers advice on the practice of reporting and storytelling and the business of freelancing, from balancing interiority and research to building a story’s structure to pitching stories.
Hayasaki is one of those writers whose new work I always make time to read. For Men’s Health, she told the intertwined stories of two men trying to understand and treat their long COVID symptoms. For The Cut, she wrote a memorable piece of romance and disaster about a Maui couple on the day Lahaina burned. For The Verge, she reported on an obsessive stalker who harassed Asian American professors online. Her narrative nonfiction illuminates the lives of individuals and communities, and the human connections within them. Her latest, for The Guardian, follows a New Jersey nurse assaulted by ICE, a woman she first wrote about in her book The Death Class. It’s yet another piece grounded in rigorous reporting.
After spending time with Hayasaki below, don’t forget to subscribe to The Reported Essay—it’s an indispensable resource for anyone who writes or reads the kind of nonfiction we recommend and celebrate at Longreads.
I was born in Champaign, Illinois, a college town surrounded by corn and soybean fields two hours south of Chicago. I lived there until I was 14, when my parents divorced and lost their home in a bankruptcy. I moved to Lynnwood, Washington, for high school, returning to Champaign for journalism school as an undergrad at the University of Illinois.
My current home in Southern California. I know it is my kids’ safe place. But I also think of my first childhood home, a one-story on Hathaway Drive in Champaign that my parents bought for $10,000 in the 1980s. When I am back in my hometown, I drive by it sometimes and glimpse the window I used to sneak out of, or the backyard jacuzzi deck that my dad built, or the strawberry patch where I winced eating unripened berries.
I often wonder how the same hometown that crafted my identity, and deepened my own humanity, could turn around and strip someone else’s away. Obviously, I haven’t let go of this place that shaped me. So for the last several years, I have been reporting and writing a book, College Town, which is based in Champaign.
Early morning writing time, 4:30 to 6:30 a.m, when the house is quiet and I am not checking messages or getting interrupted.
Connecting people to other people I think they might get along with, or appreciate, or learn from. Or connecting them to useful resources. I sometimes do mini one-on-one Zoom sessions with my Substack readers, and I like giving each person I meet their own individualized mini-syllabus at the end of it.
The ability to communicate.
Merkato Ethiopian food in Los Angeles: asa tibs (fried trout), injera, honey wine.
Silence during writing time. But I love the sound of laughter with family and friends—it is everything.
Long car rides (allowing the mind to rest and wander is key for creatives).
Right out of college, I was hired at the Los Angeles Times into METPRO (the Minority Editorial Program), which is now the Los Angeles Times Fellowship. Miriam Pawel, who just released a new book, California Dreams, was the Metro editor who hired me, and I was also mentored by people like Richard Kipling, Randy Hagihara, Steve Padilla, Richard E. Meyer (who wrote the piece I will never forget, linked below), as well as many other incredible writers and editors. The program also connected me to people who would become some of my best friends. This experience, in many ways, is why I also believe so deeply in the importance of being a mentor and connector.
Home office.
Every story I report leads to a rabbit hole, and that is part of the joy of reporting. Since the summer, I have disappeared into reporting rabbit holes about meditation scams, Accutane (the acne drug), Illinois history, abuse by ICE agents, international students, and the future of college.
Longreads, of course. Scratch, a newsletter of interviews, essays, and conversations about how writers are surviving. I also like catching up on long reads via Apple News audio during commutes and housework.
“Julia Understands Everything,” by Richard E. Meyer, in the Los Angeles Times Magazine. I often assign this story to students. It was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in Feature Writing in 1996. Reading it myself as a young journalist broke open what I realized is possible in nonfiction storytelling. Rick wrote about a woman paralyzed by a stroke that left her able to only communicate through eye and head movements. He spent nearly 450 hours interviewing her, as she raised her eyes while he pointed to letters of the alphabet on a card.
California Dreams by Miriam Pawel, a fascinating historical portrait of the University of California told through a cast of compelling people. And The Black Shield by Wilbert L. Cooper, a feat of braided history, reported memoir, and narrative journalism that is engaging and nuanced.
I recently came across a binder from high school with all of these articles and columns I wrote for my high school newspaper and for a teen newspaper run by The Seattle Times. These were earnest and idealistic pieces about discrimination, abuse, educational inequities. I look back at that kid trying to find her way in the world by asking questions and writing stories, and I’m just proud she kept going.
I see my undergrads doing the same—choosing to major in journalism in these difficult times because they care about what is happening in the world, and even in the age of AI they still yearn to think, question, and write—and that also makes me proud.
Sleep on it. Also talking to my writing friends. It’s important to have writing friends and if you don’t have any yet, make an effort to reach out to other writers and connect with them. Build a community (even if it’s intimidating).
I have a Bookshop page with categories like “Inspiring Narrative Nonfiction on Place or Home,” or “Books Erika Teaches in Literary Journalism,” or “Books About Ordinary People in Extraordinary Circumstances.”
“Random.”
“Bunch of Friends,” YouTubers—but only with my daughter.
Healing.
I’m a people person, which is also why you will find people at the center of all my stories. I am most interested in the human condition. My house is filled with portraits and photos of people. We don’t have pets. This question was harder for me to answer, so I asked my kids. They gave these answers:
“Alicorn. Because you can do everything.”
“A dragon, according to Chinese mythology, because you are wise.”
“Eevee from Pokemon, because you have gone through multiple evolutions.”
Lately, I am big on squeezing in a 20 to 30-minute midday nap.
I really don’t get attached to stuff. Over the last few years, my 75-year-old mother got rid of all her stuff. She also gave up her home, and is now living full time out of her Toyota Sienna. Full-on van life. Yes, one day I will write an essay about this. She’s living her best life right now. I do have a lot of stuff, as you see in my office photo below. But I don’t attach much sentimental value to it.
I’m much more about the moments that I know will not last. For my first book, The Death Class, I followed a professor of death and dying, Norma Bowe (whom I also published a follow-up story on this week for The Guardian, after she was assaulted by ICE and filed a legal claim). Her class and teachings also helped me learn to value moments and human connections.
Erika Hayasaki is the author of The Death Class and Somewhere Sisters, which was named an NPR Best Book of the Year in 2022 and received a Nautilus Book Award in Journalism and Investigative Reporting. She is a professor in the Literary Journalism Program at the University of California, Irvine, and a former national writer for the Los Angeles Times. As an independent journalist, her feature stories have appeared in The New York Times Magazine, New York, Wired, The Atlantic, The Guardian, National Geographic, and others. She recently received the Longform Narrative Award from the National Association of Science Writers, and her work is anthologized in The Best American Science and Nature Writing 2025. Erika also served as chair of the 2026 Pulitzer Prize Nominating Jury in Feature Writing, and she publishes a Substack newsletter, The Reported Essay.
October 9 will be the last day that the well-known newspaper Expreso, one of Ecuador’s most important newspapers, is distributed in print. The newspaper, which has historically maintained a center-right editorial line, according to its statement, will limit its operations to its website, which will result in the layoff of dozens of employees.
The company that owns the newspaper, Gráficos Nacionales (Granasa), states that it is not bankrupt but will have to sell several assets to pay debts owed to its employees: “At stake is not only the rights of the shareholders but, above all, those of each and every employee who gave their all to this publishing house.”
And while the company has been reluctant to mention the reasons behind this decision in its most recent publications, several civil society actors have stated it plainly: pressure from the current right-wing government of Daniel Noboa.
One of them was the Inter-American Press Association (IAPA), which called on the government to cease “state harassment against critical media outlets and journalists.” The demand is based on complaints, dismissals, and investigations reported by the newspaper in recent months. “We regret that a newspaper with more than five decades of history is ceasing print publication. Beyond business decisions that are the sole responsibility of its owners, it is impossible to ignore the context of sustained pressure that has surrounded Granasa.”
Likewise, the Observatory for Rights and Justice (ODJ) stated: “We express our deep concern over the announcement of the discontinuation of the print edition of Diario Expreso. After several months of enduring administrative and judicial harassment, and facing government attempts at corporate takeover and censorship against its columnists and representatives, the publication has decided to stop printing copies.”
For its part, the Noboa administration has categorically denied that it took any steps to provoke the crisis at Diario Expreso, and has instead defended the actions of the relevant institutions in investigating alleged crimes “regardless of where they come from” by independent bodies such as the prosecutor’s office and the SRI.
One of the most surprising aspects of the case is that Expreso has historically maintained an editorial stance closer to the right. It was one of the newspapers most opposed to the progressive government of Rafael Correa (2007–2017), and many of its editorial writers even went so far as to endorse the recently inaugurated Noboa administration.
However, as the months went by, criticism of Noboa’s administration began to appear in the newspaper’s pages, which, according to some allegations, did not sit well with the central government.
According to these allegations, the Internal Revenue Service – the agency responsible for collecting taxes – as well as the Attorney General’s Office, began to “pressure” Expreso’s major financial backers through investigations, which reportedly led those backers to withdraw their contributions to the newspaper, which has been in circulation in Ecuador for more than half a century.
Added to this is a warning issued by the newspaper’s parent company itself, stating that the Ecuadorian Superintendency of Companies intervened in the company with the alleged aim of “monitoring its financial performance and facilitating the correction of the irregularities identified.”
Likewise, Granasa President Galo Martínez told the SIP that the government was “harassing” the newspaper’s clients who advertised their products and services in its pages, a move seen as a tactic to drive the company into bankruptcy, as it relies on sponsors to operate.
According to an investigation by Ecuavisa, the newspaper Expreso lost nearly 70% of its advertising revenue over the months of government pressure. “The cowardice of a large segment of the business community that prefers to pull its ads – whether due to calls from those in power, which have indeed occurred, or simply out of a desire to look good,” said Martín Pallares, editor-in-chief of Expreso.
The truth is that this pressure is nothing new. Several months ago, one of the country’s leading editorial writers, Roberto Andrade, who worked at the newspaper, resigned from the publication, alleging that members of the Noboa administration had requested his departure.
Pallares also spoke about this alleged government pressure in a recent interview with Ecuavisa: “The newspaper had received a message stating that the government would stop its harassment if three people were handed over: Roberto Aguilar, Eduardo Carmigniani, and myself. The newspaper placed its trust in us; it chose to stand by us rather than give in to the pressure.”
Pallares stated about this alleged government pressure in a recent interview with Ecuavisa: “The newspaper had received a message stating that the government would stop its harassment if three people were handed over: Roberto Aguilar, Eduardo Carmigniani, and myself. The newspaper placed its trust in us; it chose to stand by us rather than give in to the pressure.”
In addition, Pallares, one of the country’s most well-known right-wing journalists, said: “Critical voices bother those in power – this kind of narcissistic power where the official truth cannot be questioned. Take the Progen case [the failed sale of power generators]; it’s crystal clear. If it weren’t for the troublesome media outlets that dig up information, data, and publish chats they manage to obtain, that issue would have already been buried.”
This is not the first instance of conflict between the Noboa administration and the press. Early in his term, journalist Alondra Santiago was deported; later, the program Irreverentes was canceled following harsh criticism of the government; journalists Fausto Yépez, Hernán Higuera, and María Sol Borja reported government pressure due to their investigations; attacks against journalists were reported during the 2025 National Strike; the high-profile case of Gisella Bayona, who alleged that the government was investigating her husband because she had reported a shortage of supplies in the public health system – a situation that has triggered one of the most significant crises in the country’s healthcare history; among other incidents.
Other right-wing journalists have also criticized the government for allegedly having a low tolerance for criticism and taking actions that, they claim, are leading to a loss of freedom of expression.
One of them is journalist and political scientist Carlos Rojas, who stated in an op-ed: “What is happening with the newspaper Expreso is a very serious sign that Ecuador’s democratic health is in poor shape. It’s getting worse … a dangerous clash is reigniting between the current government – which is intolerant of criticism and oversight – and the independent press, a pillar of any liberal democracy.”
For his part, Ugo Stornaiolo wrote about new forms of censorship in Ecuador: “Journalistic oversight is undergoing a transformation that places press freedom at a crossroads. There are no shutdowns of radio stations, no buyouts of opposition media outlets, and no physical attacks. Investigative journalism faces sophisticated mechanisms of coercion: fiscal harassment, the manipulation of state entities, and reprisals against family members and coworkers to silence critical voices regarding President Noboa’s administration.”
According to several analysts, there is clear tension not only between centrist and left-wing movements and parties and the Noboa administration (which is clearly aligned with the right and follows the dictates of the Washington Consensus) but also between the Noboa administration (which belongs to the country’s most powerful family) and the critical positions coming from sectors of the right and a segment of the business community. This would demonstrate clear contradictions within the country’s most powerful economic classes.
The most recent case involved the leader of the business association, María Paz Jervis, who stated at a public event (in reference to the Diario Expreso case) that “Rarely in my life have I seen a business sector so afraid. I had never felt such hopelessness and resignation. I am convinced that there is much that needs to change in our country, and saying that there are things that need to change does not make us anyone’s enemies.”
Following these statements, Jervis resigned from her position without specifying the reasons for her decision.
Four years ago, I read Roberto José Andrade Franco’s ESPN story about Tess Mata, one of the students killed in the Robb Elementary School shooting in Uvalde, and I’ve never forgotten an image in it: a determined Tess outside in the Texas heat, aiming her softball pitches at a target on a tree in her family’s yard. That’s what Franco does so well. He creates moments that linger—about sports, Texas, loss, and identity and in-betweenness—and makes me care about the people he puts on the page.
Franco grew up on the El Paso-Juárez border. In a 2020 National Magazine Award-nominated essay that he wrote one year after the El Paso massacre, he reflects on the lifelong pull to this paradox of a place: “It’s where things make the most sense. Where it’s easy to love, even if it’s difficult to live.” I love that he writes from this borderland even when he’s somewhere else. During Mexico’s first World Cup match earlier this summer, he was in Woodburn, Oregon, a small town where Latinos make up more than 60 percent of the population and own nearly every business downtown. Residents had been shaken by last fall’s ICE raids, but they showed up to watch and celebrate. There, thousands of miles from El Paso, Franco found something familiar: a hardworking, resilient community with deep Latino roots and a fierce sense of pride.
I also credit Franco with piquing my interest in wrestling stories, including his piece on WWW star Eddie Guerrero, which also explores family and legacy. Whether he’s writing about sports heroes or ordinary people, or tracing the history of Texas or his own, Franco never fails to move me.
Below, he explains why enrolling in community college at 28 was the most meaningful journey he’s taken, tells us his favorite meal (and the ideal season to eat it), and recognizes a fellow sports writer who inspires him. When asked to name three publications he enjoys reading, he gives a shout-out to Texas Highways, a magazine we love—and it just so happens that he’s the guest editor of its October 2026 issue, focused on El Paso. After spending time with Franco here, read his feature on the city’s historic Smelter Cemetery, and then explore the rest of the magazine.
Several places, but mostly on the El Paso-Juárez border.
I was born in Chicago, but we lived in Juárez, Mexico, until I was about 6. Then we moved across the border to El Paso, Texas, before my father joined the Army. That’s when we lived in Chicago for a short time, then Colorado and Germany before we briefly returned to Juárez. I was about 13 when we moved to El Paso again.
Anywhere I hear the Spanish of the US-Mexico border. These areas are often ignored and underserved so it’s a working-class Spanish. Because of its location, some words are a mix of English and Spanish that other parts of Mexico don’t use.
The decade between graduating high school and enrolling at El Paso Community College. I spent most of it working in construction and bouncing around between El Paso and Phoenix, along with a few bad months in Tucson.
The early morning when everyone is asleep and the sun’s yet to rise. And it’s so quiet that, almost always at the exact same time, I can hear my neighbor’s footsteps as they walk out of their home, open and close their car door, start it, and then drive away, presumably on their way to work.
Building things. I find it almost therapeutic to do some sort of work with my hands as I sweat and listen to music. I also enjoy the feeling of seeing something finished within a few hours.
I don’t remember who I got the idea from, but years ago I heard or read a suggestion to interview your children during different phases of their lives. Just take out the voice recorder and ask them basic questions. When they’re younger, you can ask about their favorite animal, color, movie, etc. As they get older, the questions can be more about their friends, hobbies, and aspirations.
I’ve been doing this every few months with my now 9-year-old daughter. Occasionally, I’ll listen to the first recordings from when she was 3, and I can hear how much she’s changed—from her voice and interests to the clarity of her words and thoughts. It’s like a short visit with a different version of who your child once was.
That suggestion to interview your children has been the best gift.
My mom’s pozole. It’s a Mexican pork and hominy stew accompanied with radishes, cabbage, and bolillo bread. She’ll sometimes make it in late October, on the Saturday closest to my birthday. The weather will be colder by then and a college football game will be on in the background—both of those make it even better. Then a good cigar afterwards.
It’s become silence. I used to write with music in the background. It almost didn’t matter what kind, and sometimes it’d be the same song on repeat for hours. That was also when I’d do most of my writing during the day and into the early evening. But now, I’ve fallen into a routine where I do most of my writing early. Sometimes I’ll wake up naturally as early as three in the morning. With that change, I now write in silence.
But maybe it’ll change back to music one day.
It just happens so there’s no specific place. And so long as I’m not on deadline, whenever I feel like I can’t think anymore I just try to do something else for that day.
I’ve gotten ideas while driving, listening to podcasts and music, or in the middle of watching a movie. I’ve even woken up during the middle of night with a thought that helps unlock something that I had been stuck on.
Earning an associate degree.
I was a nontraditional student who first enrolled at El Paso Community College at 28 years old. It had been about a decade since I was in school. I was full of self-doubt and worry that I was too old or not a good enough student to be there. With that, I also worried that I might be wasting my time.
But I quickly realized I was a much better student in college than I’d ever been in high school. I was motivated, disciplined, and having worked in construction for the decade before then, I had a different perspective of what college could be. Whenever I felt like complaining, I’d remind myself (as I’ll still occasionally do) that reading and writing is a lot easier than doing manual labor outdoors, especially during the summers.
I ultimately transferred and graduated from a four-year university, and later even finished a PhD program. But that associate degree was the most meaningful because it’s where I started to find outlets for my intellectual curiosities and people who encouraged me.
I don’t have any specific place. At home it’s usually in my office, bed, or on the couch. Away from there, I’ll read while waiting. I’m an anxious flyer, so I’ve also recently found myself saving longer reads for when I’m at the airport or on a plane. It lets me focus on something else while also helping pass the time.
The World Cup.
Texas Highways to read about the parts of Texas that aren’t chaotic or depressive. De Los to keep up with some of what’s happening with Latinos outside of where I live. The Good Fight to stay current with boxing.
Michael Paterniti’s “The House that Thurman Munson Built.” It’s got everything that interests me as a reader and writer: tragedy, memory, and examining what athletes mean to us at different ages.
Divided Soul: The Life of Marvin Gaye. It’s an excellent book.
I don’t know if “proud” is the right word for it since it’s such a heartbreaking story. But “‘She made us happy’: The all-star dreams of Uvalde’s biggest José Altuve fan” is the first thing that comes to mind.
Go for a walk or drive. Either of those help me get away from what I’m doing without completely separating me from it.
Wright Thompson, who I’m fortunate to call a colleague.
I’ll sometimes listen to a chapter or two from The Cost of These Dreams on audiobook before I start writing a story. Wright is among the best sports writers ever, but the story of his that I’ll most often return to is the one he wrote for The Atlantic, “His Name Was Emmett Till.” The small part where one of the main characters says he doesn’t think of the past but has a dog named Dixie is perfect.
“Practically,” “essentially,” “actual(ly),” “that,” “even.”
And in first drafts, I start too many sentences with “so,” “because,” and “since.”
Watching mindless, and at times dumb, dating shows with my wife.
The ability to not get distracted by my phone.
Stray dogs who largely mind their own business and hang out in the same general area without terrorizing it.
If it’s early in the day, I’ll take a nap.
My phone full of photos and videos, a drawing from my daughter, my box full of sports cards, my voice recorder, and a Dallas Cowboys Super Bowl XXX champions hat because I increasingly fear that’ll be the last one they’ll win.
I’ve turned a room in our house into my office. It has a wall-to-wall bookcase. On the opposite side of it is my desk. It has plenty of space, a filing cabinet attached to it, and a shelf for my speaker and printer. Yes, a printer. It’s nothing fancy, but practical.
On the wall above the desk is a dry-erase board where I’ll write reminders and a few words that are story ideas. Once those ideas become a story, I have a corkboard, on the wall to the left of where I sit, for the three-by-five cards I use to outline and organize sections. Above the corkboard are reminders of what I need to focus on when I write. Below it is a calendar for deadlines and travel dates. To the right of where I sit is a small couch. The walls have framed boxing fight posters, work of local artists, photos of my wife and daughter, and random things that mean something to me, like mini football helmets from the University of Texas-El Paso.
Roberto José Andrade Franco is a feature writer with ESPN and a Writer-at-Large with Texas Highways. His work has been anthologized four times in The Year’s Best Sports Writing and nominated for the National Magazine Award. He’s also a four-time finalist for the Dan Jenkins Medal for Excellence in Sportswriting.
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