True Crime: Stories by Lora Johnson
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Search Search Search Browse menu. Sign in. Who knew that the renowned Stanford literary critic Terry Castle wrote the entire first draft of her dissertation in tiny handwriting on just seven sheets of legal-sized paper? Amusing, yes, but anecdotes give little sense of the grueling process of writing itself, or the perils of publication. The longed-for moment when you see your book in publication can bring as much rue as reward:. But then, once published, you almost inevitably discover typos, mistakes, and causes for regret and even remorse. But sometimes the words act and cause actions, as words do, and some readers may be led down the wrong path or may have terrible thoughts planted in their brains.
No matter how much the copy editor and I comb the text, at least one goof will slip right through the galleys. It was his own. You can buy it here. And you can read a little more about it here.
Richmond’s worst year? - CHPN
When my wife was going through chemo, and my friend shot himself, I began asking questions about what our duty is to dying people and the departed, where they go, what remains and how we speak to them and share what they go through. It was both sad and, rare in literary-competition-land, funny. Plus it proves that genre fiction — the story is, at heart, science fiction — can work, emotionally and artistically, at the highest levels.
This is a truly international platform and the most valuable prize for a single short story. But these are not the only reasons why it matters so much. It is also, as I believe we shall see in the years ahead, a trendsetter in the literary world. Photo: L.
Stanford prez John Hennessy is famously techie, right? How many books are enclosed by an immortal first and last sentence? What would I have done? Hennessy would be compelled to commit homicide. Fortunately, fortunately , Squeers must have died in Australia at least a century ago, presumably of natural causes. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery. Throughout the talk he kept presenting numbered lists of thoughts — he likes counting.
He seems to be good at keeping track. It was too deep, too much angst to it. High school angst is different. They say love is much better the second time around — so it seems with these reheated feasts. These classics, reread at ten-year intervals, resonate within us at different layers of experience, but you do need a prime coat.
Where does he get the time? Well yes, it does.
Between the Sheets with Lora Somoza
And what does he read at the end of the day, before bedtime? Just like the rest of us. Photo above has a gaggle of professors — the contemplative head-on-hand at far right belongs to Josh Landy. Next to him with the snowy beard is Grisha Freidin. The ponytail at his right belongs to Gabriella Safran. Next to her if you leap an aisle is David Palumbo-Liu in black glasses, and the half-head to his right belongs to Sepp.
Humble Moi at far left with the black Mary Janes. Many thanks for the excellent photography from Linda Cicero , which has often graced this site. In bed, eyes open, I hear whispers, which makes me think of the President because we often talk in whispers. I know the whisper sound is really just my wife, Charlotte, who listens to Nirvana on her headphones all night and tends to sleep-mumble the lyrics. Charlotte has her own bed, a mechanical one. But even creepier is what happens when I close my eyes: I keep visualizing my wife killing herself. The paralysis is quite temporary, though good luck trying to convince Charlotte of that.
She slept on her side today, to fight the bedsores, and there was something about the way she stared at the safety rail at the edge of the mattress. It was a big weekend in the Big Apple for one San Franciscan. Clearly talent runs in the family. The photo above was taken by his 9-year-old daughter Jupiter Johnson.
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The pretty prize is pictured below. We have no evidence of a literary underground. No book or poem has made it out in 60 years. As I wrote the book, I thought, who am I to write this?