Feature: Creative Reuse at Junket: Tossed and Found (The Growler Magazine)
Review of Roxane Gay’s Difficult Women: Stories (Star Tribune)
Feature: “Sepak attack: The sport of takraw is gaining a foothold in Minnesota” (The Growler Magazine)
Essay: “Hungary’s Bounty: On László Krasznahorkai’s Formidable Gifts” (Virginia Quarterly Review)
Feature: “Craft Culture: Faribault Woolen Mill” (The Growler Magazine)
Essay: “The Perilous Production of the Ego…” (HocTok)
Essay: “What is a Beautiful Sentence?” (The Loft)
Review of Sarah Hall’s Wolf Border (Star Tribune)
Review of Edith Pearlman’s Honeydew: Stories (the Millions)
Review of Bonnie Jo Campbell’s Once Upon a River (Iowa Review)
Interview with Steve Hackett (of Genesis) (Guitar World Magazine)
Short Story (excerpt): “The Princess of Owatonna,” originally published in Thirty Two Magazine:
The Princess of Owatonna
Owatonna, Minnesota—we like our patterns, our routines: fishing, hunting, hockey, swimming in the summer, prayer, beer. I’d love to announce myself as the son of a long line of doctors or philosophers or explorers, but that’s pure fantasy. I’m an amateur historian, fortuitous inheritor of a lofty-sounding vocation after college in the big city, which around here, means St. Paul. I’m a gangly six-two, a recent divorcee, and these days preferring people at a distance.
I open my office door and step on a crisp white sheet of cotton paper, stamped with Steele County’s egregiously gaudy seal. A summons. The city council wants to see me in The Round, the society’s mostly vacant basement with a half-moon desk and two rickety oak tables, which serves as our court room. With resources at full nosedive, I’ve often imagined this day during my late-night studies of closeout whiskey and the History Channel, and I want to walk in there now; salute, bow, be done with it. Midwesterners: we’re too damn genial. Call a meeting—for what? A send-off package of life-time discounts at the par-three? I drag myself to the bathroom and lock the stall, working at my coffeed teeth with some emergency floss I keep stashed in my wallet. After a few minutes of cathartic gum-bleeding, an old-timer from the council—velcro shoes, a dead giveaway—pounds on the door.
(Order a copy of Thirty Two‘s issue #2 to read the whole thing.)