Oh my friends. Some very big talent has just walked into the memoir room.
My review of
Riverine, the Graywolf Press Nonfiction Prize winner, by Angela Palm, in
Printers Row (Chicago Tribune). Click the link here for the
full review.
Mark Haddon, a name that needs no introduction, has a devastating new collection of short stories debuting next week.
I was lucky enough to review the book for the
Chicago Tribune Printers Row.
Click the link to read the full review.
I love it when I love the books the
Chicago Tribune sends me to read.
Recently I had the pleasure of a
Tribune-initiated introduction to Megan Stielstra, by way of her new essay collection,
Once I Was Cool.My review, which runs in this weekend's
Printers Row, begins like this, below....
The world is a mess. Noisy. Prickly. Guilty. Fidgety. Hot. A case of psoriasis, holes in the ozone layer, rivers running this way and that. Who has time to make room for 29 new personal essays by Megan Stielstra, a Chicagoan whose life — as a storyteller, teacher, writer, wife, mother — is kind of messy too.
and can be read in its entirety
here.
Two phrases have the insta-charm of nudging me into a dark corner:
The first
: Can I pick your brain?The second:
Beth, the Prolific AuthorThe first always sounds like it will hurt. My hair will be shaved, my skin will be onioned (I mean peeled), my skull will be shattered (crash), and then my brain will be picked.
Ouch. I want to help. I am glad to recommend an excellent book or think something through or suggest a possibility. I can answer (some) questions. (I have no answers for the really hard questions.) But I don't want my brain to be picked. I really don't.
The second I receive (oh, sensitive me) as a sleight. "Prolific" is a substitute word. When someone says "prolific" someone is most likely also not saying more meaningful words, like: "thoughtful," "searching," or even "good." Prolific, though, is how I'm most often introduced. I look at my writing life. I see struggle, hope, frustration, some elation, very little time, books that matter to me, a voice that carries me, quiet that sustains me, quiet that I search for in between the jobs I must do so that the bills will get paid (most of which I have nothing to do with the writing of books), and, thus far at least, no true commercial success. I look at my writing life and I see books that, every single one, came from a deep place and not from a machine, from a hope to capture some essence of the world I love, from a belief that I haven't conquered the whole thing yet, haven't figured it all out, never will.
I was thinking about this as I read Kevin Nance's interview with Michael Cunningham in today's issue of the Chicago Tribune Printers Row. Here's the excerpt that I stopped to jot down. I like what Cunningham says:
On the one hand, writers should write about the biggest possible world, and that takes more than one novel. But I'd be a little suspicious of a writer whose vision and sensibility and quality of insight were unrecognizable from one novel to another. I would wonder what that writer really (cares) about.
If you look at writers far greater than I, from Chekhov through Faulkner, the stories and the books differ from one to another, but there's a Chekhovian sensibility. There's a Faulknerian sensibility. You hope to be able to tune in to a lot of characters, but there's a limit to how chameleonlike you wan to be.
By: Beth Kephart ,
on 8/11/2016
