My 1st book is here: Ghost in the Rain!

It’s been a looong time since I posted here. So much has happened. (For the tldr version, head over to my fiction page. I’ve been busy!) But in the spirit of moving on, I’ll catch up on things later in future posts as time goes on.

My big news is that I’ve published my first chapbook! My first book of any kind, actually. It’s a collection of 12 microfictions and flash pieces called “Ghost in the Rain,” from indie publisher Bottlecap Press. It went on sale in late spring. I’m thrilled! I never thought I’d debut after 50, with a story collection, no less. But it’s a relief and a joy to see this book out in the world.

I’ve been very fortunate since its publication to have the book reviewed at Your Impossible Voice by Kelsey Squire. It’s a thoughtful, beautifully written (and glowing) piece of criticism. I’m honored.

I was also honored to be invited by Steve Himmer, one of the founders of Necessary Fiction, to write a short essay about how I assembled the collection. It’s a personal essay discussing pieces of my past that influenced and shaped these stories.  

Many thanks to everyone who’s bought the book, shared photos of it online, and been supportive in so many ways since it was released. I had no idea this was going to happen this year. The timeline from when I submitted the manuscript to Bottlecap Press to publication was so fast.  

I’ll share more details soon about a series of launch events I have brewing in the fall and into next year. Online events and in-person in Philadelphia. And in other cities, I hope – if you need readers or authors for your event or book group, let’s get in touch!

While I’m hyping my own book (and hopping around excitedly, but pretending to play it cool), I wanted to mention a couple books I’ve read lately that I loved. I got to hear Cara Benson read at Head House Books in Philly on her current tour. What a phenomenal reader and person. Her memoir, “An Armsfull of Birds,” is stunning, full of grief, hope, and wisdom about love. Here’s a link to an interview she did about the book with Cheryl Strayed.

I also got to meet flash writer Elizabeth Rosen this summer at the Barrelhouse Writers Camp (more on this later, I think). I picked up her chapbook, “Survival Skills” and later heard her read online with several other phenomenal flash writers, like Sumitra Singam, Travis Flatt, and Dawn Tasaka Steffler. All I can say is that Liz’s story collection is one of the best books (not just chapbooks) I’ve read in years. Her work was completely new to me and I read this collection in one sitting. From the very first pages it had me and just kept delivering. It’s a phenomenal book.

Gerald Murnane’s Exquisite Failures

I hope to have some new posts up soon. In the meantime, here’s an essay I wrote about Australian author Gerald Murnane. It appeared in Music & Literature No. 3 many years ago, but never made it online. Thanks for reading!

Gerald Murnane’s Exquisite Failures

I saw nothing absurd in what I was doing—sitting at the heart of the scene I had dreamed of fifteen years before and yet dreaming further of another scene that would lead me at last into the real world. I had the pleasant suspicion that I was about to complete a neat pattern I had often admired as a subject of fiction. I might have been about to demonstrate that at the heart of every scene assumed to be real was at least one character imagining further scenes that would be closer still to reality. —Gerald Murnane

Gerald Murnane’s Landscape with Landscape comprises six interlinked narratives that echo one another, evoking a sort of chorus or book of possible lives about an anonymous, would-be writer.

The collection’s title is one we might expect to find on a gallery wall beside a symbolic realist painting. It might spur us to imagine a layered representation of a panoramic scene, complete in one sense yet with any given image partially concealing several others. Murnane’s choice to title this book as if it were a landscape painting is no gimmick: its six narrators are writers in the suburbs of Melbourne who are all obsessed with an abstract notion they call “landscape”—a metonym for a certain purpose in their lives, a far-off yet “peculiarly real” place inside each writer—and who have a common desire to hold such a place in their minds. Protecting the meaning of this private landscape and its purity as an idea secretly alive within them, in order to capture some or another part of it in their fiction, is the narrators’ shared tragicomic vocation.

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The Wild Jesus (Part 4 of 4)

The next morning my Dad is back at his camp to start his great hunt again. The heat keeps him awake. He rarely sleeps. Cicadas buzz like little machines in the trees. He has no bullets, but he wields his knife. He eats cicadas when he gets hungry, or kills a lizard. Sometimes I ride my kangaroo to bring him pork chops and apple sauce. The part of the woods that Ronald Reagan burned down are all grown back.

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The Wild Jesus (Part 2 of 4)

Me and my mom and my sisters move back to the house. My father stays in the woods. He keeps hunting Jesus. He walks with a knife and studies the blood from when he shot Jesus once and gave him five wounds. He follows the trail of big red drops through the woods and into the corn field where the Berlin Wall has reappeared. He cannot cross. He has not seen Jesus for years. The weather gets hot. The heat makes my Mom fight with my sisters who skip school to fish all day and night in the canal. They dive in with sharp sticks and spear fish. One night my Mom sneaks over and locks them in their room. When she finally unlocks their door she says, “No more fish!” and breaks their wooden spears. My sisters walk past me and yell, “Don’t you follow us!”

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The Wild Jesus (Part 1 of 4)

My father is in the woods far from our house. He is hunting Jesus. Jesus stalks the woods in his antlers. He is chasing Ronald Reagan. That’s when my Dad shoots Jesus. Jesus runs off, bleeding in five places from one bullet. Nice shot! My Dad waits. He lets Jesus go away to see if he’ll bleed out. When my Dad gets down from his tree he follows the blood. He follows it into the corn field and stops. He cannot go any further. There is a Berlin Wall. The blood trail goes over the Wall. My Dad will not. He can smell the blood and the scent of burnt matches on the other side.

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New novel drafted

I’m very happy to say I’ve finished the first draft of a new novel.

It’s about a wedding, a poisoning, a child revolt, and an alternate world. At least, that’s what it’s about for now. Some elements could change as I continue to read through and revise the book.

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