September 7, 2011
by Ned Beauman
TV Tropes has swollen into a frighteningly comprehensive taxonomy of all known plot devices across all known media. As a writer, I find it impossible to browse it without feeling: how will anyone ever come up with anything new?
September 2, 2011
by Kim Wright
Is it a mass sellout, a belated and half-hearted attempt by writers to chase the market? Or are two disparate worlds finally merging?
September 2, 2011
Notes on the French novelist Irène Némirovsky, her “violent masterpiece” Suite Française, and the imaginary memoir written by her daughter.
August 30, 2011
by Josh Rolnick
I would have to try to get better – to improve as a writer – in the public eye. Writing stories. For better or for worse, I surrendered myself to the system’s clankings.
August 26, 2011
If there were no such thing as fiction, we’d have had to invent it, if we ever wanted to make sense out of a thing like the Vietnam War.
August 24, 2011
It seems obvious to say, but wouldn’t we all like that chance to start from issue one, with a whole slew of villains and love interests and story arcs to cover?
August 23, 2011
by Edan Lepucki
The truth is, my novel isn’t selling, and it probably won’t. There, I’ve said it. Eventually, a writer must accept rejection, accept the death of her first true darling, and move on. Can I face that sobering reality? Can I put my first book into the drawer, and shut it?
August 22, 2011
by Sonya Chung
At the risk of stating the obvious: isn’t it strange, I mean, this thing about being a human being breathing and thinking and sensing and dwelling always, always, in a place?
August 18, 2011
by Steve Himmer
It’s a mistake to rarify reading and put books out of reach. It’s a mistake to assume that readers are “mostly born and only a little made.” Because those discoveries in libraries and bookstores — and, yes, on my parents’ shelves, too — are what made me a reader, not some mysterious, bibliogenic accident of birth.
August 10, 2011
The fixating on being “now exactly at the age” or moment when the anniversary of a terrible thing that happened or didn’t happen that Elizabeth Bishop describes, I know this. The same week I received my copies of the new Bishop volumes edited by Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, I took my three-year-old son to the emergency room.