Thomas McGuane

Thomas McGuane

"Writing a novel is like doing the Appalachian Trail by yourself. You're out there, nobody to talk to, nobody knows what you are doing, and if you have this great burst and you want to run out of your office and tell about this great scene, nobody is remotely interested."

Michael Connelly

Michael Connelly

"Ego drives a lot of writers, and it drives me. I can be pretty modest with you, but I have to admit when I am by myself I have goals and I want my stories to be read. And I think there is some art in them."

Undecorated Dad

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say "These wounds I had on Crispin's day." --Henry V, iv, iii He considered going over to kill Hitler or Hirohito or somebody, but Uncle Sam had no boots or uniforms anywhere near his size. So they put him in Military Intelligence and sent

Frank Conroy

Frank Conroy

"Although everybody says it's all going to hell in a hand basket and American literary culture is all over, really, that's not true. It just looks that way from the outside because popular culture is making so much noise and filling up so much space. But high culture is still there. A good book will still get printed."

On What is Proper

One should enjoy flowers in the company of beauties, get drunk under the moon in the company of charming friends, and enjoy the flight of snow in the company of high-minded scholars. --apocryphal, Chinese Born, bored by conflict taught by degrees to believe we must contend, find some purchase, gain the edge, you put on

Nora Okja Keller

Nora Okja Keller

"When I work with a short story, a novel or a column it forces me to follow a thought out. And by following that thought I come to a place that I wouldn't have guessed that I was going. I love that. To me, that's the enjoyment of writing, the process of discovery."

Jiffy Popped Corn and Puppy Don’t Care

Helen Astley and Henry Stein lay cuddled together in bed with the lights off, munching Jiffy Pop, watching an old western flick, For a Few Dollars More. They were no longer each other’s lovers. Five years of hot and cold drama had left the two numb: frostbitten below, scorched in the head. Still, they enjoyed

In the Rut

At six a.m., I learned the sun god had traded his golden chariot for a pale green corduroy chair. It was a lazy kind of light that coated the mountain. A light that implied comfort and “just another day,” rather than grandeur and the chokecherries swallowed the indignity. The fir tree, cold and thirsty, narrowed

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