HomePageTeaser
Corn Maze
A Craft Essay
by Pam Houston
When it was decided (When was that again, and by whom?) that we were all supposed to choose between fiction and nonfiction, what was not taken into account was that for some of us truth can never be an absolute, that there can (at best) be only less true and more true and sometimes those two collapse inside each other….
From Reading to Costco
A Sideways Review
by Erika Anderson
The twenty rolls of toilet paper, the quadruple pack of painkillers, the mounds of frozen food one can purchase wholesale assumes a life that stretches out miles and miles before us….
Please Eat the Pastrami
A Sideways Review
by Claire Guyton
He is very comfortable with his two friends or he wouldn’t eat with his mouth full. He is so impatient for the joy of eating that he can’t stop, put the hamburger down, argue a point. And trust me, I know, he holds that sandwich like a man who loves to eat….
Hunger Mountain Pushcart Nominations for 2011
An essay, two stories, and three poems
Richard Farrell
Heather E. Goodman
Mayumi Shimose Poe
Nancy Eimers
Bradley Harrison
William Olsen
On Material: Writing Prompts
A Craft Short
by Christy Bailey
A dominant left brain can lead to over-thinking, playing it safe, and self-judging—all of which can block the creative right brain. Prompts help us loosen up and let go of control.
Michael Martone: People, Places, Things
Lists: Literary & Laundry
Time in a Vacuum Bottle: A Genealogy. On weekends, he played clarinet in a Dixieland band; during the week, he practiced in the yawning room. The big loft windows reached up, opened, three stories tall, with all the stars mapped out in the panes’ grid. He drank hot tea he mixed with cold milk, kept an eye on the auger worming coal from the bunker into that constant fire.
The Two Sides of Albert Goldbarth
A Sideways Review
by John Proctor
I’ve now read two Goldbarth essays, “Everybody’s Nickname” from The Best American Essays 2008 and the book-length Griffin, and while their topics are different, they’re essentially about the same thing—bifurcation.
Winners of the Prize for Young Writers
selected by Cynthia Leitich Smith
Rumor Has it in Winthrop ~ FICTION by Lin King
It is generally agreed amongst the townspeople that this whole sorry incident has been the most tragic and romantic “love story” Winthrop has ever witnessed…
What You Can Tell from My Childhood Heroes: Feminism and Other Things ~ CREATIVE NONFICTION by Sophie Haighney
I liked the way eyeliner smelled, waxy and synthetic and a little bit like wood. It reminded me of my mother. There had been no occasion for me to wear makeup throughout my younger years, so I associated make-up only with her as she prepared for parties, evening light splattering her mirror like white fire. I used to think it was the light that tasted like violets, but it must have been her perfume.
Threshold and The Office ~ POETRY by Delali Ayivor
I was nine years old when my mother came to me,
told me of her
designs for the modern black woman.
“No more pain,” she said. The wailed
refrain of so many heartsongs…
Mad Men and The Writing Life
from Writer, Inc.
by Sue Eisenfeld
Every creative writer’s dream is to leave the day job and just write. No longer shackled by other responsibilities, deadlines, or inter-office politics, you could spend your days at home, or at a coffee shop, addressing your literary whims and dreams….
Children of Paradise
an essay
by Sascha Feinstein
My parents, both abstract expressionists, never took me to kid movies. In general, they treated me more like a friend. I saw my first Disney film overseas, at the age of twenty-nine, and by accident. (The theater in Singapore hadn’t changed the marquee; I thought I had purchased tickets for My Cousin Vinny and instead saw Aladdin. Talk about a whole new world!) (read more)
Deposition
a poem
by Doug Ramspeck
Say two crows at dusk in an auburn sky.
But which is the augury of which? Or then
a cottonmouth slipping like ripe fruit into the reeds.
Our ribs feeling as hollow as a stream bed… (read more)
Field Guide at Dusk
a poem
by Doug Ramspeck
It will not do. This weak-willed light slipping
from the grass, pale as hands folded on a chest.
No breeze to animate the hickory leaves,
to ripple the surface of the creek… (read more)
Her Last Costume
A Sideways Review
by Claire Guyton
I clocked the bleached ponytail, the fake fur collar on the short jacket, the tight, pink, glitter-speckled tee-shirt—yegads, a bare midriff!
I’ll Be the Moon
A Sideways Review
by John Proctor
Let me now not only reflect upon the moon but assume its stature. I am enamored of the Sun and the Earth. I sing to one the light of the other, but….
Into That White Hot Center
A Sideways Review
by Sara Yu
I am a feverish dreamer. Every night I am plagued by wild dreams packed with elements of a good story: sensory details, action, ridiculous tension. But none of these dreams ever makes sense….
One Perfect Sentence
A Sideways Review
by Claire Guyton
If I were to right now type out that last line, it would, I know, fall lightly on the page—unobtrusive, entirely harmless, taking only the space allotted.
On Characters: FATE
A Craft Short
by Bruce Machart
I remember the steam on the windows of the classroom, the snow swirling itself dizzy outside. I remember Lee’s burr-cut hair and the vein above his temple that announced his level of concentration.
What book do you re-read most?
Lists: Literary & Laundry
by DeWitt Henry, Dylan Landis, Bruce Machart, Katrina Roberts
I open the pages, and it whispers, “Look. Look at how, in careful prose, everything is possible.”
Being My Own Book Publicist
from Writer, Inc.
by Kelly Kathleen Ferguson
Maybe Beyoncé and Margaret Atwood have an entourage, but I find myself muttering the prelude to Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy”—’Cause in this life, things are much harder than the afterworld. In this life, you’re on your own. Or as my mom would say, “Buck up, little Buckaroo!”
Idiosyncratic Tone in the Novel
A Craft Essay
by Wendy Voorsanger
Visit with Wendy Voorsanger
Tone is the emotional color or musical pitch of a novel. It’s typically a feeling or atmosphere a writer establishes and maintains through an entire piece of writing. It’s not what is being said or done—it’s how it’s said or done.
A Blind Date
A Sideways Review
by Erika Anderson
Having decided that fashionably late was uncouth for dates of the blind variety, I stepped through the threshold of the forgettable dive on St. Marks a nerdy thirteen minutes early.
Welcome from the Editor (of YA and Children’s Lit)
by Bethany Hegedus
Welcome to the Art & Insanity of Creativity issue in Hunger Mountain’s YA and Children’s Lit section. While this issue’s theme may sound tongue in cheek, it is anything but. To quote Greek writer Nikos Kazantzakis (1885-1957) “A person needs a little madness, or else they dare never cut the rope and be free.”
The Dearth of the Eulogy
A Sideways Review
by John Proctor
So I hone the eulogy, omitting what frequently seem to me the most defining and consequential elements of the deceased’s life until I have a proper eulogy, befitting and respecting the dead.
Tuning in to Voice
A Sideways Review
by Claire Guyton
After re-orienting my own expectations, I discovered what must have enchanted Geraldine Brooks—it’s not something I felt but something I heard.
On Rhythm: In Sentences
A Craft Short
by Annie Penfield
I ride horses, always have. Everything I know about how to raise children, or survive school, comes from my life with horses. So it was only natural I would turn to horses to teach me about writing.
From Daniel Torday’s The Duct Tape Brother
Lists: Literary & Laundry
“When I’d finally saved up enough duct tape,” he says, “I made myself a duct tape brother.” The following list comes near the middle of the novel. Dan brings his brother to dinner with his friends.
The Cycle of Cool
A Sideways Review
by John Proctor
Perhaps the most powerful, stunning part of this essay for me is when you interview the coolest guy you knew in boarding school, the guy who had all the girls, who wrote poetry….
A Prose Writer Reads a Few Poems
A Craft Essay
by Richard McCann
Visit with Richard McCann
Let us look now at two poems by Marie Howe, the poet of my generation from whom I often feel I’ve learned more as a writer (and yes, as a writer of prose) than most anyone, perhaps because when she speaks about the process of writing, she speaks about it as being something far more than a craft.
I Am the Turnstile
A Sideways Review
by Rebecca Macijeski
He is, as I am through reading him, the space where time becomes rounder and allows the unknown of tomorrow to slip through into the reality of today. I am the turnstile.
On Poetry: Sine Waves
A Craft Short
by Seth Abramson
In the poetic sine wave, the “peaks” of the hills correspond to moments of lyric intensity or condensation, such as those orchestrated by a compound image, a metaphor, or sustained sonic density.
Robin Black: To Do
Lists: Literary & Laundry
The repetition of the word novel here is because it’s really more of a cheer than a statement of fact…. The one thing it doesn’t mean is that I’ll actually work on my novel.
I Craft, Therefore I Am:
Creating Persona through Syntax and Style
A Craft Essay
by Erika Anderson
Visit with Erika Anderson
If you speak to the reader in long, meandering or breathless sentences, you translate differently from a persona who speaks in short, staccato bursts. And of course our personas are far from static, but we aim for consistency in tone. In general, how you reveal yourself, is, well, revealing.
A Mantra
A Sideways Review
by Benjamin Woodard
God gave me a small gift to help me clarify my world. These twelve words, uttered by artist/murderer Fabian Vas, are lifted from page 249 of Howard Norman’s novel, The Bird Artist.
On Essays: How Structure Creates Movement
A Craft Short
by Allison Vrbova
Unlike most modern poets, however, an essayist must generally keep her reader engaged for pages at a time. How does she do it? Without a strong narrative arc, what carries the reader through the piece?
What is poetry?
Lists: Literary & Laundry
by Mark Cox, Matthew Dickman, Honor Moore, Grace Wells
A means of making language and therefore thought “new” by peeling away the calcification of usage that paralyses and limits meaning.
A Crush
A Sideways Review
by John Proctor
I think I’m developing a crush on you, Brian Doyle. You’re just as much a poet as an essayist, and you also seem to be a compulsive lister. I like poetry, or at least poetic language, and I love listing things.
On Syntax: Creating Silence
A Craft Short
by Mary Stein
I have a confession to make. There is a perverse and envious part of me convinced poets are permitted to dip from a well of inspiration while prose writers must crouch, dog-like, to lap at the damp muddy edges of puddles.
Notes from a Tuesday Traffic Jam and Royal Transit
Poems
by Mark Neely
Visit with Mark Neely
“Notes from a Tuesday Traffic Jam” began when I was sitting in one of those highway traffic jams where you move about a half-mile in an hour. With the car at a virtual standstill, I grabbed a pen and a map of Illinois (the only paper I could find) from the glove compartment and scribbled down images and fragments as fast as I could until the traffic started to clear.
Dentist of the Wild West
Fiction
by Deborah Vlock
Visit with Deborah Vlock
For a dentist he’s fairly good looking, but not in a way that makes you feel insignificant. Linda is his lax assistant—she doesn’t even consider using Mr. Thirsty until I’m drooling onto my pink paper bib—and I think she’s his girlfriend, too. What with the square dancing.
When Elijah Pritchett Goes to the Gym
A Poem
by Julie Marie Wade
Visit with Julie Marie Wade
…about a year ago, I remember announcing that I wanted to write a poem called “When Elijah Pritchett Goes to the Gym,” and Elijah laughed, but I think he has such a unique and literary name, and I just felt it belonged in a poem. Elijah Pritchett actually sounds like a character in a can’t-put-down kind of novel, but he’s also such a character in real life that I wanted a poem that could honor him and the friendship the three of us share.
What More Can a Body Do?
Creative Nonfiction
by Charisse Coleman
Visit with Charisse Coleman
The man has just been told that the tumor in his lung has continued to grow throughout the month he received chemotherapy. Turning away from the window to return to his seat, his eyes find yours, and now it is as if you were peering into a kaleidoscope of his emotions, a clacking tumble of bright, jewel-colored shards: fear, anguish, pleading, disbelief, outrage.
The Happy Ending Effect
A Craft Essay
by Heather Sharfeddin
Visit with Heather Sharfeddin
One of the biggest frustrations literary authors face in publishing is the pressure to write happy endings. We consider ourselves artists, but publishing is a business—a money-making, dollars-and-cents business. It is driven by trends in consumer spending, just like any other.
11 Strategies for Ending Works of Fiction: What We Can Learn from Chekhov
A Craft Short
by David Jauss
Here are brief definitions of some of Anton Chekhov’s innovative strategies for ending stories, followed by a list of examples.
Death By Pufferfish
the writer's image of her main character
Fiction
by Mayumi Shimose Poe
Visit with Mayumi Shimose Poe
The torafugu was in his mouth. It was slippery-smooth—tsuru-tsuru, Kazuo recalled the term—so fresh it seemed to be swimming around of its own accord, milling about amongst pearly rice grains. Expect a resilient chewiness, he thought as he closed his jaws onto the flesh. Open, close, open. Not exactly slippery—kind of slimy, but the rice was familiarly comforting. The taste will be as subtle as the fragrance of spring rain, as pristine as the water flowing over a river stone flanked by a virgin forest. Close, open, throat tickle. Long pause, but grandfather was looking at him. So, close, open, swallow. The bite of fish was still largely whole when it went down his throat. It stung as it went. Stray rice grains required a second swallow. And even then, the stubborn fish tried to swim back up, like a stupid salmon with the urge to spawn.
Conjuring the Magic of Story:
Aspects of Resonance in Fiction
The author's grandmother
A Craft Essay
by Stephanie Friedman
Visit with Stephanie Friedman
In my grandmother’s kitchen, a story was a felt experience for both teller and audience, a dynamic swirl of emotions and impulses, some of which were controlled and understood in the telling, and some not. I’ve found myself looking back to those sessions around the kitchen table as I try to write fiction that remains present with the characters and uses language that embodies them. What I have learned to reach for is not meaning, reveal-able and map-able, but resonance—the feeling of being swept up in a flow of connections. Achieve resonance, I tell myself, and meaning will emerge with greater depth and intensity than if I had reached for it on its own.
Bobby Malone
Fiction by Clint McCown
from the novel Haints
Visit with Clint McCown
He half expected the Reverend to ask about his hand. Bobby figured he must look like Napoleon with his arm tucked in his uniform jacket the way it was. But the Reverend didn’t seem to notice. Maybe his mind was already distracted with other people’s problems. He might well have been coming home from helping out at the scene of an accident. Or maybe he’d had an accident himself. It was certainly possible, judging from the look of him.
“I lost my right hand,” Bobby told him.
Accidental Pugilism
Creative Nonfiction by Richard Farrell
Visit with Richard Farrell
My first diagnosed seizure occurred in the cockpit of a Navy T-34C Mentor, on a formation flight over Pensacola, Florida. I was twenty-three. Another pilot flew the ‘lead’ aircraft that day, and I was the ‘wingman…’
Doc McKinney
Fiction by Clint McCown
from the novel Haints
Visit with Clint McCown
He raised the artificial leg from the crate and held it out before him, a torch lighting his clear path into the future. The crowd gasped at this new escalation of gore and impropriety.
Jerry Lee Statten
Fiction by Clint McCown
from the novel Haints
Visit with Clint McCown
The shoe was hard to move because it wasn’t empty. There was a foot in it, and probably a leg beyond that, stretching off into the darkness of the tunnel. Jerry Lee had grabbed hold of something straight from his worst nightmares, the ones where Jesus didn’t save him from the Enemy.
Comments on this entry are closed.