Tag: Writing
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Message in a Bulb
I concocted a great mystery around the assumption that café lights are fragile things. In this myth, a neighborhood squirrel named Future Pelt deviled me with his mischief, leaving a riddle on my flagstone patio: the socket and intact bulb from the lights dangling overhead. The mystery goes back several weeks, when Future Pelt first…
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Without a Country
Just that morning, without a visa, I’d talked my way across the border. A little patience, a little humility, small Kwacha, and Dunhill cigarettes solved the visa problem.
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Travel Writing on Kingdoms
All travel writing is essentially the same. The essence shifts away from plot and in favor of setting.
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Acts of Papyrus
Why should I think of this ancient on a rainy afternoon, two days after Christmas? The answer involves a breakfast of bananas, milk, and avocado, the wrapping of gifts in discounted paper, the sound of metal scraping against asphalt beneath my car, a podcast featuring Egyptologist Kara Cooney, the aroma of black bean soup filling…
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Where Fact Meets Fiction
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by
My personal journeys work best as parody. I am a very unserious traveler. I board the train for the potato cutlet, not the arrival in Bangaluru.
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Book Review: Pictures of Houses with Water Damage
The 21 stories show in kaleidoscopic form the life, as lives, of an individual confronting the fallout of unrepentant infidelity, unwanted pregnancy, alcohol dependence, failed marriage; We watch lives wrecked by emotional pain, rendered faithfully through the eyes of a cuckold, a cheatwife, a wounded vet boyfriend, a lonely lurking neighbor…
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A universe of content
My glorious moment today came from the Longform podcast. Aaron Lammer interviews New Yorker writer Sam Anderson, who puts into concrete form the struggle I’m up against. I’m grappling with a super-sized project involving tens of thousands of document pages and dozens of hours of interviews and interview transcripts. This, an entire universe of content,…
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Losing it
Used to be I could write by hand for ninety minutes at a stretch. My first attempt at a novel, a quarter century ago, I wrote two drafts out longhand, sometimes squatting on my haunches in the African bush, copybook resting on my thigh. I wrote physically as much as mentally (that story, a shoddy…
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Dreaming. Writing.
I keep waking to the nightmare of a perfect opening line. In my half slumber the opening line gives way to what comes next, a sentence followed by yet another. Soon a paragraph emerges and the full landscape of my project unfolds, the horizon glorious and attainable. In the winter months, these words march forth…
Ben East Books 