TAIYE SELASI was born in London and raised in Massachusetts. She holds a B.A. in American studies from Yale and an M.Phil. in international relations from Oxford. Selasi made her fiction debut in Granta with “The Sex Lives of African Girls.” Her first novel, Ghana Must Go, will be published in 2013. She lives in Rome.
• “The Sex Lives of African Girls” was written under duress. In 2005 I was eight years into a grave case of writer’s block. Incapable of finishing a piece of fiction, I abandoned the form to write scripts. Winston Light, my only play, ran for a week that spring. Our executive producer was Avery Willis, Toni Morrison’s niece. When her aunt came to receive an honorary degree from Oxford (where we were grad students), Avery kindly invited me to come to the reception. So it was that I found myself at the side of my literary hero, confessing my lifelong love of prose and newfound refusal to write it.
The most magical thing happened next. I happened to be spending that summer in Lawrenceville, where my beloved ex-stepfather teaches. A few weeks after I returned from Oxford, Professor Morrison invited me to see her. Over a glass of wine, she patiently listened as I explained my predicament: fear of failure had replaced the joy I’d always found in fiction. This was June 2005. By December 2006 I still didn’t have a single coherent piece of work to show her. At Christmastime my mum and sister came with me to Princeton. Professor Morrison came straight to the point. “I’ll have finished my next novel in November,” she said, “and will then have time to read yours. Send me a manuscript by the end of next year.” With our families as witnesses, we shook on it. Deal.
I had a year. But no story. For two months I stared at my MacBook screen, willing words to come. They didn’t. Tears did. I didn’t sleep that March. I considered requesting an extension. One day in April—in the shower at noon—I heard, as if remembering it, “The sex lives of African girls begin, inevitably, with Uncle.” A bit like a song I’d heard somewhere, the bridge of which I’d forgotten. “There you are, eleven, alone in the study in the dark,” the song went on without music. I raced to the laptop, still dripping wet, and wrote—or wrote down—the stanza. “‘You,’” I thought. “Okay. Second person. Really? Try. Worked for McInerney. “Alone in the study.” Okay. Why alone? Where are you? Who are you?”
A story.
On December 31, 2007, as per our agreement, I sent Professor Morrison the first piece of fiction I’d finished since 1997. I was in Ethiopia for New Year’s; it was already 2008 in Addis. Electricity was spotty in the Internet café there; I was advised to type fast and be brief. Afraid that we’d lose power (or more to the point: that I’d lose nerve), I typed just two words—thank you—and sent off these thirteen thousand.
SHARON SOLWITZ’s stories, published in such magazines as TriQuarterly, Ploughshares, and Mademoiselle, have received awards including the Pushcart Prize, the Nelson Algren Award, and the Katherine Ann Porter prize. Her collection Blood and Milk received the Carl Sandburg Literary Award and the Midland Authors Award and was a finalist for the National Jewish Book Award. The story appearing in this volume is from her current work in progress, a collection of interrelated stories. She teaches fiction writing at Purdue University and lives in Chicago with her husband, the poet Barry Silesky.
• A couple of years ago I read a story about a new widow whose friends and acquaintances, highly verbal and educated, are tongue-tied in the face of her grief. As I recall, one friend actually crosses the street to avoid the social awkwardness of having to find words for what there are no words for. It’s so embarrassing.
When my almost-fourteen-year-old son died of cancer, there was nothing anyone could say to assuage me. Still, it helped when my grief was recognized. One feels so alone in bereavement that mere recognition does something useful and good. There were times when I wanted to shriek at people, at strangers: World, weep for Jesse. And, however weird it may seem, acknowledgment of my grief by other people helped pull me back, bit by bit, to the world of people who hadn’t lost their children.
“Alive” is part of a collection of stories about a family with a son who has cancer, a collection that shrieks, as I did not, Weep, world. It is also the result of my irrational wish to breathe life back into Jesse and into the part of us that we lost with his death. Still, the work isn’t memoir or autobiography. The situation is what we went through, but the characters are purposefully, purposely different from us. Only thus I could write with less pain than pleasure—the deep pleasure of invention converting pain and grief into something like fuel.
The events in “Alive” are largely factual. One snowy Saturday when Jesse and his chemo were in sync, I drove him and his brother to Alpine Valley, only the second time either of my children had put on skis. Jesse took no risks, but his brother, Seth, went down a steep slope and broke his thumb. Writing the story as fiction, my chief discovery was this brother’s voice. Wonderful, to romp in the mind of the invented younger brother, whose anger, pride, shrewdness, and vulnerability kept surprising me.
KATE WALBERT is the author of A Short History of Women, chosen by the New York Times Book Review as one of the ten best books of 2009; Our Kind, a finalist for the National Book Award; The Gardens of Kyoto; and Where She Went. Her short fiction has been published in The New Yorker, The Paris Review, The Best American Short Stories 2007, and The O. Henry Prize Stories, among other magazines and journals. From 2011 to 2012 she was the Rona Jaffe Foundation Fellow at the Dorothy and Lewis B. Cullman Center for Writers and Scholars at the New York Public Library. She lives in New York City with her family.
• Years ago, in Patagonia, I found myself on a small boat and, in my memory, alone (although I’m sure there were throngs of tourists around me) staring into the scaly, impenetrable eye of a right whale. I was reminded of that moment as I worked on “M&M World,” a story I’d been kicking around for a long time and one that was no doubt inspired, and complicated, by the fact that I’d never been to the place. (Its existence loomed large. When they were little, my children would beg to stop every time we drove by the M&M guy waving from the top of the Empire State Building, until the repeated promise of “some other day” became a running joke in the family.) I could say that the resonance of the whale’s eye, the stillness at the center of it, seemed the right counterweight to the craziness of Times Square, but that’s suggesting too much understanding of what I’m writing as I write it. I only know that the whale gave the story a momentum I hadn’t been able to find, a momentum that made Maggie’s disappearance, and delivery, seem inevitable.
JESS WALTER is the author of six novels, most recently Beautiful Ruins (2012). He was a finalist for the 2006 National Book Award for The Zero and winner of the 2005 Edgar Allan Poe Award for best novel for Citizen Vince. His short fiction and essays have appeared in Harper’s Magazine, McSweeney’s, Playboy, and many other publications. His story collection, The New Frontier, is forthcoming early in 2013. He lives in his hometown of Spokane, Washington.
• My city is poor. Over the past few years it has seemed as if a homeless person with a cardboard sign has staked out every downtown corner. At the best corners, they wait their turns like workers expecting a shift change. Sometimes I give money. Sometimes I don’t. I don’t have a coherent policy. Sometimes I don’t even see the person until I drive away; they are part of the landscape. Sometimes they have a story about what happened to them. These stories rarely seem true (Vietnam War vets in their forties, former bank executives without teeth). So I do what people do: I make assumptions. I crunch the numbers. Before I give money, I engage in the calculus of need: Isn’t he young enough to work? Is she a meth addict? Will my money just go for booze? The political and corporate right in this country would have us believe that someone’s hard times are an affront to our own hard work, that we should blame the poor for their own poverty. I think this is like hitting a pedestrian with your car and then blaming him for the dent.
A few years ago, a panhandling woman asked my wife and me for money to buy food for her three chil
dren. It was clear to us both that she was lying; she probably didn’t even have kids. She seemed drunk and there was a liquor store nearby. Still, I gave her ten dollars. Later, we saw her walking with a couple of grocery bags. Three little kids were walking behind her. I suppose that’s what sparked “Anything Helps”: plain old empathy and shame.
ADAM WILSON is the author of the novel Flatscreen (2012). His short stories have appeared in many publications, including The Paris Review, The Literary Review, New York Tyrant, Washington Square Review, Meridian, Coffin Factory, and the anthology Promised Lands: New Jewish Fiction on Longing and Belonging. He is the 2012 recipient of the Terry Southern Prize, which recognizes “wit, panache, and sprezzatura in work published by Paris Review.” He teaches creative writing at NYU and lives in Brooklyn.
• After college I moved to Austin, Texas, to become a character in my own imaginary movie. Until that time I’d never lived outside of my home state of Massachusetts. College had given me the romantic notion that to be a real writer one must wade through the American South, working menial jobs and staring at horizons. Austin rhymed with Boston, so it seemed like as good a place as any. Also, I’d watched a lot of movies about high school football in Texas and knew that former cheerleaders often fell in love with mysterious strangers freshly landed from the East and sizzling with irony. The first job I got in Austin was as an assistant on a movie set not unlike the one in “What’s Important Is Feeling.” Part of the film was shot in Corpus Christi, where the story takes place. I couldn’t get over the strange sight of a tourist beach covered in oil rigs. Among many other things, my experience working on the film helped dispel the idea that screenwriting was a worthwhile venture. I had front-row tickets to the film’s screenwriter’s slow psychic meltdown as he watched his artistic vision turned into something other and unrecognizable. This story is my attempt to capture that meltdown, both comically and sympathetically. After that gig I had one more movie job, doing catering on an indie horror flick. I was fired about halfway through the film and followed it with a long period of unemployment. Eventually I got a job holding up a giant orange arrow at a highway exit ramp. Then my car got stolen and I moved to New York with the insurance money.
Other Distinguished Stories of 2011
AKHTIORSKAYA, YELENA
Raisa. n+1, no. 11.
ALTSCHUL, ANDREW FOSTER
The Violet Hour. Zyzzyva, vol. 27, no. 3.
AMICK, STEVE
Not Even Lions and Tigers. Cincinnati Review, vol. 8, no. 1.
ANGEL, JODI
A Good Deuce. Tin House, vol. 12, no. 4.
BARRETT, ANDREA
The Ether of Space. Tin House. vol. 12, no. 3.
BISSELL, TOM
Love Story, with Cocaine. Zyzzyva, vol. 27, no. 2.
BLOOM, AMY
A Portion of Your Loveliness. Narrative Magazine, Winter.
BOAST, WILL
Beginners. American Scholar, vol. 80, no. 4.
BOYLE, T. C.
In the Zone. Kenyon Review, vol. 33, no. 4.
BROWNSTEIN, GABRIEL
Implanted Devices. Agni, no. 74.
BURGESS, CLAIRE
Last Dog. Hunger Mountain, no. 16.
CADNUM, MICHAEL
Slaughter. Santa Monica Review, vol. 23, no. 2.
CALHOUN, KENNETH
Then. Tin House, vol. 12, no. 3.
CARLSON, RON
Esther Donnaly. Kenyon Review, vol. 33, no. 3.
COOLEY, MARTHA
I Liked Marie. A Public Space, no. 13.
CROUSE, DAVID
The Sleeping Mother. The Literarian, no. 5.
DAVIDSON, CRAIG
The Burn. Cincinnati Review, vol. 8, no. 1.
DAVIES, PETER HO
That Fall. Michigan Quarterly Review, vol. 50, no. 4.
DEB, SIDDHARTHA
The Mouse. n+1, no. 12.
DINH, VIET
The Ruined City. Witness, vol. 24.
DONOVAN, GERARD
Holiday. Zoetrope: All-Story, vol. 14, no. 4.
DORFMAN, ARIEL
Where He Fell. McSweeney’s, no. 38.
DRURY, TOM
Joan Comes Home. A Public Space, no. 12.
DUBOIS, JENNIFER
Wolf. The Kenyon Review, vol. 33, no. 3.
DUVAL, PETE
I, Budgie. Witness, vol. 24.
EDWARDS, MELODIE
The Bird Lady. Prairie Schooner, vol. 85, no. 2.
EPSTEIN, JOSEPH
Arnheim and Sons. Commentary, January.
EVANHOE, REBECCA
Snake. Harper’s Magazine, November.
FRANZEN, JONATHAN
Ambition. McSweeney’s, no. 37.
GIRALDI, WILLIAM
Hold the Dark. Ploughshares, vol. 37, no. 4.
GREENFELD, KARL TARO
Even the Gargoyle Is Frightened. Missouri Review, vol. 33, no. 4.
HAIGH, JENNIFER
Thrift. Five Points, vol. 14, no. 1.
HART, BRIAN
Horseshoe Bend. Alaska Quarterly Review, vol. 28, nos. 1 and 2.
HEMENWAY, ARNA BONTEMPS
Elegy on Kinderklavier. Seattle Review, vol. 4, no. 2.
HOLLADAY, CARY
Seven Sons. Hudson Review, vol. 64, no 3.
HORROCKS, CAITLIN
Sun City. The New Yorker, October 24.
HUDDLE, DAVID
Doubt Administration. Green Mountains Review, vol. 24, no. 1.
HUNT, SAMANTHA
Wampum. HOW, no. 8.
JOHNSTON, BRET ANTHONY
Paradeability. American Short Fiction, vol. 14, no. 53.
KADISH, RACHEL
The Governess and the Tree. Ploughshares, vol. 37, no. 4.
KAPLAN, HESTER
The Aerialist. Salamander, vol. 17, no. 1.
Natural Wonder. Ploughshares, vol. 37, no. 1.
KARDOS, MICHAEL
A Story with Strong, Graceful Hands. Harvard Review, no. 41.
LAMBERT, SHAENA
The War Between the Men and the Women. Ploughshares, vol. 37, no. 1.
LANCELOTTA, VICTORIA
A Good Woman. Idaho Review, vols. 11–12.
LANDERS, SCOTT
The Age of Heroes. New England Review, vol. 32, no. 2.
LEARY, ANN
Safety. Ploughshares, vol. 37, no. 4.
LEPUCKI, EDAN
Take Care of That Rage Problem. McSweeney’s, no. 37.
LIPSYTE, SAM
The Climber Room. The New Yorker, November 21.
LOMBREGLIA, RALPH
Mountain People. American Scholar Online.
LONG, DAVID
Oubliette. The New Yorker, October 10.
LUNSTRUM, KIRSTEN SUNDBERG
The Remainder Salvaged. Willow Springs, no. 68.
MAKKAI, REBECCA
The Way You Hold Your Knife. Ecotone, no. 11.
MARRA, ANTHONY
The Palace of the People. Narrative Magazine, Winter.
MAXWELL, ABI
Giant of the Sea. McSweeney’s, no. 39.
MCGUANE, THOMAS
The Good Samaritan. The New Yorker, April 25.
MEANS, DAVID
The Butler’s Lament. Zoetrope: All-Story, vol. 15, no. 1.
MILLHAUSER, STEVEN
Rapunzel. McSweeney’s, no. 38.
MOFFETT, KEVIN
English Made Easy. American Short Fiction, vol. 14, no. 52.
Lugo in Normal Time. McSweeney’s, no. 37.
MOSES, JENNIFER ANNE
Angels of the Lake. Nimrod, vol. 54, no. 2.
MOSLEY, WALTER
Familiar Music. Tin House, vol. 12, no. 4.
MUNRO, ALICE
Gravel. The New Yorker, June 27.
Leaving Maverley. The New Yorker, November 28.
MURPHY, YANNICK
Secret Language. McSweeney’s, no. 39.
ORNER, PETER
Plaza Revolution, Mexico City, 6 A.M. Witness, vol. 24.
You Can’t Say Dall
as Doesn’t Love You. A Public Space, no. 14.
PANCAKE, ANN
Mouseskull. Georgia Review, vol. 65, no. 4.
PEARLMAN, EDITH
Tenderfoot. Idaho Review, vol. 11, no. 12.
PERCY, BENJAMIN
Writs of Possession. Virginia Quarterly Review, vol. 87, no. 2.
PENKOV, MIROSLAV
The Letter. A Public Space, no. 13.