Blogs
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The Next Letter In The Mail: D. A. Powell
Our next Letter In The Mail, going out later this week, is from poet D. A. Powell!
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Sound, by T.M. Wolf
Today in Book Review, Catherine Tung reviews T.M. Wolf’s visually experimental debut novel, Sound. Read her review here.
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Erik Evenson: The Last Book I Loved, Last Night
I am here to do two things: scream the praises of James Salter, and throw a few questions about his place in the larger scope of literature into the mix. How did I make it through a college lit class…
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Lit-Link Round-up
Laura Bogart, one-time-intern over at The Nervous Breakdown, has been coming into her own as a writer at breakneck speeds. Sometimes, the internet makes it easier to watch young writers grow in real-time, and when that happens it’s exciting as…
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Richard Santos: The Last Book I Loved, A Perfect Spy
I wanted a genre book. You know, just a quick zip through something exciting, and heavy on plot and action—maybe not so deep with all that poeticism and character development stuff. My first mistake was picking a book by one…
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The Rumpus Book Club Interviews Emily St. John Mandel
The Rumpus Book Club talks with Emily St. John Mandel about The Lola Quartet, panthers in Florida, her writing process, and more.
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Where Are You Reading?
The answer for me, in this case, is among a group of statues on the Drake University campus in Des Moines, IA. I’m reading from our June Poetry Book Club selection, Allan Peterson’s Fragile Acts. I’ve posted video of this…
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Sinead O’Connor and Her Coat of a Thousand Bluebirds by Neil de la Flor and Maureen Seaton
It’s 1990. I’ve shut the door to my bedroom, like any self-respecting teenage girl, to listen to my new CD—the one I ordered for a penny from one of those promotional if-you-sign-up-we’ll-give-you-the-world catalogs.
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Where Things Stand
After the VIDA counts in 2010 and 2011, as well as Jennifer Weiner’s count she released on her blog in January 2012, I wanted to see where things stood for writers of color. Race often gets lost in the gender…
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The Silhouettes, by Lily Ladewig
I’m fat. No matter where it stations itself then—against the sunset, unto the dawn, in the most awake and aware of lights at the gas station or drive-thru—my silhouette is thus often a distinct inconvenience, something that, like it or…