Notes From Elsewhere is a roundup of various literary things compiled by Sara Habein, along with news from past Word Riot authors. She makes no claims at being terribly current or the first to know anything, but hopefully you will find something interesting here.)
A little internal WR news first: Wigleaf recently released their Top 50 (Very) Short Fictions list, and three stories from here have made the cut:
“The Way You Move Twelve Minutes From Home” by Stefanie Freele “Ironing” by Peter Grandbois “More Work” by Gregory Sherl
Also, WR‘s Poetry Editor, Nicolle Elizabeth, has a story on the list with
| April 15th, 2012
Body of a Dancer by Renée E. D’Aoust Pages: 167 ISBN: 978-0-9832944-1-2 Price: Paperback–$15.00
Review by Peter Grandbois
When memoir works, it gives the reader a razor thin slice of life, serves it up on a prepared slide and examines it through the microscope of the memoirist’s eye. Renée E. D’Aoust’s memoir, Body of a Dancer, not only works but gives the reader an unfalteringly honest and brutally clear-sighted vision of the nature of an artist’s passion. From the opening pages, D’Aoust establishes that the dancer is not after beauty: “The body of a dancer is tired before it is
| June 15th, 2011
Peter Grandbois is the Barnes and Noble “Discover Great New Writers” and Borders’ “Original Voices” author of The Gravedigger, The Arsenic Lobster: A Hybrid Memoir, and Nahoonkara. He teaches at Denison University in Ohio and can be reached at www.brothersgrandbois.com.
What projects are you currently working on?
I find that I work best when I have multiple projects at various stages of development. The reason is simple. Having things to work on drives away the terror and despair that seem so much a part of the writing life to me. And working on a new project you are
| April 15th, 2011
Listen to a reading of “Ironing” by Peter Grandbois.
Once upon a time, there was a middle-aged woman who woke to a wrinkled house. She rose while it was still dark and pulled out the ironing board and iron from within the closet under the stairs, behind the camping equipment and Christmas decorations. She laid the board out in the middle of the living room and plugged in the iron, only hesitating when adding the distilled water. But then she figured steam could only help. She ironed the furniture, windows, and walls. By dawn, she was exhausted. Worse, she
| November 15th, 2009
The woman sleeps in the basement. Tools line the shelves: pliers, a hammer, and a socket wrench. Two-by-fours stretch across the workbench at odd angles. Beneath the bench, a bird’s nest sits in a drawer upon the floor, two small eggs inside: one blue, one speckled. Wires from the drywall, naked and menacing, fall about the bed like a curtain. A single bulb hangs from a string. A web stretches across a corner where the light cannot reach; an empty mantis carcass dangles within.
She sleeps on her side, her back to the workbench, her long, white hair across