August 20, 2010
Death is hidden somewhere in the middle of the book, and it doesn’t mean a thing.
August 19, 2010
What might you have already read that suggests you’ll like David Markson? Tough call, since, for good or ill, nothing’s like David Markson.
August 17, 2010
I began to suspect I was too susceptible to the idea of the “writer’s desk” and decided it might be better to do without one. Somewhere along the way, I began to work in libraries. More important, I began to get work done in libraries.
August 13, 2010
The effect of all the detail and incident César Aira can offer on such a small canvas is vertiginous, like reading an epic poem etched on a grain of sand.
August 12, 2010
Panic attacks, advance reviews, firearms, squirrels, and chocolate milk: One writer’s diary leading up to the day his debut novel is published. Or: “The Ecstasy and Agony of My First Novel Being Published.”
August 10, 2010
Often, until I am directly confronted with the sight of a girl and her book—a sight outside the purview of my current routines—it can slip my mind that I, too, used to read like that. To love reading like that.
August 4, 2010
by Doug Bruns
It would be a pity should your books sink to the depths in the fuselage belly along with your neatly folded underwear. It could happen.
August 3, 2010
by J.C. Hallman
A contradictory set of truths about books and publishing in the abstract: don’t repeat yourself, and don’t write books that are too different from one another. Other writers will pillory you for the first, and publishers will be more than happy to pigeonhole you from the moment you achieve anything like success. Blow out your advance? Great. Now write the same exact book again.
July 29, 2010
by Anne Shulock
In an age of shortening attention spans and the glorification of stupidity, I find it comforting and exciting to spend time with young characters for whom books, maps, notebooks, letters, research, drawings, imagined inventions and classic films are central and essential.
July 28, 2010
by Ujala Sehgal
If we dig deep into literary villainy do we find caricature or do we find ourselves?