Showing results for 2022
Becca, Ernie’s wife, estranged wife most of the novel until finally she is his ex-wife at the end, based on the author’s, based on Aaron’s, ex-wife, Elizabeth Ellen, who is, oddly, metally, writing these words, typing them into a Word doc at nine in the morning
-Editor at a literary journal attempting to be good, moral ppl (see: 1990s Christian Right)
He had a little radio, and on the mornings it snowed, he listened over and over to the lists of school closings until he knew them by heart: Kellerville area, Longstead area, Mount Holly area, all the outlying place-names, all the Our Lady of’s. Sometimes there was only a two-hour delay, and he wondered what it must be like, to have the boon of two extra hours like that.
Alex Perez on The Iowa Writers’ Workshop, baseball, growing up Cuban-American in Miami & saying goodbye to the literary community
What connects people isn’t color or creed or gender or stupid political taxonomies, but the existential despair that comes for us all. How do you respond to that despair once it comes for you? I never feel closer to a person than when they share a piece of their despair with me, and rarely, if ever, does it have anything to do with politics or ideology. It’s always about loneliness or heartbreak or loss, etc. It’s about life. The best art reflects that despair we all face back at us; it doesn’t separate us from other people.
I Could Signal Dominance in Email Correspondence as Trained but the Concept Is Offensive and I’m Baby
Sarah Lyn Rogers
I, I, I, I, the angel speaks herself
And sure, not all moths were so blindly abiding, but that these grand ideas remained a possibility was often enough to console or comfort the moth. You see, the moth, culturally, was keenly aware of toxic attachments—meaning, they were rigidly open to all possibilities in an effort not to favor one delusion over another.
Yuka Igarashi & Sarah Lyn Rogers
Celebrating the publication today of this year's Best Debut Short Stories: The PEN America Dau Prize, including—among many other amazing and wonderful and brilliant stories—our very own "Them Bones"
Sure, he’d miss chewing certain types of wood, the smell of garbage disposal, the indescribable pleasure of being shaded by a tree or large shrub. He could wait until spring, he supposed, to die among the scent of lilacs, one last taste of sweet pansy, a final sting of bee balm.
Billie R. Tadros
It’s a sin,
to desire different architecture, I’m told
Stir It Up: Katie Gutierrez talks about family recipes, writing with limited childcare, and her new novel More Than You’ll Ever Know
Once upon a time, long before she was on Good Morning America, I met the kindest writer on Twitter. Not only was she a relatable mother-writer, but she also understood Scrivener. This was absolutely