Sunday Morning BY WALLACE STEVENS I Complacencies of the peignoir, and lateCoffee and oranges in a sunny chair,And the green freedom of a cockatooUpon a rug mingle to dissipateThe holy hush of ancient sacrifice.She dreams a little, and she feels the darkEncroachment of that old catastrophe,As a calm darkens among water-lights.The pungent oranges andContinue reading “Sunday Morning – A Poem”
What. A. Quote! Now, here we have the a monolith in name, diction, style, form, class, you name it who’s greatest achievement is rekindling the fire of what makes a novel a novel, or bending, no, rewriting the rules of literature and yet despite all that here he is claiming that all he’s written isContinue reading “The Grandeur of Ordinary Life: James Joyce on Literature About You, Me, And Everyone In Between”
Writing a novel is a complicated equation involving a lot of variables and moving parts — not the least of which are the authors themselves. In fact, the process of writing a novel is so arduous and soaked in magical thinking that many writers struggle to explain the process coherently,
“Recently Grammarly asked its social media communities which writing mistakes were the worst kinds of errors.”
Novelist. Reader. Archaeologist.
After high school I hit the road. A spontaneous bus ride to Mexico City led me into the hazy mountains, the deep emerald forests of Chiapas where I discovered the beautiful and heartbreaking world of the Maya (yes, they still exist) and found something deeply rooted, down in my heart of hearts: A need to be part of something greater, to commit myself to people less fortunate.