I’m thrilled to announce the publication of one of my short stories, An Evening Fire, in Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder , available on Amazon. I’m very proud of An Evening Fire, a story providing a glimpse of what happens at the beginning of the end.
An Evening Fire is currently slated to be the first story in my upcoming book, After the Second Wave. Hope you enjoy!
I first read The Stranger over ten years ago, due to its inclusion on a “must-read classics” list. On first read, I found the book approachable but the plot didn’t stick with me. The ending, the style or the main themes didn’t stick with me.
Recently, The Stranger was mentioned on a podcast. The guest spoke at length about Camus’s prose, especially how his sentences land with precision. I decided to try the book again, but with my familiar hesitation with “literary” classics. Would I pick up the finer themes this time, or would I just scan the surface for the plot without understanding what matters? Without my junior year English teacher to guide me through, would I fully appreciate the work?
So I brought in my own guide: AI, to provide critical context before I got started. I asked for why Camus’s novel matters, what themes I should notice, and what makes his style so admired.
Here’s a selection of what my virtual English teacher offered:
Why Critics Find Camus’s Writing So Powerful
Each heading above came with more detail, but this provides a good example. This framework, this grounding made a noticeable difference. I was able to see how much Camus leaves unsaid, lets meaning live in the spaces between his descriptions. With Camus, style isn’t just an ornament—it’s the story itself.
I wish I recorded my thoughts on my first read. I suspect the real impact of The Stranger goes unseen the first time, hidden in what Camus describes and what he leaves out. The real focus is Meursault’s (the POV character) reaction to everything, not the big events themselves.
I didn’t stop there. I asked my AI teacher for tips on actually enjoying Camus’s lyricism: read aloud, notice the pauses, pay attention to how short sentences string together. The cadence inside each paragraph matches the hum of daily life, while Camus varies the pace to highlight the absurd.
The plot keeps things moving, and there is suspense, but the main character’s uncertainty isn’t the main event. What matters is how Meursault responds, with none of the backstory that crowd modern fiction. Camus’s realism is refreshing. Sometimes, terrible things happen and there is no elaborate explanation.
Gathering context from AI and then cycling through a conversation about themes, symbolism, and what makes the novel endure changes the experience. It fills a gap I felt reading novels since I was seventeen, and I plan to use it for every classic from now on.
I’ve been to a few technical conferences in my non-writing career. At first, I thought the value of conferences was straightforward: exposure to new ideas, the latest trends, clever solutions, networking. Like learning in school. But the real value wasn’t in the slides or the Q&A.
It came from the enforced pause. Sitting in the audience, notebook in hand, I found my mind drifting. Not drifting away from the talk, but sideways. While the speaker worked through a problem, I thought about my specific issues. While they told stories about common challenges, I began sketching out my own solutions. I took notes on mostly of my own ideas.
Reading The Writer’s Notebook gave me a similar opportunity. I stumbled across a second-hand copy at Powell’s (published in 2009…it came with a CD). The book collects seventeen essays on exploring character, place, editing, memoir, etc. Some are full of examples from famous authors; others are more personal. But each created the same effect as those conferences: a quiet space where my mind could wander into my own work.
One of my biggest complaints about my writing process is that I don’t carve out enough uninterrupted time. Yet on a slow weekend morning, coffee in hand, I found myself reading these essays and staring into space, thinking about my stories. Sometimes I put the book down after only a few pages, not because the essay failed, but because it succeeded.
One essay in particular stopped me cold. Antonya Nelson’s “Lost in the Woods” examines the classic story structure of characters entering the woods, literal or metaphorical, searching for one thing and finding another. I nearly spilled my coffee. My current story follows two characters doing exactly that. Embarrassingly, I hadn’t recognized the lineage. I didn’t lift anything directly from Nelson, but her essay forced me to see my work inside a larger, classic framework and to lean harder into the tension between what my characters want and what they’ll discover.
That’s the uncommon value: not direct instruction, but the conditions to think more deeply. Just as a conference gives me time to reflect on work while not at work, this book gave me time to reflect on writing while not actively writing.
Now I’m searching for more books like this—essays and reflections that create space, that nudge the mind sideways into its own terrain. Serendipitous topics that don’t just teach but expand.
I’m thrilled to announce that my short story, The Librarian of Truth, is featured in the latest issue of New Maps. This marks my second publication in New Maps, a quarterly journal showcasing short stories set in an age of limits.
I’m a longtime subscriber and fan of New Maps and appreciate the thoughtful, immersive fiction Nathanael curates. It’s an honor to have my work included.
The Librarian of Truth will also be part of my upcoming short story collection. It follows a librarian searching for answers at a Pennsylvania rest stop in the wake of the second wave. I hope you enjoy her journey!
I’ve previously written about my old-school, paper and bound books. When I first owned an iPad in the early 2010s, I read a lot of Kindle books. But patterns emerged; I retained little and wasn’t sure where I was in the book or chapter. Twenty pages or two hundred to the end? I almost never buy Kindle books anymore, opting for the tactile experience of proper books.
Actual books are fun to mark up with marginalia to note techniques I admire. I did this in my most recent version of The Stinging Fly, (“The Wrong Thing” by Keith Ridgway). I liked how Ridgway started the story and used it as a guide for my WIP. There are ways to do this with Kindle but it doesn’t resonate like words excitedly scribbled in the margins.
But not all physical books are good. I’ve been fooled multiple times now into ordering very low quality publications. The most recent one is this version of White Nights by Dostoevsky. I knew it was an issue the second I opened the Amazon package. It has this cheap cover and is oddly sized. Feels more like a pamphlet than an actual book.
Worse are the pages themselves. Oddly long with massive margins (1/3 of the page). Tiny print. I know little about the art and science of laying out print on the page, so I can’t fully express why this is done poorly… but neither can the people who cobbled this edition together.
And, similar to my experience reading on Kindle, the poor presentation carries over to the reading experience. I couldn’t get past 5 pages. Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time this cheap knockoff printing has fooled me. I’ve ordered (online, of course) at least 4 other books like this. Most of them have quickly ended up in the donation pile.
Part of my disappointment is the actual story, though. I was looking for another Russian classic, but didn’t want to invest months into a 1000 pager. White Nights and its svelte 51 pages. I thought I had read Dostoevsky before, but I don’t think I have. His writing, or this translation, didn’t land with me. So! Many! Exclamations! And the plot of a lovestruck fool doesn’t resonate with me like it does with others.
It’s amazing how the physical presentation of the story matters. My enjoyment of both Shopkeeping and The Creative Act were enhanced because of the care and quality of the physical book. Both have material covers, artfully arranged text, and thick pages, giving the words more weight. You can literally feel the care and craftsmanship put into each page.
I don’t know if White Nights would land with me if read in a different format. But the cheap packaging and terrible typography guaranteed I would not finish the novel. I wish I didn’t need multiple lessons on this topic, but perhaps this is what I need to make it stick. And internalize, as I get closer to putting out a book myself, how important the physical and typographic decisions matter.
I’ve previously mentioned my in-progress short story collection. The idea for “After the Second Wave” evolved from writing two short stories set in similar worlds, re-reading Ghostwritten, and the need to have a tangible target for my writing.
The project has had challenges. I knew, as a fledgling author, I needed help with the stories. Not creating them, but turning them into pieces others would enjoy. Hundreds of rejections (with nary a positive comment) forced me to get real help. I thought I could do it through peer sites (Scribophile) and one-off edits on Reedsy. But the continued rejections said otherwise.
After a frustrating false start, I found Jamie, my writing coach and Andrea, editor. And now the project has real momentum. Two narratives are complete; two additional ones will follow by March.
Next up are the handful of stories I wrote before working with Jamie. They need mass revisions. But, I know the characters and plot and can focus on the writing. Maybe 2 more by end of spring?
Then, onto the best part. The existing stories are set in the first few years of the Second Wave. I’m eager to explore a longer timeline and how our characters fare.
And this only covers the writing part. Tons of work ahead to assemble and publish a book. I’ll start work on publishing when a few more pieces are complete. Until then, the plan is to assemble 8-10 good stories, get 2-3 published on their own, and put together this bad boy.
In Part 1, I described my current Irish jag. Earlier in the year, I did an immersion in Japanese books and streams (also unintentional). The Japanese list:
-Pachinko (Korean, but set largely in Japan)
-More Days at the Morisaki Bookshop
-Hard Boiled Wonderland and End of the World
Similar to the Irish immersion, the primary effect was a wish to visit Japan, a place I’ve never been. Crowded yet orderly Tokyo streets bathed in neon, misty shrines, long hikes up mountains and through prefectures, everything.
I am disoriented, though, after hearing and reading (translated) Japanese dialogue. While I love Murakami books I always found his dialogue strange. Like something out of bad 1950s movie. Lots of “Hey man,” or “… in a way of thinking”. This discussion on Reddit picks up examines the issue.
I know little regarding translation, but understand the translator matters. The odd or flat dialogue may be translator choices or the inherent difficulty in porting Japanese dialogue. This dialogue is evident in most Murakami novels (with different translators) as well as stories from Kazuo Ishiguro. The strangeness of the dialogue is magnified when compared to spoken Japanese in any of the above listed shows and movies. Japanese is lyrical, full of inflections, and a beautiful listen. The flatness must come from the translation.
The lack of translation from Irish literature (excluding any written in Irish) lets Irish dialogue jump off the page. I can hear and revel in the lyricism. As a native English speaker, the same doesn’t happen with written Japanese dialogue. Hearing it makes the gap feel wider.
The best way to learn is to immerse yourself in a subject. Tyler describes a deep reading process. I’ve followed this path over the past few months in a deep Irish “content” jag. I’ve either read or watched
The primary effect of this immersion is a desire to hole up in a cottage in Donegal with my iPad, printer, and notepads and churn out great literature. Soak in the landscapes and split G’s every night at the local pub.
On a more practical level, I notice the lyricism in dialogue. Not Shakespearean iambic pentameter or Mamet’s famed dialogue, but an Irish way of speaking. Even my flat ear can hear the music jump off the page with wonderful jumps and inflections. The dialogue sings in my head.
Sadly, this hasn’t touched my writing. Too many years of living in NJ with our fast-paced, rhotic speech pattern. A lengthy corporate career. My dialogue is realistic but not interesting. Maybe I need a cottage. Or a Guinness.
blows dust off the console for the website Apologies for the long delay since the last update for Chawner Writes. Thankfully, it’s not been for lack of writing. I’ve been cranking our short stories for my upcoming collection “After the Second Wave”. I have a healthy backlog of books to discuss. This is a combined review because of the relationship between the books and how they affect the reader.
Neither of these books are mainstream and probably not available in the local Barnes and Noble. I came across Shopkeeping on the Material Review. A bookseller in Seattle, Peter Miller, collected stories, lessons and anecdotes from a long career as a brick-and-mortar retailer. Fast and easy to read. Highly recommended, even if you (like me) never considered the art of shopkeeping.
While the content of the Shopkeeping is engaging, it’s only part of an overall experience. Miller writes like an American Zen master of his craft, inviting the reader to put the book down repeatedly, stare off into space and think what the words mean to them. Every part book’s layout, from its textured cover, author-drawn sketches of the shop, font, etc. engages the reader. Clearly Miller put the same care into the physical book as he does his shop. I’ve read a lot of books about creativity over the last few years, but only Rick Rubin’s invoked a similar reaction.
Miller mentions other books in Shopkeeping; books on art, design, rare books, etc. But one description caught my eye:
“(In Praise of Shadows) is a fascinating study of light and shadow and culture”. (Pg 54)
A book that relates light, shadows and culture? In Praise of Shadows did not disappoint. Written by Tanizaki, a famous Japanese author from the early 20th century, In Praise of Shadows is a short, concise, stream-of-consciousness examination of the elements that make the Japanese unique, especially when compared to the west.
As the title implies, many of his observations and theories revolve around shadows in Japanese architecture and life. For instance, he explores how traditional Japanese buildings limit the amount of light entering them, shaping the character of rooms, utensils, and the faces of actors with specific makeup. Jarringly (at least to this westerner) he discusses how the Western obsession with bringing as much light as possible into rooms has downsides. And this really highlights the true intent of the piece, contrasting between traditional Japanese use of shadows against westernization/modernization. Including a most interesting discussion of bathroom design.
Not only does Shopkeeping discuss In Praise of Shadows, the entire book is in conversation with Tanizaki’s treatise. By using aesthetics, both engage in a larger conversation on culture and community, exploring what is lost when physical shops and Japanese traditions are replaced. And both provoke deep contemplation about the world around the reader.
My to-read pile was anemic. For years, my to-read pile was overwhelming and, instead of generating excitement, created dread. I’ve recently enjoyed only having 1-2 books at the ready but this became a problem as I finished books and the queue had unexpected stinkers (novels I gave up on).
Off to my local BN for an emergency search. I beelined to the sci-fi section, where I had previously considered Neal Stephenson’s most recent two books. I knew they were a commitment having read six of his older books. Neal likes to go into incredible depth on, well, everything. This can be enjoyable when in the right mood. As someone who is trying to write concise short stories, his books read long.
But desperate times call for desperate measures. I picked up Termination Shock, at a (for Stephenson) a svelte 700 pages. And, halfway through, it’s deep, technical, and well-written. Immediate problem solved, but the to-read pile was empty.
Enter a road trip to Portland. First stop was Powells with friends. One of them, another reader, recommended a few books while we were perusing the shelves. And now my to-read pile is seven deep. The only problem is they look more interesting than Termination Shock.
I’m reading 2 books going at once (following my fiction/non-fiction scheme). I might pause Termination Shock to read a book about a Tokyo bookstore that interests me. But I’ve not fully engrossed myself in TS and worry if I drop now won’t return… paradoxically, I have to get myself invested and interested in TS before I can safely put it down.
