I was teaching a writing course in a town in mid-coast Maine. The school where I teach put me up in this house as part of the deal. It’s a wonderful house, with a forever-sloping lawn that ends at woods that have tall birch trees whose leaves flutter in the wind and stir the…
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I look in the mirror, and I’m startled. My body is gaunt. I’m developing one of those old-man bodies you see on the beach. Bones everywhere. You could…
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In 1957, my Uncle Bob gave me a Smith Corona Galaxie II Manual Typewriter for my twelfth birthday. It was one of the best gifts I've ever received. It…
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I joined a group of pickleball players yesterday. They’re called “The Agin’ Cajuns.” (I live near Lafayette, Louisiana, the heart of Cajun country…
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It's surprising to find yourself, or something you've written, as a source for part of a famous dead poet’s biography. Especially a famous dead poet…
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I was looking for a pair of shoes. Very specific. I’d bought them ten years earlier in the same store on West 72nd Street in New York City. They didn’t…
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People are writing about her, at last.
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Garrison Keillor does not like Sherwood Anderson. Or, rather, he doesn’t like Winesburg, Ohio, which was written by Anderson. He once said the book “is…
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