Last year, I took a shot. I applied for the Irish Writers Centre’s international Novel Fair. If you haven’t heard of it, I suggest you click that link right now. Picture two days of intense speed-dating with a selection of…
Dread is an instrument. Its sound varies depending on how you play it. We’ve all heard it before, in the background of movies and TV series: there’s the high-pitched note that stretches on and on, the irregularly thudding heartbeat, the…
I sometimes wonder whether, growing up, anyone ever uncovered my “dirty little secret.” I was not always good at hiding it: I misread social cues. I struggled to focus on conversations. I made few friends. I mimicked behavior I saw…
Just over a year ago, in a paroxysm of post-election whythehellnottery, my wife and I packed up our books and moved from Boston, MA to Madrid, Spain. My Spanish was shaky at best, and still is. I spend most days in…
A few months ago, I attended a one-day seminar on revision. The lecturer started off by asking the audience to describe “revision” in one word. Everyone laughed when somebody said, “Hell.” Except me. I know not everyone out there shares…
I identify with Rembrandt in his early self-portrait, The Artist in His Studio. This is pre-socialite Rembrandt, not the velvet-robed, amply mustachioed burgher of his middle period, or the fading ghost with the watery expression of his late self-portraits. In…