Be sure to check out the wonderful group, #SixWordStories
Check out her photography; it’s an amazing legacy…
Happy Birthday, Rachel!
I have a question
for all your questions.
Abandon all coping mechanisms
All ye who enter here…
My poetry is altogether different than my fiction; it’s much more serious and straight-faced. I want Louise Glück to be my literary mommy and Don Bogen, Terry Stokes, John Ashbery, James A. Wright, Charles Baudelaire, T.S. Elliot, Phillip Larkin, Dylan Thomas, Matthew Arnold, Wilfred Owen, Michael Harper and Pablo Neruda to be my literary gangbang-spermdonor fathers.
Here’s what you can safely believe about my fiction: I have a sense of humor much like Mark Twain’s, especially in his later years. I have a sense of everything else much like Edgar Allan Poe exhibits in his stories, except with a post-Faulkner, post Flannery O’Connor twist added. I hope that makes sense.
The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.
…but how would you find them?
Want a clue? Start here.
And how should you find it?
My fiction belongs in a brown paper bag.
If there is some intersection between “philosophy,” “true crime,” “the noise that flies make in sound-proof rooms,” “shaggy dog stories,” “sci-fi,” and “things Ed Meese wanted to ban—but only after pleasuring himself while reading them,” then that’s the shelf where you’d find my work.
By the way, the FBI has cameras trained on that shelf, where my work sits decidedly alone. Don’t ever pick up one of my books, or else your name and photo will go in a database, and we all know what happens next.
For starters, some pretentious idiot will pull up a blurry shot of you from a bad angle and utter that fearsome incantation of our times: