Readings

A short collection of worthy readings.

This is not a list of the best writing on the web (as if that were possible), nor even the pieces I found the most compelling, necessarily: rather they are pieces that left a literature-shaped impression in me long after I read them. At the least I think they will repay your time and interest.

Titles link to the full text–no paywalls.

“Update on Werewolves,” by Margaret Atwood (Poem)
In the old days, all werewolves were male.
They burst through their bluejean clothing
as well as their own split skins,
exposed themselves in parks,
howled at the moonshine.
Those things frat boys do.

“The Moral of the Story,” by Perri Klass, M.D. (Essay)
I came home the other night clutching a scrap of paper towel with a mother’s cell-phone number scribbled on it. I had been precepting in the residents’ pediatric primary care clinic, and an intern had presented a patient: a 20- month-old boy who had been brought in by his mother because he was vomiting. He’d thrown up seven times since 2 that morning. No diarrhea, but he wasn’t eating or drinking much. Still, he didn’t look dehydrated, his mother said he’d had several wet diapers, and when the intern examined him, she found his diaper wet again.

“Coyote v. Acme,” by Ian Frazier (Fiction)
[Opening statement of an attorney for Wile E. Coyote, Plaintiff, -v.- Acme Company, Defendant.] Mr. Coyote states that on eighty-five occasions he has purchased of the Acme Company through that company’s mail-order department, certain products which did cause him bodily injury due to defects in manufacture or improper cautionary labelling…

“Go to Coney Island,” by John Saward (Essay)
Go to Coney Island. Go when it’s so hot you want to fight strangers taking too long at turnstiles, when you have contemplated the hygienic consequences of sleeping with a bag of frozen corn in your armpits. Go when your life is a nightmare; go when your life is so good you want to forgive your enemies. Go when your life is neither of these things, when each day is just in dull slow-motion and only the grease-shined sun-drunk mayhem of a carnival laid along the ocean can hot-wire you. Go when it’s Wednesday. Go for no good reason. Go in March, when after dark not one soul is there besides two meaty old men moving along the boardwalk with a triumphant bounce, dragging fishing poles behind them, the hooks swinging in the wind.

“Manners,” by Kim Addonizio (Poem)
Address older people as Sir or Ma’am
unless they drift slowly into your lane
as you aim for the exit ramp.

“Wakulla Springs,” by Ellen Klages and Andy Duncan (Fiction)
Wakulla Springs. A strange and unknown world, this secret treasure lies hidden in the jungle of northern Florida. In its unfathomable depths, a variety of curious creatures have left a record of their coming, of their struggle to survive, and of their eventual end. Twenty-five thousand years after they disappeared from the face of the Earth, the bones of prehistoric mastodons, giant armadillos, and other primeval monsters have been found beneath the seemingly placid surface of the lagoon. The visitor to this magical place enters a timeless world of mystery.

“On Terrible Writing Advice From Famous Writers,” by Danielle Dutton (Essay)
If you’re a writer who pays any amount of attention to the Internet (and how can you not be?), then you, like me, are no doubt regularly bombarded with advice: “37 Brutal But Eye-Opening Tips from Famous Authors,” “Jack London’s Writing Advice,” “Ten Rules for Writing Fiction.” It seems not a day goes by that I don’t find one or more of these headlines in my feed. Yes, of course, I could ignore the links, or stay off social media altogether, but often enough I find myself signing in and clicking through—because who doesn’t hope occasionally for some brilliant blast of insight, some perfect kick in the ass?—only to be left strangely deflated by the advice I’ve just received. In fact, I’ve come to suspect that the likelihood of these pearls of wisdom stymieing a writer—aspiring or otherwise—is quite a bit greater than the chance of their helping her at all.

“The Ledge,” by Lawrence Sargent Hall (Fiction)
On Christmas morning before sunup the fisherman embraced his warm wife and left his close bed. She did not want him to go. It was Christmas morning. He was a big, raw man, with too much strength, whose delight in winter was to hunt the sea ducks that flew in to feed by the outer ledges, bare at low tide.
As his bare feet touched the cold floor and the frosty air struck his nude flesh, he might have changed his mind in the dark of this special day. It was a home day, which made it seem natural to think of the outer ledges merely as someplace he had shot ducks in the past. But he had promised his son, thirteen, and his nephew, fifteen, who came from inland. That was why he had given them his present of an automatic shotgun each the night before, on Christmas Eve. Rough man though he was known to be, and no spoiler of boys, he kept his promises when he understood what they meant. And to the boys, as to him, home meant where you came for rest after you had had your Christmas fill of action and excitement.

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