Status Updates From Tin House Magazine, Volume ...

The Wayne Koestenbaum essay was a chore to get through, but the Meg Freitag poems that came afterward made up for it.

Loved the Joan Silber story. I'll have to check out more of her stuff.

First story was an unexpected knockout.

Fantastic fiction so far - always a great read!

Forgive yourself the fires you didn't even try To put out in time. Forgive yourself the ghosts That follow you around like skinny shelter cats, And the sugar water you feed them And the little velvet box you place them in Before you get into bed each night so that they'll stay.

When we enter the "line," do we sink into a sonic chamber of echoes and murmurs, an intertext that, like a cathedral, whether in Canterbury or in Cleveland, occupies a metaphysical location always the same?

For me, the act of writing is all about getting rid of self-criticism, and at the same time I have an almost religious belief in literature. These two kingdoms are impossible to unite.

I wanted Boyd to comfort me. He had a talent for that. If you were insulted because some asshole at day care said your kid's shoes were unsuitable, if you splurged on a nice TV and then realized you'd overpaid, if you got fired from your job because you used up sick days and it wasn't your fault, Boyd could make it seem hilarious. He could remind you it was part of the ever-expanding joke of human trouble.

And look at that teenage girl across the aisle in the bus, combing her hair, checking it in a mirror, pulling some strands across her face to make it hang right. Girl, I wanted to say, he fucked up bad enough to get himself where he is, and you're still worried he won't like your hair?