You Won't See It Coming

Meathooks. We all throw them from time to time. In terms of short stories, Ray Carver delivered many mighty blows. Regardless, in recent times a series of blows have landed on the chin of Gordon Lish — the notorious editor of Carver’s stories — and his particularly affecting oomph: Stephen King judges one for the writer in the New York Times. To all you time-continuum spaceballs out there, we’re almost at the end of a decade. And you know what that means: Book Covers. Turn your steam-resistant goggles toward some of the best. Alice Munro dazzles with another collection of stories, as well as her refusal to go gently into any sort of night. Camus’ son  and Sarkozy get earthy and dig up the ghost of one of France’s patron saints, the mystery man Joe Sacco keeps his messy stories nice and clean, and Mary Beard weighs in on the importance of Classics. Elsewhere, Gladwell and Pinker go toe to toe, and The Poetry Foundation finds merit in Project Runway, which, to our mind, constitutes a meathook of TKO proportions. — Kevin Murphy

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Around the first indication of seasonal change — in this case, a stronger than usual wave issuing through Y-shaped weeds on the Academy lawn — Christine became able to put her strange feeling into words.  Doctor Frankland agreed to conduct their session outdoors, conceding that the summer had been too boilingly peevish to allow even the stroll beneath oaks and evergreens she’d asked him for several times, with so little variation in her tone of voice.  Now, they spread a lilac-and-white checkered blanket on the ground just before an unruly hump of grass that gave way, on its other side, to a downward coast that tumbled eventually into the Academy’s fence.

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November, by My Baby Mia

Miss a story? Looking for literature news? Want to get in touch with your inner Dark Sky? Good, we’ve got you covered. Here’s this week’s roundup of fiction, poetry, interviews, news and more.

Happy Friday.

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The Heavyweights

Big time. In one way or another it’s what many of us crave. Years pass and we aspirants continue to tote around delicious, elusive illusions: The moment we’re gonna make it and hit the Big Time. Recently the National Book Awards recognized a couple of scribes, which pretty much signals the arrival of some new big timers in the literary world. Iowa City is big time — it’s even dubbed the City of Literature. But is it living up to its reputation? Find out more in the Press-Citizen. Good old Carlos Fuentes emerges from his Latin lair and has some sage advice for authors: Lie, damn it. Ever hiked the Smoky Mountains? No? That’s cool, because now you can cradle that would-be experience in the palm of your hand. Lastly, a derelict office worker writes a novel in the bathroom, and the events that inspired In Cold Blood — a big, tough novel from a small, wobbly man — reach their 50th anniversary. “I’m on my way I’m making it…” — Kevin Murphy

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Behind this incubate day,

mists spray silent but whispered.

A flood when our summer slakes,

leaves umber flaking to rust.

Soft ray settles petaled hair,

leaves bare the purple to rust.

Incubate these true diamond tongues,

not the sweet sordid language of teeth.

Please whisper while you soar.

Don’t forsake this sun as it breaks,

and please whisper your slow fall,

and send notes of thanks as they save

those gifts you feel that are yours.

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Rod Peckman’s recent poems have appeared in Barnwood, Babel Fruit, Thieves Jargon, and Clapboard House. He lives in Washington state on a small lake in the woods, and spends much of his free time watching his Yellow lab swim for tennis balls and clearing nascent beaver damns.