grief
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The Rumpus Interview with Laura Mullen
Acclaimed poet and writer Laura Mullen talks about her new book, Complicated Grief, obsession, germ theory, and exposing the arbitrary and superficial protections that have failed us.
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Are We All Our Own Vanishing
We will never be an exclamation point, an ellipses, a question mark. We must all leave with this: a period—solid, and utterly irrefutable.
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The Sunday Rumpus Essay: An Ocean of Hatted Absurdity
I wonder if in absence I will now come to conflate him with the character I’ve drawn. Or with the character I’m drawing now.
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The Rumpus Interview with Mira Ptacin
Author Mira Ptacin discusses her memoir Poor Your Soul, what inspires her to write, motherhood, and why she considers her beat “the uterus and the American Dream.”
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Wilberforce by H.S. Cross and H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald
Heather Partington analyzes two very different books published in 2015 that examine the effects of grief and of all-boys British boarding schools.
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Glass Cases
What more do we remember of a story, of a life, really, than a gesture, a face, an expression frozen on the page?
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Rumpus Original Fiction: Grow
I look like springtime, everyone agrees. Soon I’ve added a pair of gloves, brand new, but stomped in the dirt for authenticity’s sake.
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The Sunday Rumpus Essay: All The Time Every Minute
I lost a best friend and that means something, but you cannot deny that to go on the grief has to stop killing you, eventually.
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A Dying Art: Carrie & Lowell and Elegiac Practice
Elegy cannot protect us. It is merely a contained space for us to prowl, and to prowl in a performative manner.
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The Rumpus Interview with Bill Clegg
Author and agent Bill Clegg talks about his new novel, Did You Ever Have A Family, grief in fiction and in life, and why there is no finish line except the final finish line.
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Proof of Passage
The scrutiny left me angry and exposed. We know; we are not whole. The unraveling was so slow; we were each undone, stitch by stitch.
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The Sunday Rumpus Interview: Jonathan Travelstead
I try to…consider the writing process as seriously as I do entering a house with black smoke puffing from its eaves.