READ ALL ABOUT IT
Since 2012, I’ve been writing about books. And the act of reading. And the importance of story and narrative. But, mostly, the underlying theme of all I write is how taking a moment to stop and digest some longform text — instead of scrolling, instead of watching a video, instead of multitasking — can be one of the most grounding things we can do for ourselves. Here’s the one-stop online home for all this writing.
You can read more about me and my work by moseying over here. Want to peruse periodic “essay drops” — excerpts from my work-in-progress essay collection about Homesickness? Here ya go.
Emergency
The short stories in Kathleen Alcott’s debut collection Emergency are like the sorts of people who seem to exude way too much cool and bravado but then you have a conversation with them and you’re like, “Ok, I guess you’re maybe a normal person with typical self-conscious neuroses too.” But then once in a while their sense of coolness peeks through the whole aw-shucks routine and you wonder if it’s all really a charade after all.
I Meant It Once
Anastasia Krupnik grew up and now she’s about 10 different characters experiencing a quarter-life crisis in I Meant it Once, the debut short story collection from Kate Doyle. I mean, not really (that would be fun, though!), but Doyle’s prose and the dialogue she gives her characters project the same sort of determination-tempered-with-a-large-dash-of-doubt that seems to always encumber our beloved Anastasia.
Mouthful of Birds
I admit I’ve grown a bit tired of people using the phrase “fever dream” to describe a book. Are we describing a rave, a haunted house, or what? Some phrases get thrown around so much and then become somewhat meaningless and amorphous. What do they really MEAN in real-life parlance? (Is this just my issue?)
The Sorrows of Others
Here’s an excellent short story collection about…
Five Tuesdays in Winter
Those who create something are often offering up shortcuts and windows to their soul. Whether it be a piece of writing, a painting, a podcast (or two…thinking of a good friend here!), or, say, an Instagram account, the “creation” in question is an outgrowth of some sort of message, articulated or not, that is burrowed in one’s heart and is in need of conveyance. At least that’s how I think of it, and I know it’s how another friend — a visual artist, and the one who prompted me to finally get this book off my shelf — thinks of it too.
At the Bottom of the River
I cannot stand winter in the Northeast US. I don’t mind the cold (rather like it, actually), don’t mind the snow (love, it actually), it’s not like I have seasonal affective disorder and need to move to Florida (no) or get a special lamp. Rather, I just really, really dislike the grey-ness and I really, really, really dislike the barren trees that all look dead. “Look at that marsh over there,” says Matt with an admiring tone on our drive. “You mean the one with what looks like toothpicks sticking out of it?” I think. Pass! Sorry to offend any diehard NE’ers here, but well...
Seven Empty Houses
First book of 2023: FIN. (To be fair, I had literally 3 pages left when I put it down yesterday. What is my problem.) Seven Empty Houses, by Samanta Schweblin, translated by Megan McDowell.
Resolute
A couple of months ago, I started using the Nike running app, and my least favorite part is picking which emoticon to select at the end of my run. I usually select the second- and third-highest “smiley” (just one shy of what is apparently “euphoria,” which is probably an indication that I should be pushing myself more), but I have never once referred back to these to analyze the different conditions that may inch me toward one or the other. It’s too simplistic of a method to chart progress, for although the app syncs with the local weather, it really has no clue how much the whipping wind from the Irish Sea affects my first mile or two. Similarly, although I may enter a relatively happy face because I feel physically good after the run, the little yellow face won’t account for the non-physical issues I’ve been tossing and turning in my mind on a particular day. Mostly, though, I can’t accurately compare my run – the same distance, the same route – to another. This 5-mile route is my only benchmark, and until I stretch out that length or at least huff and puff a little more, I won’t know what any of those frown-y faces on the right of my phone’s screen really mean. Nor will I appreciate the nice and easy little workout I’ve created for myself. (Note to self: It’s never too late to take up New Years resolutions.)
