Creative Writing Faculty

He could stop me now if he wanted to. He could have me forever, despite it all. Even forever. Winslow breathed quietly, steadily. I waited. He was not breathing the way he did when he slept, and I walked recklessly out of the bedroom.
— Rebecca Chace, from Leaving Rock Harbor

Years ago, deep in Louisiana’s nature, I dove
To catch a salt and pepper kingsnake as it slid into the earth,
And I pulled it up. Then it bit me over and over until I could
Calm it, pin its head to the ground: It said, as all prophets do:
“You, my love, are easy to catch. Write something
And remember how scared you are right now and always — now let me go.”
The snake leapt to its hole and poured in.
— David Daniel, from The Naturalist

Calling is a word we use instinctively to define something vaguely that we feel specifically. I might claim that I have a calling to be a writer — meaning, I write because I want to because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t know where to put all the words that haunt my brain. But it’s also not simply that ephemeral. I’ve decided to write, rather than paint or become a physicist, and because of that decision, I’ve also cultivated a habit by which my thoughts construct themselves as sentences to be expressed with written words — the same words that I’ll eventually describe as haunting my brain.
— Minna Proctor, from Do you Hear What I Hear.

Smoke has as many different scents as skin. Part of the pleasure is not knowing what it will be — sulfurous or closer to incense or airier and sweet as I imagine the smell of clouds.
— Rene Steinke, from The Fires

  • Wesley Stace

We might have predicted that Wesley Stace — a fine novelist and a fine musician — would one day write a novel about music, but could we have predicted that it would be so brilliant?
— Jonathan Coe writing about Wesley Stace’s new novel, Charles Jessold, Considered as a Murderer.