In Her Garden

"Write as you garden--with passion, awe, intent, and openness." - Simon Van Booy

Too often, writers fear that in order to get attention in an over-stimulated world, they need to open with a car crash, a zombie apocalypse, an explosion of expletives, an alternate universe, or prose that turns cartwheels on the ceiling. It’s not that those things can’t work, but they’re certainly not necessary, and unless they’re done exceedingly well, they backfire. What the editor is really looking for is presence on the page—a feeling that you, the author, are in control; that you have a deep respect for language and a well-made sentence, no matter how plain or ornate; that something is at stake; and that in addition to whatever plot you are hatching, you can create friction in the simple act of rubbing two sentences up against each other.

—Dawn Raffel (via mttbll)

(Source: centerforfiction.org, via mttbll)

likeafieldmouse:

Chad Wright - Master Plan (2013)

"For the first part of this series, Wright created a mould in the form of an L-shaped suburban dwelling, and set out a series of sand castles on his local beach. This scale-model suburbia was washed away by the tide, which perhaps urges us to consider the relative transience of so solid a symbol of the American dream, particularly since the 2007 subprime mortgage collapse. "

Artist’s statement: 

"In Master Plan, I am conflating a child’s sandcastle with architecture typifying postwar American suburbia. This three-part series culls artifacts from my childhood, investigating suburbia in its vision and legacy.Phase One focuses on the mass-produced tract house, re-examining it as symbol for the model American Dream.”

(via awelltraveledwoman)

theparisreview:

Backwards and upside down in the twilight, thatwoman on all fours, her headdangling and suffused, her leanhaunches, the area of darkness, the flanks andass narrow and pale as a deer’s and thosebreasts hanging down toward the center of the earth like   plummets, when Iswayed from side to side they swayed, it wasso dark I couldn’t tell if they were gold orplum or rose. I cannot get over hermoving toward him upside down in the mirror like afly on the ceiling, her head hanging down and hertongue long and dark as an anteater’sgoing toward his body, she was so clearly ananimal, she was an Indian creepingnaked and noiseless, and when I looked at hershe looked at me so directly, her eyes sodark, her stare said to me Ibelong here, this is mine, I am living out mytrue life on this earth.
—Sharon Olds, “I Cannot Forget the Woman in the Mirror”Art Credit Everett Shinn

theparisreview:

Backwards and upside down in the twilight, that
woman on all fours, her head
dangling and suffused, her lean
haunches, the area of darkness, the flanks and
ass narrow and pale as a deer’s and those
breasts hanging down toward the center of the earth like
   plummets, when I
swayed from side to side they swayed, it was
so dark I couldn’t tell if they were gold or
plum or rose. I cannot get over her
moving toward him upside down in the mirror like a
fly on the ceiling, her head hanging down and her
tongue long and dark as an anteater’s
going toward his body, she was so clearly an
animal, she was an Indian creeping
naked and noiseless, and when I looked at her
she looked at me so directly, her eyes so
dark, her stare said to me I
belong here, this is mine, I am living out my
true life on this earth.

Sharon Olds, “I Cannot Forget the Woman in the Mirror”
Art Credit Everett Shinn