1) I'm still writing for the Kenyon Review blog (and have...
1) I'm still writing for the Kenyon Review blog (and have poems in their upcoming fall issue), so the bulk of my online work's been directed that-a-way. Recent things: an interview with George Pelecanos and a long conversation with the fantastic Lily Brown about Wallace Stevens, an awesome interview with Alex Lemon which focuses much of its time and energy on baseball, a review of the stellar Just My Type by Simon Garfield. There was also a long, 2-part conversation with John Gallaher awhile back—can't remember if I noted it here or not, but there it is. Keep tracking the site—I'm there through October and will have, among other things, a review of one of the best infographic books in who knows how long, The Real State of America Atlas, plus hopefully a long interview with Richard Buckner about books and music.
2) New work: I've got something in the latest issue of Muzzle magazine, though the issue's chock full of far better shit than the absolute best I could possibly write. Also had a thing in the latest issue of MAYDAY, which is pretty okay too.
3) There've been a ton of books this summer that I haven't taken the time to review fully (plus music!) and now it's coming autumn again so I feel terrible and compelled to get bunches done. Expect short reviews for the next while, at least from me: there's a ton to wade through. A couple books demand long-form reviews—chad Harbach's The Art of Fielding is crazy good—but otherwise I want to just get things covered. Apologies to the books/authors for not being more thorough—and let's start now:
Crimes in Southern Indiana by Frank Bill. Did you hear about this book? You probably should have—the similarities to Donald Ray Pollock are striking (rust belt state author with blue collar life by himself cracks his own code and writes incredibly, plus for each man the writing's full of violence and brutishness), but that's not reason to hear about it—you should've heard about it because the book's fucking breathless, will knock you on your ass. I read the opening story, "Hill Clan Cross," while I ate lunch one day and had to stop reading—it wasn't ruining the meal, but I didn't want to divide my attention between sandwich and book. You want sentences that just haul ass? "Bonfire bent his knees to standing. Turned to Willie, whose taffy-pink palm reached for Bonfire's hand that held the .38, pressed his forehead into the heated barrel. His clouded eyes dug through Bonfire." I don't know what to call it—it's not straight noir nor pulp nor gothic, this writing and these stories, it's just good, and thick, and impossibly dark and moral and worth reading.
The Gin Closet by Leslie Jamison. Jesus, just read this. I don't know what to say—lots of the blurby stuff in the book features commentary on how the book's brutal and gorgeous, and I'd agree fully. I'd also say it's sadder by miles—real sad, in true ways—than anything I've read in awhile. I didn't see this one coming, and maybe you missed it too, but it's been out in paperback for awhile: get on this.
