Congratulations to Kirstin Valdez Quade and Bennett Sims, both faculty members at the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College, who have been named winners of the 2018-19 Rome Prize in Literature.

These highly competitive fellowships support advanced independent work and research in the arts and humanities. This year, 29 Rome Prizes were awarded to 29 artists and scholars, who will each receive a stipend, workspace, and room and board for a period of five months to two years at the Academy’s eleven-acre campus in Rome. The Rome Prize and Italian Fellowship winners were presented on April 12, 2018, during the Arthur and Janet C. Ross Rome Prize Ceremony in the Frederick P. Rose Auditorium at Cooper Union in New York.

Rome Prize winners are selected annually by independent juries of distinguished artists and scholars through a national competition. The eleven disciplines supported by the Academy are: Literature, Music Composition, Visual Arts, Architecture, Landscape Architecture, Design, and Historic Preservation and Conservation, as well as Ancient Studies, Medieval Studies, Renaissance and Early Modern Studies, and Modern Italian Studies.

Congratulations to Joan Silber for winning the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction with her book, Improvement. Last month, Improvement also won the National Book Critics Circle fiction prize.For full article, click here.

Friends of Writers would like to congratulate Joan Silber, winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award for Fiction, for her novel, Improvement. The book is her sixth novel. Additionally, she has written two collections of short stories.

Ms. Silber has been a member of the faculty at the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College since 1983.

(c) William Anthony

An excerpt from faculty member C. Dale Young‘s new book, Affliction, available today:

Affliction

I don’t remember how I had the strength to do it, but I turned from Leenck and made my way on to the dock. I did not turn back. I did not look back. I walked away at a slow and steady pace. And Leenck sat there coughing while seagulls scurried around on the dock fighting and arguing over garbage. And then the wind picked up, the wind suddenly sweeping the crushed plastic cups from the dock into the water. And instead of thunder, all I heard was the sound of palm trees, the hundreds of fronds rustling in the distance, the too-numerous-to-count palm trees tilting their fronds like flags in the wind. Leenck could see me in the distance then, the tiny outline of me. I could feel him watching my outline moving away from him, watching to see if I would turn around to look for him on the boat. I bet he wondered if I was crying. Later I would hear how at that point Leenck felt tired, that he felt odd, that his chest was heaving more than normal. I know he watched my tiny outline get smaller and smaller. And I never turned to look back at him. The only tears were the tears that surprised Leenck’s own face. I am told the tears came quickly and frightened him. But I didn’t care to hear any of this. I am told that not once had he cried in the previous twenty years.

The harbor got darker then. And my own eyes stung. There was not a single rumble of thunder, just the breeze rustling the palm trees and the seagulls going mad over debris. The rain came down. It was forceful, cool and prickly as it hit all of us on our heads and faces. Did Leenck move inside the cabin? No. Supposedly, he sat there in the rain instead. He didn’t move. He was completely wet, the tears on his face indistinguishable then from the rest of his wet face. I want to believe his chest tightened in a way he had never experienced in his life. I want to believe that. What I know clearly is that the rain pelted everything, and the deck, the dock, the very earth between the boat and my father’s small house, suddenly took on the dark stain of rainwater, a stain not quite as dark as the heart, a stain not quite as dark as blood. And the trees in the distance seemed to be blurring into the landscape, everything bleeding together. And again, I thought of turning back to look for the figure of Leenck on his knees, sobbing. There are times when I believe he kept staring into the distance looking for the shape of me, but even if he had he couldn’t have seen me at such distance. Time and distance change everything. Years later, I am still trying to convince myself of that.”

An excerpt from “Between Men” from The Affliction: A Novel in Stories (c) 2018 by C. Dale Young. Appears with the permission of Four Way Books. All rights reserved. 

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