Readers meet a woman up in the air. Literally. She is flying to Athens, where she will teach a course in creative writing. This is Outline. Perhaps partly because she could instruct in the art of outlining, demonstrate for her students the art of constructing a framework on which
I wasn't expecting to love Zoey Leigh Peterson's Next Year for Sure so much. Aryn Kyle's blurb caught my eye (because I've loved some of her short stories), but the pastel colours made me squint a little. I didn't think I was going to fit into a story with
"No one wants to hear what’s going on in some jailbird’s heart now do they?" It comes near the end of the novel, but I suspect that Joel Thomas Hynes took this idea as a challenge, that that's what inspired his Giller-Prize nominated novel We'll All Be Burnt in
In which I discuss the skinny volumes which accompany me on my travels, while the heavier volumes (like Stephen King's It and an omnibus of Shirley Jackson's short works) remain at home. On a late August afternoon, I'm taking the Queen Street streetcar, in the stretch between Beach and Parliament,
The dead fuel Jesmyn Ward's novels. She feels the weight of their stories; she shoulders them, shares them. In Sing, Unburied, Sing, their chorus of voices - even in the epigraphs but also in the novel - reverberates between and beyond the covers. Ward's are heart-shattering stories. But they
