My mother made a horrendous joke and I didn’t laugh. Check it out at this link:
I married someone with my same name, to general disbelief. After eighteen years I wrote something about it, and now I send the astonished this link.
Every family has special words that mean something only to them. I tried to figure out what one of them means.
This piece is set in Hebron, on the trip to Israel I made with Jeffrey a few years ago. Modern-day political realities kept butting up against the lessons I learned in Hebrew school. The Image blog Good Letters is a wonderful home for progressive religious viewpoints on contemporary culture. http://www.imagejournal.org/2016/04/25/the-cave-of-my-imagination/
This story has been around awhile, and I’m thrilled it’s found a home in the Spring 2016 issue of The Gettysburg Review. The story is better than ever, thanks to editor Mark Drew’s good ear. The nugget of fact at the heart of the story turned out to be the one thing that didn’t ring true. This reminds me of what Aristotle teaches, of the tragic poet, in the Poetics:
Hence even if it happens that he puts something that has actually taken place into poetry, he is none the less a poet; for there is nothing to prevent some of the things that have happened from being the kind of things that can happen, and that is the sense in which he is their maker.
Or to put it backward: Just because something has happened, doesn’t mean it’s the kind of thing that can happen in the context of a work of art.
This new story just came out in the gay-men’s literary journal Jonathan, which has published some of my brilliant, talented friends. My contributor’s copy seems to have got lost in the mail. But on the publisher’s website I saw the cover, which appears to show three bears bathing–so I know it exists! Can’t wait to see for myself.
Whoever anonymously nominated Fire Year for this prize, which “recognizes Bay Area writers who have made an exceptional contribution to literary arts through a uniquely Jewish perspective,” thank you!
Well, I won second prize and get to read at the Jewish Museum in New York in December.
Is it a pathetic need for credibility in my home region that makes me so happy to be reviewed in Southern Humanities Review? Or just that it’s such a good journal?
I’m honored to be included with Dorothy Allison and a generous selection of other writers in the anthology The Queer South, edited by charming man of letters Douglas Ray. My contribution is a new personal essay. You can order the book anywhere, including from the publisher, Sibling Rivalry Press.