After resigning in disgrace from the charity he helped found and losing his sponsorship with Nike, Lance Armstrong now must cope with the leak of his new memoir—excerpted here.
Every day, rejections from lit mags flood the inboxes of thousands of writers the world over. Today, one writer changes all that.
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.
Stunt memoirs are ubiquitous: writers who eat, pray, and love straight into their bank accounts. But what happens when the material for your book—for which you took a dozen amusement park jobs to acquire—isn’t all hijinks and zany locals? What if it’s rather nice?
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.
Some decisions are best made heedlessly, based on the chance for an epic story—and some people think like that all the time. A report on what it’s like to slide down a volcano on a piece of sheet metal at 55 mph.
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.