Our man in Boston talks with writer Ron Rash about his latest book, America’s great regional voices, the high percentage of readers in New Zealand and Australia, and the misery that accompanies putting a novel together, where it’s rather more fun to stick pencils in your eyes.
Artist colonies are mysterious places. Available only to a select few, supposedly teeming with alcohol, affairs, and creative hoodoo. But the rumors aren’t true—they just lack detail. From last summer, scenes and lessons from three residencies.
A boy asking for money. An editor yelling at him to go away. An author, a rising star, dying young from a heart attack. A group of followers ending their lives at the wish of a single man.
I’ve spent my life complaining and arguing and telling stories about the city I came from. Then I changed—but it did, too.
Today marks the 75th anniversary of H.P. Lovecraft’s death. From Stephen King’s It to “The Call of Cthulhu,” a survey of the 20th century’s greatest horror writer’s afterlife of influence.
Our Man in Boston sits down for this third conversation with author, critic, and book-world majordomo Sven Birkerts to talk about the current reviewing situation, the best books of 2000, and Amy Winehouse.
In New York’s St. John the Divine Cathedral, a letter to a dead man, tucked under a plaque near his ashes, offers the first and only clue in a mystery about faith.
Every artist deals with critics differently—Richard Ford spitting on Colson Whitehead, for example. But the rule is to avoid direct contact. Not for John Warner, debut novelist, who decided to seek out the man behind his worst review.
Naturally, I have to procrastinate first, but at least I’m procrastinating intelligently (or so I tell myself) by reviewing Anne Lamott’s sublime Bird by Bird: Some...
Ted Williams’s last game for the Red Sox was almost a flop. But it provided fuel for one of the best sports essays of all time—until the author started tinkering. On baseball, The Simpsons, and the creative impulse to never stop.
If distractions poison a writer’s ambitions, then surely a summer with no internet access is the antidote?
Don’t be fooled by the hand-lettering trend in movie posters and book covers—cursive is dead. Who cares? A million angry commenters around the web who extol the virtues of loops and curls. But the traditional form has a history that’s less than precious.