And you decide to leave the brewery and go to dinner in separate cars, because even though it is your fifth date, he has still not made room for you in the cab of his truck, still has not moved the cherry-red, sixty-pound toolbox that squats in the passenger seat.
James Tadd Adcox discusses his recent novella Repetition.
If the stories in A Field Guide to Murder and Fly Fishing sometimes read like travelogue, they’re tuned to the pitch of Paul Theroux or Bruce Chatwin: landscapes and climates are rendered with emotional deference to the observer.
I often tell people that a Filipino folktale, The Star Maidens, inspired my book. The truth is, I started researching my novel long before I read this tale and well before I knew I was writing one.
A woman screams in the middle of Dulles: it strikes you as odd, out of place this far through security.
Apocalyptic fiction was already a mainstay of twenty-first century literature, but the political climate of the past year has only made the threat of an impending doomsday a more frightening possibility. Fiction writers not already pondering climate change catastrophes, pandemics, or fascist regimes still have time to consider the end days, however.
During the ten years that most of the stories in Dog Years were written, I worked in medicine — first at a children’s hospital, then in a larger health system. After a while, my day-to-day life of meeting with faculty and learning about medical research blended into my writing life, so that I brought both “selves” to the office.
The cardinal landed in the crabapple that was still draped in wet, spring snow, and it was something about the weight of the bird, the way the branch bent under it, that made Brea stand up and go for the shotgun.
Published in German in 1998 (Peter Stamm’s debut), Agnes received its first translation to English by Michael Hofmann in 2016. The narrator and Agnes are an unlikely couple in their age disparity—she is 25 and he is old enough to be her father—and unlikely too due to his being a visitor, from Switzerland.
Some fiction writers start with concept or character. I start with place. Not place in general, but a specific place: a place I’ve been, a place that’s infected me, a place that’s lodged itself barnacle-like at the tideline of my imagination.
Maartje Dijkstra lives in a squeaky-clean apartment whose surfaces are scrubbed daily by the hands of others. Her legitimate excuse: she’s allergic to dust, pollen, mold, hairs, and latex. At the high-rise office near the Rotterdam port she works in a private cubicle with squeaky-clean linoleum floors and glass partitions.