“First, try to be something, anything, else.” That’s the famous first line of Lorrie Moore’s “How to Become a Writer,” and it’s funny because it’s true. Many writers do consider another path initially. Roberto Bolaño wanted to be a spy, Kate Christensen a rock star, Joan Didion an actress. Chris Adrian went to medical school, and the seminary. Herman Melville . . .
“Would anyone possibly buy a novel by an African?” At Salon, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie offers an appreciation of Chinua Achebe.
“My mother spoke to me once after she was dead.” That’s the first sentence of Rupert Thomson’s forthcoming memoir, This Party’s Got to Stop, which I started reading last night and am loving and rationing. (I’m in lockdown at my sister’s place, getting some writing done; also, I’ve waited a long time for this book and don’t want to . . .
The house that Edwidge Danticat calls home while in Haiti collapsed on and killed her cousin Maxo, who was denied asylum in the U.S. several years ago. (See also.)