Archives about debut
Back a few years, when you could still deny that LeBron James was the greatest player of our generation, I worked for a baller named Calyph West. He’s no more than a footnote now, an already bygone figure in the true new religion of American men, the world of sports, but professional basketball is, to
As I read Radhika Sanghani’s debut book, Virgin, I quite literally laughed out loud. All at once, I was reminded of the awkward years my girlfriends and I spent discovering ourselves and what it means to be a woman. I felt like another of Ellie’s friends, listening to the hilarious situations she finds herself in.
My Last Love Poem for a Crackhead, #23 some nights I hear my father’s long romance with drugs echoed in the skeletal choir of crickets. At each approach, a silence cuts in. And I wonder which part speaks more to this dance with addiction: the frailty of concord or the hard certainty of the coda’s
Now, my impression that I’d sold out was a private one, shared neither by my gallerist, Julien, happily traipsing about the room affixing red dots to the drywall, nor by the swell of brightly dressed expatriates pushing their way through conversations to knock their plastic glasses of Chablis against mine. There was nothing to be
I was twenty when Mary Lou and Me was published—my first and only novel. I had turned my life into a funny and tragic fiction and actually became my own Mary Lou. But a new problem soon presented itself—namely, topping that literary gold-medal equivalent—and I struggled over my second novel for the next seven years,
Lydia is dead. But they don’t know this yet. 1977, May 3, six thirty in the morning, no one knows anything but this innocuous fact: Lydia is late for breakfast. As always, next to her cereal bowl, her mother has placed a sharpened pencil and Lydia’s physics homework, six problems flagged with small ticks. Driving