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I took a creative writing class in college not realizing how it would really challenge me. I was used to the writing praises of teachers ever since elementary school. I was also used to editors’ article critiques in journalism classes and newspaper internships. I thought I had talent and thick skin.
Writing news and feature articles is much different from penning personal poems, short stories, and plays. Everything I wrote in that creative writing class was passed around for all my classmates to edit and critique along with the professor.
I’ve learned to trust my instincts and take creative chances. I’ve learned not to take things too personally. I’ve learned to use the critiques that can help me and to let the others go.
The College of Liberal Arts at Temple University proudly announces a handful of newly renovated “smart” classrooms for the Fall 2012 semester. These rooms, in addition to being refurbished with fresh carpeting, lighting, blinds, and oversized white boards, have been upgraded with a number of technological advances. Students and faculty assigned to the new classrooms will notice new podiums, projectors, screens and control systems.
www.cla.temple.edu/2012/09/newly-renovated-smart-classroo...
The automatic writing project started out as an activity among friends and locals. I would write a line someone else would write a line and so on... Then people would overhear us and ask if they could participate and write something too (which surprised me) of course I said "yes!" At that point I realized that lots of people have something to say. I started asking strangers to add entries, then I graduated to offering people $1.00 to participate, some people do not accept the dollar and some pay me a $1.00 (paying it forward). It's becoming quite a lovely, surprising and compelling project. People from many walks of life are participating: homeless, a news reporter, academics, students, doctors, drug addicts, lawyers, tourists etc... People have written things in my journal that they'd never say out loud, not to anyone. Some of it's so sad, some intriguing, hilarious and so on... At the end of the day, every one of these people understand that their entries are being uploaded to the internet and are comforted in knowing that they will be heard. I have no idea where this is going, but it's going just fine! FYI: English is not everyone's first language here. I will be illustrating the book/journal after the text is done. I hope that everyone who reads these entries learns something about people, mostly that we never know what someone else is going through.
Feel free to stop by my facebook page if you like: www.facebook.com/collageandautomaticwriting/
theatre / performance art / poetry / installation / readings / documentary / creative writing / music
Πολυχώρος Κέντρο Ελέγχου Τηλεοράσεων / TV Control Center
Κύπρου 91Α & Σικίνου 35Α, 11361, Κυψέλη, Αθήνα / 91Α Kyprou & 35Α Sikinou, 11361, Athens
Τ: (00 30) 213 00 40 496 || Mobile: (00 30) 69.45.34.84.45
Email: info@polychorosket.gr
Site: polychorosket.gr/
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Flickr: www.flickr.com/photos/79921428@N03
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TRANSCRIPT
"You know, I always thought 'the Ultimate Answer to the Ultimate Question, of Life, the Universe, and Everything,' being equal to '42' was a bit of a copout on Douglas Adams' part. Like, don't you think a smart guy like him would be able to come up with something a little more profound? Oh, I knew it was a joke, but I just didn't really get it. I guess he was pretty well on the right track, if you're able to read between the lines. See, we start with an advanced civilization questioning the very root meaning of existence, looking for an answer that would satisfy the age-old enquiry, 'Why are we here?' And they were smart enough to build a computer that could calculate that answer for them. For all the good it did, they might as well have spent those resources calculating pi = 3.14... to the gajillionth decimal place, when any idiot knows that that's nothing but a circle. Maybe life is a circle, maybe it's a spiral, maybe it's a whole bunch of things, but the point is this: when you're done explaining it to yourself, you can move past the question and just live it like you would have, had the question never occurred to you in the first place. I know that's unfair and not really what I mean, but seriously, maybe the Question actually is the Answer in a different form, like 'What is it? It is what it is.' So life is its own Question and its own Answer, and maybe the point is to just explore everything it has to offer and to one day maybe stop pretending we don't know what this is all about. Where we came from and where we're going... it's the same thing. And if that's so, then everything really is OK and there's nothing in this universe to be afraid of. All those things we think are really scary and bad, what are they but stuff we dreamed up to tell ourselves that it's not what it really was all along, the perfect expression of an eternally loving God?"
Creative Writing Conference 2015 was held at the Conference Center and Elston Inn located on Sweet Briar College's campus. Photo by Meridith De Avila Khan. Copyright Sweet Briar College.
They're here! They're here!
Somehow, my creative writing students and I managed to finish this collection of their short horror stories before the end of the school year. I am so excited with how they turned out, and I can't wait to hand them out today and tomorrow!!!!!
(Want to buy a copy? You'll have to PM me for details...)
Poetry session @Chapel Arts Centre for Creative Writing students (Ross Turner, Molly Burnell). Model release forms signed.
Photography - Harris Stovell.
I am afraid of masks, I’ve always been,
And as a child Carnival was a nightmare.
The blank still faces, their abnormal sheen
Was just enough to throw me in despair.
There is a why: my mother rested lying
On her white bed, her face motionless white.
I asked softly: “Mama, are you crying?”
She told me back: “Go away, I’m dead, be quiet”.
I was a little girl, and this reply
Had no solution. I knew well back then:
When you don’t talk and breathe, that’s when you die.
But mama… mama… will she speak again?
She was back with her mask, her rosy coloured shield.
I’ve seen, on her real face, her sorrow unconcealed.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
Celeste Chong-Cerrillo, instructional laboratory manager for the Department of Biological Sciences, and lab technician Sandra Rodriguez Cruz analyze microorganisms growing on a specialized growth medium and check for characteristic colony phenotypes. Photo by: Philip Channing
This is a poem I wrote at school when I was 9 or 10 years old. We were given a title, and had to write a poem based on it. I remember the teacher liking it, and the headmistress. Several years later, the headmistress retired. My dad went to her retirement party, as he was on the board of governors at the school. She gave him this to bring home. Apparently she had liked it so much that she had framed it, and kept it in her office. I think I typed this out on the BBC computer we had at school, and it was printed on a dot matrix printer. I like it, although I cringe at my use of the word "surrealism"...must have seemed quite pretentious for a 9 or 10 year old to use a word like that, and I vaguely remember only using it as I had just learned the word and thought it would be impressive to use.
theatre / performance art / poetry / installation / readings / documentary / creative writing / music
Πολυχώρος Κέντρο Ελέγχου Τηλεοράσεων / TV Control Center
Κύπρου 91Α & Σικίνου 35Α, 11361, Κυψέλη, Αθήνα / 91Α Kyprou & 35Α Sikinou, 11361, Athens
Τ: (00 30) 213 00 40 496 || Mobile: (00 30) 69.45.34.84.45
Email: info@polychorosket.gr
Site: polychorosket.gr/
Facebook: www.facebook.com/kentron.el
Twitter: twitter.com/TVControlCenter
Flickr: www.flickr.com/photos/79921428@N03
YouTube: www.youtube.com/channel/UC0rOD1_SgjuNrkNmx59_sMg/videos
I am a child no more, my face is lined,
And streaks of silver in my hair appear.
Sometimes I look so young I cannot find
My age into my story and my years.
When I wake up I don’t know who I am
My mirror shows a face I do not see.
I hide behind an easy theorem:
That is - as I would mean - I disagree.
The footpath after rain reflects a girl
That was me, jumping puddles, her shoes sogged.
I stop and watch: the surface bears a pearl
That’s a bubble of air, spit by a frog.
But if my lips would touch the amphibian’s shiny skin,
Will a jade veil conceal me, and would I turn to green?
(Sonnet bySiRiChandra)
I wonder if someone will recognize one of the lines, inspired by a song.
A very famous one.
Broken and ripped wings, feathers disjointed,
I will not fall, but dip into the blue
All that’s in me the clouds will rain, anointed,
During the spring when all is green anew.
From where I’m kept, I watch up and below
Counting the suns go by and the clouds race
Against the lighting while it falls, aglow;
I feel the spider weave its silver lace.
I cannot run away, I do not need
To move from here, because I see for miles,
Because we Angels do not cry or bleed:
If one is lost, another rises and smiles.
No secrets up above, no fairy stories here:
Our life a new one each day, our span is of a sphere
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
The automatic writing project started out as an activity among friends and locals. I would write a line someone else would write a line and so on... Then people would overhear us and ask if they could participate and write something too (which surprised me) of course I said "yes!" At that point I realized that lots of people have something to say. I started asking strangers to add entries, then I graduated to offering people $1.00 to participate, some people do not accept the dollar and some pay me a $1.00 (paying it forward). It's becoming quite a lovely, surprising and compelling project. People from many walks of life are participating: homeless, a news reporter, academics, students, doctors, drug addicts, lawyers, tourists etc... People have written things in my journal that they'd never say out loud, not to anyone. Some of it's so sad, some intriguing, hilarious and so on... At the end of the day, every one of these people understand that their entries are being uploaded to the internet and are comforted in knowing that they will be heard. I have no idea where this is going, but it's going just fine! FYI: English is not everyone's first language here. I will be illustrating the book/journal after the text is done. I hope that everyone who reads these entries learns something about people, mostly that we never know what someone else is going through.
Feel free to stop by my facebook page if you like: www.facebook.com/collageandautomaticwriting/
You could not fall into this river twice
For other waters are ever flowing on
To you, over your wrists in water ice
Bending your limbs, the neck of a black swan.
Much learning does not teach good understanding
And so I learn what water has to say
Listening as it falls, while I’m pretending
To know the language used in its wordplay.
Time is a game some children play with skills
On a red checker board, with living pawns
That believing they’re kings, on their treadmills
Are working day by day, in livid dawns.
The roads uphill and downhill are one and are the same:
A detour on a crossroad at last is mine to claim.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
The Creative Writing Program at ASU presents author Jess Row in a reading from his work followed by a Q&A and book signing.
Row is the author of White Flights: Race, Fiction, and the American Imagination, as well as the novel Your Face in Mine and the story collections The Train to Lo Wu and Nobody Ever Gets Lost. White Flights is his first book of nonfiction. One of Granta’s Best of Young American Novelists of 2007, he lives in New York and teaches at the College of New Jersey.
Book Summary
White Flights is a meditation on whiteness in American fiction and culture from the end of the civil rights movement to the present. At the heart of the book, Jess Row ties “white flight”—the movement of white Americans into segregated communities, whether in suburbs or newly gentrified downtowns—to white writers setting their stories in isolated or emotionally insulated landscapes, from the mountains of Idaho in Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping to the claustrophobic households in Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections. Row uses brilliant close readings of work from well-known writers such as Don DeLillo, Annie Dillard, Richard Ford, and David Foster Wallace to examine the ways these and other writers have sought imaginative space for themselves at the expense of engaging with race.
White Flights aims to move fiction to a more inclusive place, and Row looks beyond criticism to consider writing as a reparative act. What would it mean, he asks, if writers used fiction “to approach each other again”? Row turns to the work of James Baldwin, Dorothy Allison, and James Alan McPherson to discuss interracial love in fiction, while also examining his own family heritage as a way to interrogate his position. A moving and provocative book that includes music, film, and literature in its arguments, White Flights is an essential work of cultural and literary criticism.
PRAISE
“Row has produced a thoughtful and timely meditation that serves as a call to white writers.”—Pop Matters
“This intelligent collection is often deeply engaged in realms of philosophy and literary theory. . . . There is something for every reader . . . in the message that fiction not only reflects but acts upon real life, and that each of us is obliged to act for justice, in reading and writing as in life.”—Shelf Awareness
“With these superb essays, Jess Row reveals himself to be an insightful critic of both literature and the American condition.”—Viet Thanh Nguyen
“Jess Row performs a much-needed analysis. . . . The landscape of the imagination, like the country itself, he argues with rich insight and brio, is neither equal nor free.”—John Keene
We are passionate about bringing a relaxed approach while creating beautiful, natural and vibrant images.
Across her face he draw a shining scar:
Her hair covered the mark, but not the pain.
He could not see the blemish from afar
In his own mirror, and his face remained
An echo of the blankness of his soul.
Her hair covered the mark, but not the pain.
He turned to look, his eyes a dark peephole,
Over his shoulder. In her gentle stance
- An echo of the blankness of his soul -
She frowned, as making sure she had a chance
Smiling at him, pretending not to spy.
Over his shoulder, in her gentle stance
She rearranged her hair, she wiped her eyes,
Probing the mark with shaky fingernails
Smiling at him, pretending not to spy
His dark red reasons, avoiding the details.
Across her face he draw a shining scar
Probing the mark with shaky fingernails:
He could not see the blemish from afar.
(Terzanelle by SiRiChandra)
“Have you forgotten me?” this is her song.
A wasp jailed in a room, hitting the panes
Of the clean windows: her spinning wheel of gold
Respinning all the lanes we walked before.
A wasp jailed in a room, hitting the panes
She sings her song, her contralto a hum
Respinning all the lanes we walked before
My hand in hers, balancing the two worlds.
She sings her song, her contralto a hum
Sometimes I sing along, to let her go
- My hand in hers, balancing the two worlds -
But she’s trapped. She sings to be perceptible.
Sometimes I sing along, to let her go
As I know she preferred the open air
But she’s trapped. She sings to be perceptible:
When I open a window her buzz fades.
As I know she preferred the open air
I keep my windows spotless, brush off the cobwebs
When I open a window her buzz fades
And off she goes. She is back the second after.
I keep my windows spotless, brush off the cobwebs
Even in winter I never lock the door
And off she goes. She is back the second after
“Have you forgotten me?” this is her song.
(A pantoum by SiRiChandra)
The automatic writing project started out as an activity among friends and locals. I would write a line someone else would write a line and so on... Then people would overhear us and ask if they could participate and write something too (which surprised me) of course I said "yes!" At that point I realized that lots of people have something to say. I started asking strangers to add entries, then I graduated to offering people $1.00 to participate, some people do not accept the dollar and some pay me a $1.00 (paying it forward). It's becoming quite a lovely, surprising and compelling project. People from many walks of life are participating: homeless, a news reporter, academics, students, doctors, drug addicts, lawyers, tourists etc... People have written things in my journal that they'd never say out loud, not to anyone. Some of it's so sad, some intriguing, hilarious and so on... At the end of the day, every one of these people understand that their entries are being uploaded to the internet and are comforted in knowing that they will be heard. I have no idea where this is going, but it's going just fine! FYI: English is not everyone's first language here. I will be illustrating the book/journal after the text is done. I hope that everyone who reads these entries learns something about people, mostly that we never know what someone else is going through.
Feel free to stop by my facebook page if you like: www.facebook.com/collageandautomaticwriting/
The automatic writing project started out as an activity among friends and locals. I would write a line someone else would write a line and so on... Then people would overhear us and ask if they could participate and write something too (which surprised me) of course I said "yes!" At that point I realized that lots of people have something to say. I started asking strangers to add entries, then I graduated to offering people $1.00 to participate, some people do not accept the dollar and some pay me a $1.00 (paying it forward). It's becoming quite a lovely, surprising and compelling project. People from many walks of life are participating: homeless, a news reporter, academics, students, doctors, drug addicts, lawyers, tourists etc... People have written things in my journal that they'd never say out loud, not to anyone. Some of it's so sad, some intriguing, hilarious and so on... At the end of the day, every one of these people understand that their entries are being uploaded to the internet and are comforted in knowing that they will be heard. I have no idea where this is going, but it's going just fine! FYI: English is not everyone's first language here. I will be illustrating the book/journal after the text is done. I hope that everyone who reads these entries learns something about people, mostly that we never know what someone else is going through.
Feel free to stop by my facebook page if you like: www.facebook.com/collageandautomaticwriting/
While turtle hunting she decided to walk a bit further in the woods. I tried telling her doesn't look good honey. She didn't take my advice and continued down in the brush. Well of course there was some loud rustling and she came running out there so fast, she ran right out of her flip flops. Later saying there was a foul odor. I remember stories from my dad of the Skunk Ape. My dad has always told stories about the Skunk Ape, Bigfoot since I was a girl. My dad never tells a lie. He's a true Florida born native he hunted barefoot with a slingshot, gun or older he jokes by cars. I am always on the look out for the elusive Bigfoot here in Florida or my summer trips to the mountains of Tennessee. So when chance gives me the oppurtunity to tell my family about the Skunk Ape I am carrying on the long standing tradition in my family of storytelling.
In Florida we have something called The Skunk Ape they are in the same family as Bigfoot, Sasquatch, Abominable Snowman, Boggy Creek Monster, Wild Man, Almas, Batutut, Fear liath, Hibagon, MonoGrande, Orang Mawas, Yeren, Yowie, Yeti and the Sassenach. The Skunk Ape is named for its appearance & strong stench. Some people have compared the foul stench to a skunk rolling around in a dumpster.
The sun has dipped below the horizon leaving an illumination in the sky. Not completely dark or lit the twilight hour is here. An unbearable heat with a slight breeze attracts the biggest mosquitoes. Birds softening their calls to a whisper fetching babies home for the night. Alligators entering the swampy creek water hoping for last minute parched animals at the edge. This is when the Skunk Ape wakes to hunt. A trail of Lima beans or string of apples can attract one, but it can be difficult. Reports have been documented since the 1970’s and film captures are extremely rare. One lady who wished to remain anonymous mailed the pictures into a local Post Office.
If you are luck enough to encounter the Florida Skunk Ape do not run. Stand still and note your surroundings, time of day, weather and please remember to take pictures.
The automatic writing project started out as an activity among friends and locals. I would write a line someone else would write a line and so on... Then people would overhear us and ask if they could participate and write something too (which surprised me) of course I said "yes!" At that point I realized that lots of people have something to say. I started asking strangers to add entries, then I graduated to offering people $1.00 to participate, some people do not accept the dollar and some pay me a $1.00 (paying it forward). It's becoming quite a lovely, surprising and compelling project. People from many walks of life are participating: homeless, a news reporter, academics, students, doctors, drug addicts, lawyers, tourists etc... People have written things in my journal that they'd never say out loud, not to anyone. Some of it's so sad, some intriguing, hilarious and so on... At the end of the day, every one of these people understand that their entries are being uploaded to the internet and are comforted in knowing that they will be heard. I have no idea where this is going, but it's going just fine! FYI: English is not everyone's first language here. I will be illustrating the book/journal after the text is done. I hope that everyone who reads these entries learns something about people, mostly that we never know what someone else is going through.
Feel free to stop by my facebook page if you like: www.facebook.com/collageandautomaticwriting/
The College of Liberal Arts at Temple University proudly announces a handful of newly renovated “smart” classrooms for the Fall 2012 semester. These rooms, in addition to being refurbished with fresh carpeting, lighting, blinds, and oversized white boards, have been upgraded with a number of technological advances. Students and faculty assigned to the new classrooms will notice new podiums, projectors, screens and control systems.
www.cla.temple.edu/2012/09/newly-renovated-smart-classroo...
June song: over my neck an ear of corn,
Waiting for colder moments as a breather.
The daily breaks of rest are old timeworn
Speeches of dusty mentors. They are neither
Enlightened by the sunny days of June
Nor shadowed by the hottest dusk. Tired eyes
In the full black will open up to soon
Singing a song they have to improvise.
A song in June, a song we sang aloud
Driving through fields of green disturbed blades
Beheading flowers with our own head bowed
Dancing in time and acting new charades.
Old June, new songs: cicadas are still for me unseen
But heard as zigzag violins amid the mighty green.
(Sonnet by SiRiChandra)
She sits behind the desk and sighs heavily. It's only 9:30 and she's already over today.
From the outside looking in, she's staring but from the inside she's dreaming. The clean white wall carrying the corporate logo of her employer doesn't exist in her mind, she can see beyond the boundaries that have been set.
In her mind she's on the grass court, the once restricting walls of her office are nothing but a distant memory.
With the ball in her hand, she feels alive and without the ball, she's relaxed.
"Sarah" he snaps angrily, as if he's been waiting for ever. "Are you going to answer that?".
It's only then that she realises harsh sound of the phone and the flash of the switch.
"Sorry boss" she offers but it's not genuine, another sigh espcapes her lips.
On the phone, Sarah is pleasant, attentive to their requests but there's really only one thought in her mind... Lunchtime, two hours away.
There's no emergency in the office, nor in their an alarm but when the clock hit twelve, things happen. Sarah is up out of her chair, she's already changed her shoes under the desk. Hurdling the desk with ease and the type of grace that only comes with repetition of such an action...she's gone. In less than five minutes, she'll be on the court.
Even if it's only for sixty minutes each day, Sarah will feel alive, she'll know what it means to live.
The automatic writing project started out as an activity among friends and locals. I would write a line someone else would write a line and so on... Then people would overhear us and ask if they could participate and write something too (which surprised me) of course I said "yes!" At that point I realized that lots of people have something to say. I started asking strangers to add entries, then I graduated to offering people $1.00 to participate, some people do not accept the dollar and some pay me a $1.00 (paying it forward). It's becoming quite a lovely, surprising and compelling project. People from many walks of life are participating: homeless, a news reporter, academics, students, doctors, drug addicts, lawyers, tourists etc... People have written things in my journal that they'd never say out loud, not to anyone. Some of it's so sad, some intriguing, hilarious and so on... At the end of the day, every one of these people understand that their entries are being uploaded to the internet and are comforted in knowing that they will be heard. I have no idea where this is going, but it's going just fine! FYI: English is not everyone's first language here. I will be illustrating the book/journal after the text is done. I hope that everyone who reads these entries learns something about people, mostly that we never know what someone else is going through.
Feel free to stop by my facebook page if you like: www.facebook.com/collageandautomaticwriting/
We are passionate about bringing a relaxed approach while creating beautiful, natural and vibrant images.
Mike Cahill, a visiting screenwriter, meets with creative writing student David Harrison to review his script. Photo by: Philip Channing.
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EN /All of my photos are free of copyrights, you can use. Also commercially. PL / Wszystkie moje zdjęcia są w domenie publicznej. Można wykorzystywać w dowolnym celu
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On Friday, the College of Liberals Arts welcomed the class of 2016 to Temple University at the Freshman Convocation assembly. More than 600 incoming freshmen gathered to hear words of encouragement, advice and wisdom from Dean Teresa Scott Soufas, Vice Dean for Academic Affairs Jayne Drake, and fellow CLA students.
Two outstanding CLA students addressed the freshmen. D’Juan Lyons, a senior majoring in Spanish Linguistics, emphasized the importance of taking advantage of resources and opportunities here at Temple University. He challenged fellow classmates to avoid shortcuts and to go forth on their new journey “wholeheartedly and with full force.” Speaking from experience, political science major Grace Osa-Edoh shared three powerful lessons with CLA freshmen. Grace encouraged her classmates to “take it one step at a time, be ready to adapt to move forward, and ask for help along the way.”
The College of Liberal Arts wishes all of its students continued success. As Vice Dean Jayne Drake said, “enjoy and embrace your time here at Temple University."
Creative Writing Metacognition
Map what you want secondary-level students to know in a unit; then, build your lessons from the branches so that the parts of the whole are included. When it comes to open house or parent/teacher conferences, what you teach is then visible and debatable.
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Metacognition, Creative Writing, English, Secondary Discourse, Language Arts, Literary Analysis, Multilingual, Bilingual, Multimodal, ESL, ELL, Reflection, Student-Centered Learning, Semiotics, Pinterest
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The Creative Writing Program at ASU presents author Jess Row in a reading from his work followed by a Q&A and book signing.
Row is the author of White Flights: Race, Fiction, and the American Imagination, as well as the novel Your Face in Mine and the story collections The Train to Lo Wu and Nobody Ever Gets Lost. White Flights is his first book of nonfiction. One of Granta’s Best of Young American Novelists of 2007, he lives in New York and teaches at the College of New Jersey.
Book Summary
White Flights is a meditation on whiteness in American fiction and culture from the end of the civil rights movement to the present. At the heart of the book, Jess Row ties “white flight”—the movement of white Americans into segregated communities, whether in suburbs or newly gentrified downtowns—to white writers setting their stories in isolated or emotionally insulated landscapes, from the mountains of Idaho in Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping to the claustrophobic households in Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections. Row uses brilliant close readings of work from well-known writers such as Don DeLillo, Annie Dillard, Richard Ford, and David Foster Wallace to examine the ways these and other writers have sought imaginative space for themselves at the expense of engaging with race.
White Flights aims to move fiction to a more inclusive place, and Row looks beyond criticism to consider writing as a reparative act. What would it mean, he asks, if writers used fiction “to approach each other again”? Row turns to the work of James Baldwin, Dorothy Allison, and James Alan McPherson to discuss interracial love in fiction, while also examining his own family heritage as a way to interrogate his position. A moving and provocative book that includes music, film, and literature in its arguments, White Flights is an essential work of cultural and literary criticism.
PRAISE
“Row has produced a thoughtful and timely meditation that serves as a call to white writers.”—Pop Matters
“This intelligent collection is often deeply engaged in realms of philosophy and literary theory. . . . There is something for every reader . . . in the message that fiction not only reflects but acts upon real life, and that each of us is obliged to act for justice, in reading and writing as in life.”—Shelf Awareness
“With these superb essays, Jess Row reveals himself to be an insightful critic of both literature and the American condition.”—Viet Thanh Nguyen
“Jess Row performs a much-needed analysis. . . . The landscape of the imagination, like the country itself, he argues with rich insight and brio, is neither equal nor free.”—John Keene