An essay by faculty member C.J. Hribal appears in Milwaukee Magazine:

When I was a boy, my father and grandfather fought for my soul, taking me either to Cubs games at Wrigley Field (Northsider Dad) or White Sox games at Comiskey Park (Southsider Papa). We went so often, I thought the national anthem ended with “Play ball!” Paternal love won out: I became a benighted Cubs fan. I adored Ernie Banks, the irrepressible Mr. Cub.

Our last Wrigley game together occurred in 1967, when I was 10 and dad was 40. Then we moved to Wisconsin, but I still followed the Cubs on our massive radio, even when they played late-night West Coast games.

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A story by faculty member Karen Brennan appears at New World Writing:

Home is Where the Heart Is

Mary Beth

Strictly speak­ing, as a licensed prac­ti­cal nurse (LPN), it is not my job to man­age the table décor, but I do it because I’m good at it.  Each res­i­dent gets a rose they are wel­come to pass on to their valentine-du-jour.   Though that’s kind of a sick joke, when you think about it.

Myself in a red sweater cov­ered with pink and laven­der hearts, myself in red fas­ci­na­tor designed by moi, fea­tur­ing life-sized and very real­is­tic red hum­ming­bird.  Real enough to devour, said my hus­band, who is a smart a___.  (To Whom It May Concern in My Creative Writing Class:  A “fas­ci­na­tor” is a kind of hat. )

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james-longenbach-448An essay about lyric poetry by faculty member James Longenbach appears at Poetry Magazine:

Lyric Knowledge
Ideas of order in poetry.

The impulse to be lyrical is driven by the need to be no longer constrained by oneself. As poems have testified for centuries, we become lyrical when we suffer, when we love. But like poems themselves, we exist because of constraints — cultural and linguistic ways of organizing experience that allow us to imagine we know who we are. Why, when we’re driven to be lyrical, are we gratified by familiar patterns, formal patterns made by breaking words into syllables, structural patterns made by conjoining words with other words? Why do we imagine we may be liberated by unfamiliar patterns, patterns whose novelty depends on patterns we already know? Why, having experienced the pleasure of a lyric poem, do we bother experiencing it again? Why, when we’re in love, can the repetition of an experience feel more fulfilling than the discovery of it?

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An essay about art forgery and plagiarism by faculty member Dominic Smith appears at Farrar, Straus and Giroux’s Work in Progress:

Forgeries and Figments

Every fake should tell a story. Maybe it’s the blue chalk marks on the back of the frame, partially removed by hand, that suggest previous auction sales. Or maybe it’s the insect frass on the picture itself, evoking decades of neglect in an attic, since flies are drawn to the sugars in the varnish. A careful collector might run an ultraviolet light over the depiction, looking for signs of oxidation—the delicate blue-white fluorescence that is a by-product of age—so in order to deceive collectors, forgers will sometimes remove the varnish from an old, worthless painting and apply it with a spray gun to the new creation.

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C. Dale YoungFaculty member C. Dale Young was interviewed by Lightbox Poetry about being a doctor, the process of writing poetry, and other topics:

How do you balance the actual logistical, as well as the spiritual or emotional, work of being a poet and being a full-time medical doctor?

I am not sure I ever feel as if I balance the work of being a poet and a physician. I do wake at 5:25 AM most weekday mornings to get a few writing-related things done before I head off to the hospital. I am not usually home until early evening. By then, I am often too tired to read or write. Most of my writing, when it does happen, is on weekends, or the occasional Wednesday I have as an admin day for my Practice. Considering the fact I typically finish roughly four poems a year, one could argue there is little balance in my life between these two endeavors. Last year (2014), I only finished two poems. I have to admit though, that I also write fiction in addition to poetry, so a fairly sizable chunk of my writing time over the past seven years has been devoted to that.

My field of practice in medicine is Radiation Oncology. Oncology can be a very difficult field, filled with an unbelievable amount of emotion. I tend to reserve most of my stability and humanity for my job as an Oncologist, the job where I am face to face with people. I guess the reality is that I spend the vast majority of my time being a physician. I often need things like this interview to remind me I am a writer at all.

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Faculty members Christopher Castellani and Peter Turchi spoke about their recent books (Castellani’s The Art of Perspective and Turchi’s A Muse and a Maze) and discussed mystery and other craft elements at Brooklyn Rail:

Turchi: The Art of Perspective is a wonderful book, full of good advice and smart close reading. It made me want to immediately read (or re-read) the books and stories you discuss. It’s also surprising. The back cover claims the book is about “every fiction writer’s most urgent issue: point of view;” in fact, you discuss something broader and possibly even more important: perspective as an element of overall “narrative strategy” (a term I will begin using tomorrow). Obviously, there’s plenty to be written about the handling of various points of view, some of which you touch on here. What led you to focus on this other, larger sense of perspective?

Castellani: Such a generous response means a great deal coming from you, Pete. Thank you. I’m sure that, like me, you’ve been in many a fiction workshop in which the consensus solution to a manuscript’s problems was simply to switch it from one point of view to another. The problem is that we hardly ever talk at great length about why the story would work better with that switch, or the more nuanced implications it would have on the entire enterprise. This makes the advice arbitrary and the eventual revision incomplete, much to the writer’s bewilderment. In most cases, the writer didn’t have a comprehensive rationale for having chosen the POV in the first place; it was not a means to an end, but to a beginning; the way he got into the story, but not a way through and out. I wanted to look at point of view as a cog in the machine of what I called the narrative strategy, not as the machine itself. I hoped this would help us all make better drafting and revision decisions…

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A poem by faculty member Connie Voisine appears in the New Yorker:

Messenger Star

The tree is dead, in my neighbor’s yard,
               the branches empty of leaves and the owl’s nest
naked and derelict it seems. We sat with

               our winter picnic and watched for the pair
who haunted our block. The male much smaller
               and loud, calling his dominion just after dark.

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Additionally, an essay titled “Via Dolorosa” by Voisine appears at AGNI.

A poem by faculty member Monica Youn appears at The Awl:

Of course Slightly was the first to get his word in. “Wendy lady,” he said rapidly, “for you we
built this house.”
“Oh, say you’re pleased,” cried Nibs.
“Lovely, darling house,” Wendy said, and they were the very words they had hoped she would
say.
“And we are your children,” cried the twins.
Then all went on their knees, and holding out their arms cried, “O Wendy lady, be our
mother.”
“Ought I?” Wendy said, all shining. “Of course, it’s frightfully fascinating, but you see I am
only a little girl. I have no real experience.”

Peter and Wendy (J.M. Barrie, 1911)

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Faculty member Jeremy Gavron spoke to the Books and Arts program on the Australian Broadcasting Corporation’s Radio Network about his new memoir, A Woman on the Edge of Time:

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Faculty member Chris Castellani has an essay at the New Republic that is excerpted from his new book The Art of Perspective:

Who Gets to Tell Your Story?

In her TED talk “The Danger of the Single Story,” Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie reminds us that “the problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story.” Her focus is on literature specifically and media in general, and she argues that when a particular group—a nation, a culture—is shown as one thing, “as only one thing, over and over again,” then “that is what they become.”

As a reader and writer who might describe myself as gay, Italian, or any number of other identifiers, I take Adichie’s talk as a call to action. As a reader, I hear: Be promiscuous in your choice of stories that are set in other countries, or that represent cultures and experiences different from your own; seek a wide range within each country or group; and don’t allow yourself to be convinced of any group’s essential ethos.

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