The Fine Art of Practice

I’ve been playing the violin more or less consistently for about nineteen years. I’m still not as good as I would like to be, or as I imagine that I could be, and so I am still practicing and taking lessons. Compared to writing “lessons,” music lessons are far more affordable, which may be why I waited until after graduate school (and college) to get back into them. To be fair, I did take a couple music classes in college, but I didn’t particularly work well with the instructors I had (I think I was still too immature to listen to their criticism, which was far different from the criticism I received from my private instructors prior to college). My high school did not have an orchestra (just a band), which was ok really because I learned to play by working with my own degree of sound.

When I first learned to play, I often practiced at a level of sound which was comfortable to me. And since my ears were closest to the instrument while playing, I didn’t see the need to play beyond a range that depended only on my ability to keep the bow moving up and down the strings. This ability extends from a section of the bow called the frog (the black bit held in the right hand) along a ribbon of chalky horse hair to the white, sharply curved tip. As a kid, I loved the bow, but did not understand its full potential. I loved the fast swishing sound I could make when I swung it in the air (without the violin). I loved the little screw at the end that tightened and loosened the bow hairs and changed the curvature of the wooden stem. I liked that the bow had its very own place inside my case.

Above all, I understood (and loved) that the bow worked in concert with the violin and that I, likewise, had to work both arms and both hands simultaneously to make my signature, quiet sound. Even then (as a ten-year-old beginner and aspiring virtuoso), I imagined I was a better player than I actually was. I was jealous that other people (other girls my age or younger) also aspired to play violin. This instrument was my dream, one that wavered as soon as I realized how much work I was going to have to do.

I came to a point with my violin career (coincidentally around the time I was also becoming a teenager) when I had to choose it. That might sound strange. Hadn’t I already chosen it? Wasn’t it already my self-professed “dream,” the foundation of my fantasies for fame, fortune, and—at last—recognition and appreciation? My clear, ringing, and still quiet sound was going to take me either to the first chair of an orchestra (based, preferably, somewhere fancy like Chicago or Berlin) or to that sacred place beside the conductor occupied by the soloist.

I soon realized my dream did not quite match the reality in which I had to decide between more years of lessons or a crippling sense of guilt and failure if I quit. I continued to play, not because I was exceptionally talented, but because I knew I needed to prove to myself that I could stick with something, even as the dream that had started the pursuit settled firmly into a reality of hard work, failure, rejection, hardship, self-doubt, and modest accomplishments. I continued because I didn’t want to let myself down.

This was a really important decision, because it effected all future choices and decisions, all major turning points (so far) in my growth as a person and artist. From age 10 until about 18, I didn’t particularly like writing and didn’t consider it would or could be something to pursue in college. Even so, there were attempts at stories and little chronicles of what my brother and I and our neighborhood friends did during the summer. And I kept a journal (with a kind of vain attempt to imitate Anne Frank, whom I adored) but I became less and less consistent as I started high school. By then I was writing essays longer than three paragraphs and reading big books and learning a cacophony of random vocab words that—I was told—would be important for a couple of standardized tests that I would have to take in order to attend college. These years were the start of a gradual collection of the skills and practices which would eventually lead to another, collegiate turning point: declaring a major.

The decision to write, like the decision to play violin, was accompanied (again) by that crippling sense of guilt and failure if I quit pursuing a dream that, when confronted with reality, I could not fully realize. I knew that I wanted to be a writer because I had something to say. I still did not yet know what that something was (it develops and changes over time, and I’m still working out how to say what I need to say). I was, at this point, writing at a degree of sound that was comfortable to me. My work did not have great range, sweeping dynamics, or particularly unique articulation, but I was just beginning to practice writing and that was ok. A writer is always learning, always practicing, often without the prospect of either the position of first chair or soloist. Writers work as individuals who can become too cloistered in our own degree(s) of sound (which is why reading is so important—trying to get outside of ourselves for a bit—and why writing workshops are also so important—learning how to critically assess the work of other writers). We write because we need to write and we practice a lot (the practicing never ends, in fact) so that we can grow and expand our range of sound.

One lesson recently, I was working with my violin teacher on a certain piece by Bach. He spoke about decoding music (musical notes are a kind of universal language like math, symbols marking sounds and rhythm), but, more than that, playing to a degree at which the listener will understand what you want to express.

“What are you trying to say?” he asked me, rhetorically. The music on the page is a script, a guide. Each note a word. Each rest a comma (longer rests are dashes or periods or sometimes question marks). We could look at time signatures, he said, as the lengths of sentences. Or we could talk about “phrasing” in the music and the way phrases are repeated, patterns that emerge in the notes, in the rhythms. But then you have to decide how to take all that information and utilize it so you can shape the sound for a listener.

When I write, I can sometimes forget that I’m writing for a reader. When I play violin, I see the listener and there is pressure to impress him somehow. I did not see that playing the violin is like writing until my teacher asked me that question. He thinks about this question always when he plays and, by pointing out all the similarities between music and writing, he wanted me to do the same. He doesn’t know that I write, but that’s ok. I had tried to make violin and writing separate—and they are, in a way—but they are actually very connected. The choice to do violin was already the choice to write and vice versa. If I had not decided to stay with violin, would I have become a writer? There doesn’t have to be an answer to this question, but I do think that the decision to write (and to stay writing, to continue practicing this craft) would have been much more difficult if I had not pushed myself to stay playing.

The dream that I had, which was mostly jealousy-based now that I think about it, didn’t necessarily end. It changed when I was confronted with reality. I think the same is true with my writing career. A dream emerges and it’s immaterial and flimsy until you make the decision to practice. My teacher always encourages me to practice more and better so that I can lock a concept into place. And that’s exactly what practice is—locking in a routine, pruning back the bad habits until you are free of the restraints that hinder you from saying what you most want (and need) to say.

LitFest 2015, a Recap

This year I attended LitFest 2015, a literary conference hosted by the Denver-based writer’s community Lighthouse Writers Workshop. I bought a “Business Pass” so that I could attend several business panels, five unique craft sessions, a two-weekend intensive workshop, and a very fancy meeting with a literary agent. I’ll admit, I embarked on my LitFest adventure with quite a bit of excitement, eagerness, and (over) confidence, but I re-emerged at the end of it a humbled and slightly wiser person. I was happy to be a part of LitFest and I met some insightful and compelling writers, authors, and Lighthouse members, but–as with most of my experiences–I wanted to reflect a little on what I did, what I learned, and what I’m looking forward to post-LitFest.

At the first business panel, titled “What You Absolutely Must Know: Editors Tell All,” one of the guest editors gave a piece of advice that stuck with me during the whole of my time at LitFest. The panel was about submitting work to literary magazines: what to do, what not to do, how to handle rejection, etc., and the editor spoke about believing in your work and taking a positive attitude to submitting and inevitable rejection. He told us, very simply, to be bold and to be persistent. In the context of submitting your work to literary magazines, that’s a really appropriate maxim (or a kind of “beatitude” for writers). It’s not easy shooting your work into the ether, expecting greatness, and receiving (after months of patient waiting) a scripted rejection note. The more I considered his advice, the more I found a great sense of comfort and affirmation in the work that I do. Even if I’m rejected, or my work is found wanting (more on that below), I still write because I have a point of view, an opinion, and a voice which I use to express myself.

Lighthouse shwag, in which I have written several writer “beatitudes.”

Be bold. Be persistent. I thought about this advice when I raised my hand to read something I’d written as an in class exercise, volunteered some detail about myself to a perfect stranger, attempted to recover from a slightly bombed meeting with a literary agent, and, after I had left said bombed meeting, encouraged a friend to pursue an investment in her own writing life. I wrote those words in the notebook I use to collect notes, ideas, and submission details. I came back to that advice as I sat down to work on a story which is taking on a life of its own (it’s becoming very “novella-like”).

Still, being bold and persistent isn’t easy when you sit in a room with a reader who knows exactly what she wants to read because she knows exactly what will sell best. It especially isn’t easy when she asks you to explain what your story “means” or what she should “take away from it.” And it most definitely isn’t easy when she tells you she doesn’t “get” flash fiction. But I think there are moments–especially in difficult situations full of rejection and angst (I’ve had my fair share of them)–when you see around the pain to the idea of yourself which you have placed in harms way. I do a lot to protect that self because she is so precious and misunderstood and kind of awkward.

And yet, the only way I know how to be bold and persistent is to write, where I am only too willing to place this self at stake. I found echoes of that willingness in the instructors of my classes and workshops, in the writers participating in those classes, and in the spirit of Lighthouse, which is as much about giving writers a place to belong as fostering the boldness and persistence of creative expression. I took some excellent classes about noir and violence from Benjamin Whitmer, who is an incredible noir novelist. Guided by the energetic poet Lynn Wagner, I learned about Paul Celan and Anna Akhmatova, two poets who bore witness to the atrocities of their time. I even wrote some poetry of my own after taking Seth Brady Tucker’s excellent class on poetry for fiction writers. I learned about the structure of plot and story from Erika Krouse, who shared her insight and experience as a renowned novel and short story writer. And I learned about the shapes of fiction courtesy of Paula Younger, a kind and knowledgeable writer who told us not to reject ourselves.

My time at LitFest was difficult and challenging, but ultimately a worthy and important experience. I reaffirmed my belief in my work and, after my meeting with a literary agent, accepted that I still have a lot to learn about the business side of writing and publication. So even as I scuttled away from my rather humiliating encounter with the literary agent to have a mini-crisis in the bathroom, I felt glad that I had tried to put myself out there. I learned, in a rather huge and unmistakable way, that pleasing everyone is not a sign of success.

One of my favorite definitions of reading (which I learned only recently and yet, I cannot exactly recall where I picked it up) is that it is a collaborative process between the writer and his/her reader. Collaboration implies active participation on the part of the reader, who brings his/her own experience to the words on the page, to the images and dialogue suggested by the prose or poetry. I really like this definition because it narrows and focuses the vast, sprawling literary world to the tiny corner which I occupy and suggests that my readers are out there, waiting to collaborate with me. It also means that I don’t have to freak out every time I try to attend big literary conferences (*cough* AWP *cough*) and feel like there is no possible way I will ever accomplish any of my goals because there are so many other writers ahead of me in line. But it’s not a queue. It’s a web. I’m throwing threads out there to see what sticks, to see who I stumble upon, and how beautifully I can design my little spider lair.

I Love Lectures


This past year (or so) I attended The Denver Post Pen & Podium Series, a set of five lectures spread over about eight months given by contemporary authors. For the 2014-2015 season, I heard Dennis Lehane (in September), Jennifer Egan (in November), Sherman Alexie (in February), Mary Roach (in April), and Neil Gaiman (in May) discuss their work and literary careers. The lectures were held at the University of Denver’s Newman Center—big black stage, solitary podium, shining spotlight on the speaking writer— and while the setting did give some of the lectures an academic vibe, the authors did not shy away from telling irreverent (and colorful) stories. Picture Sherman Alexie naked and crying in a hotel shower which he has turned on just a trickle so as not to wake the other hotel guests; or picture Mary Roach in an Egyptian research hospital watching a doctor demonstrate the “anal wink” on a research fellow; or Dennis Lehane explaining to a bar full of drunk and insistent fans that although he is a Bostonian through and through he did not write the movie “The Town.” Above all, these writers exhibited a profound joy for what they do, a definite sense of fulfillment, but also a realistic perspective on their art and the limitations of the work. Whether the lecture was improvised (like Alexie’s), told from little notes stored on an iPhone (like Lehane’s), read from a prepared essay (like Egan’s), coupled with short readings (like Gaiman’s), or even framed in a conversation with a moderator (like Roach’s), each speaker gave an intimate and authentic presentation of his or her life as a writer. Looking back now, I can’t help feeling that they only scratched at the edges of attempting to explain how they do what they do. And after each attempt, I left the lecture auditorium with a breathless excitement that I carried home and will treasure for as long as I can.

Dennis Lehane The Drop

Inspired and a little enamored with Lehane after his descriptions of his parents and his upbringing as the family book nerd, I plucked up my courage and asked Lehane about his writing process. For Lehane, writing is the lie that tells the truth and narrative is a type of defense against the ultimate chaos of the world. He told me that he writes best in the early morning and late at night—the times of the day when he is closest to a dream-like state.

Jennifer Egan A Visit from the Goon Squad

Egan read a prepared speech—which was fine, truly—but her lecture was my least favorite. With her claim that “powerpoint” was a new and novel way for her to frame a story, I lost a little of my awe for her innovative creativity. I mean, powerpoint is just so boring. This is not to say her work lacks skill and is undeserving of the awards and accolades it has received. And, I understand the idea of using different shapes for stories, or trying on different forms to shape narrative. But everyone was so over-the-moon about her powerpoint slide story that, really, when you think about powerpoint, it just feels so 1999, especially when she talked about how before breaking into the unchartered territory of Microsoft Office Suite presentation software she had literally no idea (no idea!) how to make a powerpoint presentation. She had to ask her successful business friend to send her a memo about how to work it.

Sherman Alexie The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian

Alexie’s detailed story of a mislaid hotel reservation, a never-ending cab ride around a small town in the middle of the night, and his neurotic obsession with body odor (his and of other travelers) captured the audience instantly and by the conclusion he had us eating out of his hand.  Plus, when I had him sign my copy of his book, he said, “Ooo! Jacqueline! That’s a name that should be said as a whisper. Jacqueline.”  Then he laughed a really jolly laugh so that I was simultaneously embarrassed and awestruck.

Mary Roach Gulp, Stiff, Boink

Roach and a moderator had a conversation about her books and her process (from generating ideas to nailing down the structure of her essay).  And while I generally liked this format, I often wished the moderator was a little less involved in answering her own questions. Still, Roach (when she could sneak a word in now and then) provided very charismatic and intelligent answers that made me curious to read her books. She has a deep love and appreciation for scientists who study obscure (or overlooked) body parts and body functions.  And that appreciation definitely out-shined all the bathroom humor the moderator so wanted to share.

Neil Gaiman The Ocean at the End of the Lane, Trigger Warning

Even though my dream of taking a picture with Gaiman and having a brief, fleeting interaction with him while he personalized the stack of books I brought for him to sign never came to fruition (alas, he was unable to stay for a book signing), I thought Gaiman’s lecture was the best of the series. True, his was last, and therefore the freshest in my mind, but he had such a calm and comfortable stage presence that I think the whole audience (whether they knew his work or not) just fell in love with him. His talk was heartfelt and invested and he just conveyed a deep love for each and every little “thing,” (as he called his stories, novels, comics, et. al.) he has written.  And well, Neil is such a fantastic reader.  Hearing him read from Trigger Warning was a beautiful gift to the audience.

All the books Neil did not sign.  Sigh.
All the books Neil did not sign. Sigh.

Blog Re-Launch!

So it’s been nearly a year since my last blog post and I thought that I should probably recommit to the development of my online presence (something with which I constantly struggle) by doing a new post and a little spring cleaning. New theme, new layout, new mindset about how I go about documenting my written life.

A friend of mine recently sent me an article that was a review of Ann Patchett’s memoir on writing and the writing life, This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage. Maria Popova, the author of the article quotes Patchett on her experience with forgiveness and creating art…

“Forgiveness. The ability to forgive oneself. Stop here for a few breaths and think about this because it is the key to making art, and very possibly the key to finding any semblance of happiness in life. […] I believe, more than anything, that this grief of constantly having to face down our own inadequacies is what keeps people from being writers. Forgiveness, therefore, is key. I can’t write the book I want to write, but I can and will write the book I am capable of writing. Again and again throughout the course of my life I will forgive myself.”

I find this idea of forgiveness–of considering one’s own failings, which are linked to hesitation or limitation (self-imposed or not)–so appealing in my current stage of artistic development. Not only is forgiveness a great place from which to begin again, forgiveness also means letting go of the past, taking the first heavy step forward.

I tend to forget that I’m still learning to be myself. I sometimes think I’m all set. I live a comfortable life and have a day job which allows me to spend time writing and reading. This is not to say that I haven’t had setbacks (for instance, I recently applied to graduate school for a doctorate in creative writing and I was not accepted), or that I don’t constantly face rejection or deal with worries–but I forget that I shouldn’t settle for the failure. And that it isn’t enough to forgive myself. I have to act on that forgiveness too. Get excited.

And so, dear Internet, forgive me for the past, the year of silence and quiet loathing of your cold substitute for real interaction and interpersonal connection. Let’s get excited and write about it.

Reading Event

Please join me on Monday, September 22 for “On the Equinox: A night of poetry and fiction,” a special reading event to be held at the Dada Art Bar.  I’ll be reading one of my short stories alongside my fellow writers Amber Adams, David Hicks, and Eric Baus, who will also read their fabulous work.  The event begins at 7:30.  I’d love to see you there!



Ladies Who Book-Club

A couple of friends and I recently founded our own book club.  Over bottles of house red wine and Chianti labeled with the likeness of a hot and helmeted Sir Lancelot, we discussed the contenders for our highly intellectual, not-a-skein-of-yarn-in-sight uber exclusive club.  If you’d like to join us (by proxy) I’ll be posting regular updates about what we’re reading, what we like about what we’re reading, and any other world-class insights and discussions we will inevitably bring week after week.

Right now, we’re slated to meet again in a couple weeks after we read chapters 1-10 of Philip K. Dick’s novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?  It’s the novel that provided the basis for the Ridley Scott film Blade Runner.  (The book is far better than the movie, as is usually the case…. although, in this case, only one medium features Harrison Ford). When we reconvene, we’ll have a little more wine and a little chat about the first half of the book and then in another week, we’ll finish the second half of the book and repeat.

In February, we’ll start our second book, The Yellow Birds a novel by Kevin Powers.  This is the story of two soldiers who go to war in Iraq, face the stress and disaster of war, and attempt to transition back to civilian life.  It is a powerful and poetic examination of war.

And then in March, we’ll probably jump into Italo Calvino’s collection of short stories, Cosmicomics.  It’s a collection that features a cast of characters who mine moon cheese, or sail through the time-space continuum, or grow and expand into star nebula.  Cosmicomics is a beautiful, if at times strange, smattering of fiction flavored by the science of the cosmos.

After that, however, we haven’t decided what to read.  We’ve got a few items that are gaining votes, but nothing confirmed yet until all five members give their consent.  In the meantime, here’s a list of what we hope to maybe read.

      1. Allende, Isabel: House of Spirits…… votes: 2
      2. Asimov, Isaac: Foundation…….. votes: 4
      3. Austere, Paul: The New York Trilogy…… votes: 2
      4. Bradley, Zimmer Marion: The Mists of Avalon…… votes: 3
      5. Calvino, Italo: If On a Winter’s Night a Traveler…… votes: 2
      6. Carton, Eleanor: The Luminaries…… votes: 3
      7. Danticat, Edwidge: Claire of the Sea Light…… votes: 1
      8. DeLillo, Don: Libra…… votes: 3
      9. DeLillo, Don: Point Omega…… votes: 2
      10. Diaz, Junot: Drown…… votes: 1
      11. Didion, Joan: The Year of Magical Thinking…… votes: 1
      12. Finkel, David: Thank You For Your Service…… votes: 5
      13. Flynn, Gillian: Gone Girl…… votes: 3
      14. Gaiman, Neil: American Gods…… votes: 3
      15. Gaiman, Neil: Caroline…… votes: 3
      16. Gaiman, Neil: The Ocean at the End of the Lane…… votes: 3
      17. Gurganus, Alan: Local Souls, Novellas…… votes: 1
      18. Hosseini, Khaled: And the Mountains Echoed…… votes: 2
      19. Jones, Diana Wynne: Howls’ Moving Castle…… votes: 3
      20. Komunyakaa, Yusef: Neon Vernacular…… votes: 1
      21. Komunyakaa, Yusef: Taboo…… votes: 1
      22. Komunyakaa, Yusef: Talking Dirty to the Gods…… votes: 1
      23. Le Guin, Ursula: A Wizard of Earthsea…… votes: 4
      24. Legard, J.M.: Submergence…… votes: 5
      25. Mizumura, Minae: A True Novel…… votes: 2
      26. Moore, Alan: Watchmen…… votes: 3
      27. Olson, Charles: The Maximus Poems…… votes: 1
      28. Pullman, Philip: Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm: A New English Version…… votes: 4
      29. Rich, Adrienne: The Dream of a Common Language…… votes: 3
      30. Roth, Philip: American Pastoral…… votes: 2
      31. Rukeyser, Muriel: The Collected Poems of Muriel Rukeyser…… votes: 1
      32. Saunders, George: Tenth of December…… votes: 3
      33. Shaughnessy, Brenda: Our Andromeda…… votes: 4
      34. Toole, John Kennedy: A Confederacy of Dunces…… votes: 2
      35. Verghese, Abraham: Cutting for Stone…… votes: 1
      36. Zusak, Markus: The Book Thief…… votes: 3

Stay tuned for more book club updates!

My Year in Books–2013


In 2013, I read about 38 books.  I don’t think that’s a particularly impressive number, but then I didn’t read every day and didn’t really force myself to read any more rigorously than I usually do.  I bought books, researched books at the library, uncovered treasures and out of print books at used bookstores, and then I read, thought about what I read, had dreams about books, and finally, I wrote.

The 38 books I read this year offer a little perspective of the kind of year I’ve had–both personally and in terms of my writing life.  When I decided to treat my depression, I needed Jon Krakauer’s nonfictional accounts of ordinary humans overcoming forces of nature and the mechanisms of war propaganda in his books Into the Wild and Where Men Win Glory: The Odyssey of Pat Tillman.  The gothic themes and fantastical elements emerging in my work lately were probably cultivated after reading science fiction books like Ender’s Game, The Left Hand of Darkness, and Snow Crash, or fantasy books like Brown Girl in the Ring, The Innkeeper’s Song, and The Princess Bride.  I also read plenty of poetry this year, admiring the richly textured compositions of poets like Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes, Emily Dickinson, and Hart Crane.  I read creative nonfiction too–essays by W.G. Sebald (one of my favorite authors), Marguerite Duras’ memoir (or psuedo-memoir) about World War II, the letters of Vincent van Gogh, and a book length essay of the disappearance of modernism by Gabriel Josipovici.

From Salinger to Brontë to Howard Hughes to Inspector Morse, the smattering of eclectic and erratic books I read this year were happy adventures that at times challenged my perceptions of the world (like Inside WikiLeaks by Daniel Domscheit-Berg), inspired me to choose difficult, even controversial subjects for fictional retellings (Don DeLillo’s Libra is a mix of fact and fiction on the life of Lee Harvey Oswald), and welcomed me back to their beautiful worlds when I needed to remember why I love literature (this year I read The Great Gatsby for the fourth time).

Here’s the full list and a few book covers from my 2013 year in books.


Idiots, Five Fairy Tales and Other Stories by Jakob Arjouni


Howard Hughes, His Life and Madness by Donald L. Barlett and James B. Steele

The Innkeeper’s Song by Peter S. Beagle

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card

White Buildings by Hart Crane


Sleet and Other Stories by Stig Dagerman

Libra by Don DeLillo

The Angela Esmeralda and Other Stories by Don DeLillo


The Riddle of the Third Mile by Colin Dexter

The Wench is Dead by Colin Dexter

The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson by E. Dickinson


Inside WikiLeaks by Daniel Domscheit-Berg

The War by Marguerite Duras

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Princess Bride by William Goldman

Beowulf translated by Seamus Heaney


Brown Girl in the Ring by Nalo Hopkinson

Tales from Ovid by Ted Hughes


Whatever Happened to Modernism? by Gabriel Josipovici

On the Road by Jack Kerouac

Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer

Where Men Win Glory: The Odyssey of Pat Tillman by Jon Krakauer

The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. LeGuin


Sniper by Nicolai Lilin

Ariel by Sylvia Plath

Grimm’s Fairy Tales by Philip Pullman

Eyeseas (Les Zioux) by Raymond Queneau


Nine Stories by J.D. Salinger

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

Little Raw Souls by Steven Schwartz


Therapy by Steven Schwartz

Across the Land and the Water by W.G. Sebald

On the Natural History of Destruction by W.G. Sebald

Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson

The Letters of Vincent van Gogh by V. van Gogh

The Dragon and Other Stories by Yevgeny Zamyatin

Thérèse Raquin by Émile Zola

And here’s a list of a few books I hope to read next year.  (Who knows, maybe I’ll read 50!)


The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton (winner of the Booker Prize)


Thank You For Your Service by David Finkel

Local Souls: Novellas by Alan Gurganus

Submergence by J.M. Ledgard

A True Novel by Minae Mizumura


Watchmen by Alan Moore

Tenth of December by George Saunders (short stories)

Our Andromeda by Brenda Shaughnessy (poetry collection)