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All posts tagged: 2023

Excerpt from Imagine a City: A Pilot’s Journey Across the Urban World

February 17, 2023 Essays, Nonfiction

This piece is excerpted from Imagine a City: A Pilot’s Journey Across the Urban World by Mark Vanhoenacker, a guest at Amherst College’s 2023 LitFest. Register for this exciting celebration of Amherst’s literary life.

Autumn 1987

I’m thirteen. It’s after school. I’m in my room, at my desk. I look out of the window over the drive and towards the garage. It’s late autumn and it’s almost dark outside. There’s frost in the corners of the window and snow is falling.

I look across the room, at the light-up globe on my dresser. I go to it, flip the switch on its cord and watch as the darkened sphere turns blue in the failing light and starts to shine as if it were in space.

I return to my desk. I sit down, pick up my pencil with my left hand and rest its tip on the sheet of graph paper. I love airplanes and cities and so, not for the first time, I’ve drawn a simple map of the world. I’ll draw a line that begins in one city and ends in another. But which city to start from?

Excerpt from The Man Who Could Move Clouds

February 17, 2023 Essays, Nonfiction

By INGRID ROJAS CONTRERAS

This piece is excerpted from The Man Who Could Move Clouds by Ingrid Rojas Contreras, a guest at Amherst College’s 2023 LitFest. Register for this exciting celebration of Amherst’s literary life.

The Secrets

They say the accident that left me with temporary amnesia is my inheritance. No house or piece of land or chest of letters, just a few weeks of oblivion.

Mami had temporary amnesia as well, except: where she was eight years old, I was twenty-three. Where she fell down an empty well, I crashed my bicycle into an opening car door. Where she nearly bled to death in Ocaña, Colombia, in darkness, thirty feet below the earth, I got to my feet seemingly unharmed and wandered around Chicago on a sunny winter afternoon. Where she didn’t know who she was for eight months, I couldn’t remember who I was for eight weeks.

They say the amnesias were a door to gifts we were supposed to have, which Mami’s father, Nono, neglected to pass.

Looking for the Weirdness: An Interview with Jim Shepard

February 16, 2023 Interviews

ROBIN McLEAN met JIM SHEPARD in a fiction workshop in Italy in 2013, two years after she’d finished her MFA in fiction, two years after she’d sworn off all workshops forever. But she’d read a few of Jim’s stories by then and was hooked. She’s worked with Jim on many stories since, has followed him and Karen Shepard around. Many do. Robin generally shows up with a pile of questions, often about agency or “rate of revelation” or “subliminal coordinates.” If you don’t know what those are, sign up for a workshop with Jim Shepard.

Here are some inquiries asked and answered on a spring pilgrimage to Western Mass in 2022, a sunny morning on a snowy hilltop, an icon of an old tape deck set on RECORD between cups of coffee, three dogs hunting crumbs around the table, then basking in the sun as the ideas flowed.

Dispatch from Moscow, Idaho

February 15, 2023 Dispatches

By AFTON MONTGOMERY

Moscow, ID

The neighbor children are in the Evangelical cult that Vice and The Guardian wrote about last year. They’re not allowed to speak to us, which is a thing no one has ever said aloud but is true, nonetheless. This town is full of true things that no one says aloud because we can’t or wouldn’t dare or because no one would believe us anyway.

Marilynne Robinson, I think, or maybe Ruth Ozeki, wrote something about how the wheat here is green before it’s yellow and everyone from elsewhere gets to selectively forget that and picture us golden and glowing year-round.

Intentional Offerings: jaamil olawale kosoko interviews Nicholas Goodly

February 13, 2023 Interviews

NICHOLAS GOODLY’s debut full-length poetry collection, Black Swim was published by Copper Canyon Press in September 2022. JAAMIL OLAWALE KOSOKO and Nicholas recently connected over Zoom and talked about interdisciplinary art and writing, the essential nature of rest, and prioritizing creative expression.

Announcing LitFest 2023

February 8, 2023 News and Events

We hope you’ll join us for the eighth annual LitFest, hosted in conjunction with Amherst College. This year’s lineup includes Pulitzer Prize-winner Hilton Als, MacArthur Fellowship-winner Valeria Luiselli, and 2022 National Book Award finalists Meghan O’Rourke and Ingrid Rojas Contreras, among others.

This year, we are continuing to highlight the work of The Common’s own Literary Publishing Interns and Amherst Alumni Authors during a reading at 4pm on Saturday, February 25. Join us for this exciting weekend!

Resuscitation

February 7, 2023 Fiction

By BETH HAHN

Swimmer Cyanotype Print by Rosalind Hobley.

A man swims to the left of Julia, and a woman to the right. They are blurs of misted goggles, the glint of a silver, latex cap. They flip like sleek fish at the pool’s wall.

Julia is sure they are having an affair. The two showed up at the same time, splitting the three-lane pool with Julia, who had gotten used to swimming alone. At first, she resented the wake of their bodies in the water—that reminder of competitive sport. She watched as they left the pool, noticing the nod, a touch as they crossed paths at the changing room doors.

Julia is a night swimmer. She likes the pool’s cool indoor lights and the way the black winter sky beyond the glass windows feels framed and distant. The goggles distort her peripheral vision—creating a blue shadow that she imagines as one of the sea creatures she and James used to visit at the aquarium when they first met.

If James were at home, she would tell him about the swimmers, but he is in New Zealand, studying the impact of climate change on a fur seal colony.

Under water, Julia feels the shudder of the commuter train as it passes.

Compression, airway, breath.

Be the stranger who will save your life—

Monsoon

February 1, 2023 Dispatches

By URVI KUMBHAT

Kolkata, India

From my window I see a boy shaking the bougainvillea
for flowers. My parents talk of pruning it. They talk
of little else. The tree, spilling wildly past our house into
the gulley—where boys come to smoke or piss, lanky against
betel-dyed walls—acrid ammonia, posters begging for
votes, pink crowning above them. The boys linger even
when it rains. Each drop caught briefly under
the golden streetlight, and me, holding my breath.

January 2023 Poetry Feature: New Poems by TC Contributors

January 26, 2023 Poetry

New poems by our contributors JULIA KOLCHINSKY DASBACH, BRYCE BERKOWITZ, DEBORAH GORLIN, MATTHEW CAREY SALYER

Table of Contents:

Julia Kolchinsky Dasbach
—Amygdala Means Almond

Bryce Berkowitz
—The Writers’ Bench in Gapped Couplets

Deborah Gorlin
—The Trouble with Rivers
—Landslide

            Matthew Carey Salyer
                        —The Devil, His Own Self
                        —The Penguin Classics

Effluent of the Affluent

January 18, 2023 Dispatches

By MARY BERGMAN

Sewer Bed Beach, Nantucket, MA

We are losing this place twice over: first to money, and then to sea. There are ways to quantify these losses: only 3,200 bushels of scallops were caught this past winter and more than $2 billion in real estate transactions were recorded last year. My parents aren’t sure where they should be buried; all the graveyards in all the towns we have ever lived will one day be inundated. I imagine horseshoe crabs trolling along the bottom, pausing to read the names etched on headstones.

All over the island, it looms: this is the end of something. I walk along the dune-tops, what’s left of them, at the very end of South Shore Road. Over one shoulder is the Atlantic; endless. Over the other are the sewer beds. A sandy strip separates the two. Second homes are not the only creatures perched precariously on eroding shorelines. Our wastewater treatment facility hangs in the balance.