I look through his inboxes. He has three addresses: one for activity as an author, almost entirely devoted to his publicist, whom he bombards with slightly flirtatious and falsely jocular messages: “I wonder why I haven’t been invited to the radio program From the Bookshop, since I understand it’s about literature, and I happen to write books . .Read more.
It was Janine Stromboni, an old acquaintance from high school, one of the few girls Mona had liked, even though they’d had zero in common. Janine looked much the same: huge hair, liquid eyeliner, fake nails, tight jeans.Read more.
This interview focuses on Zhang’s book Dear Jenny We Are All Find. Andy Fitch: From this project’s first line onward, we find prose formatting, often a prose pace, but also careful lineation accenting rhyme and sound play. Some sections contain blank spaces or slashes instead of punctuation.Read more.
On an early Sunday morning a reporter called to ask me questions about women with AIDS. Don’t waste your time with me, I told her, I’m nothing more in the scheme of things than a rather charming statistical anomaly. Meaning?Read more.
The day I was 18, Sally and I had a reunion because we were still friends though we saw less and less of each other. We went to Pupi’s, a place devoted to cake, overlooking the Strip. I invited her to this surprise birthday party my mother was giving me that night (though she would never do anything so unforgivable as actually surprise me; I hate surprises).Read more.
She had feigned not to hear him and had walked on. She had not turned her head until she was out of the village, she expected at every moment to hear him come bounding up behind her. Had he done so, she thought she would have turned round and snarled at him.Read more.
Our lips had achieved a reconciliation, our kiss of dalliance held firm.Read more.
Recently, someone asked Myriam Gurba a pointed question about Painting Their Portraits in Winter(Manic D Press), her new collection of short stories. He wanted to know what her book was about and, more specifically, who she’d written it for, exactly. “I told him, ‘I wrote this for Mexican girls who sit alone in their bedrooms at night painting their fingernails black,’” the 38-year-old writer and visual artist says, by phone from Long Beach.Read more.
Even on weekends, I would sit at my desk, sipping on a screwdriver while cutting arguments out of my skull, until I would hear my friends shout to me through my open windows, telling me that they had come to rescue me: it was time to go out and get fucked up.Read more.
Watch a video of Chloe Caldwell reading at the San Francisco Public Library.Read more.