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My Pandemic Year in Books
So Many Books, So Little Time I could have sworn that I’d read far fewer books this year than in past years, but it seems not to be so. It must be one of the few benign side effects of the pandemic. Of course, the pandemic has been hard on my writing, poems—at least poems of my kind—seeming fairly pointless amid the waves of infection and death and the tide of fascism rising out of the GOP (the Goosestepping Old Party).Read More
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All I’ve Done For You, or The Return of Joanne Greenberg
The problem with being a writer who writes consistently beautiful prose over many years is that fashions in fiction come and go—or, more to the point, fashions in publishing, which, as an enterprise, has less and less interest in beautiful prose; the publishers’ interest tends more toward pleasing whatever demographic the marketing department has identified as the sweet spot.Read More