The other day, a friend of mine said he was giving up writing. This friend happens to be a very good writer. Why? I asked. Too many people already write…
Though I have doubted my talent, I’ve never doubted my conviction that this was the path I had to be on. Writing is like my Siamese twin: freakish, alive, weighty, uncanny. Were we to be separated, I doubt that I could survive it.
They were rusted and unwieldy, heavy like useful things just aren’t anymore. Carved shakily into the left blade of my father’s scissors it read in magic: COPY BOY.
Twelve years ago, at the McDowell Colony, a new friend told me that the best short story collection he could remember reading was by a young writer named David Means
This week, Rumpus books published a review of a story collection by Greg Gerke, an interview with Benjamin Anastas, a Rumpus Reprint by our own Stephen Elliott, and an exclusive…