My experience writing my first book was overwhelmingly one of joy. However, there was a substantial amount of suffering that was also involved. There’s always going to be suffering in any kind of work that you learn something through. And I learned story-structure with The Glitch. And I rewrote it—I mean I must have rewritten it 10 to 15 times.
Fiction by Thomas Kearnes
Tweak makes you ambitious. You fire off paragraph-length texts to friends you haven’t seen in months. You have marathon online chats with guys you’d love to fuck but know will flake. You disclose your extensive sexual history to men whose first names elude you. Our host Adam is higher than all the saints, has been for three days. This explains why some skinny dude stands before us, slipping off his Peanuts T-shirt with an enthusiasm that saddens me like last call on a Saturday night.
Fiction by Benjamin Roesch
Linda and Roger weren’t married anymore. They weren’t officially divorced yet, either, but it was only a matter of time. And she’d only invited Roger over to co-sign on the loan for the art gallery she was trying to open. Neither sex with him, nor his sudden death at the ripe age of forty-three, had been on the agenda.
It’s true that most writing is done by a person whose bottom is sitting in a chair, whose fingers are striking the keys, and not outside ambling through nature enjoying summer’s bounty. We find sources of inspiration in different areas: love, anger, hate or beauty. I tend to get my creative hat on in the woods, or on the sea, or in a busy Italian cafe before a perfect pizza. Places connect me to stories and places are often the part of the story that stays with me, after I have reluctantly closed the book or watched the credits scroll. Setting is a part of the writing craft that gets at best second or third billing, but is crucial in creating a world that we enter, and then hate to leave.
A story by Devin Walsh Arthur had planned a feast for Hannah’s homecoming and so had splurged at the grocery store. They’d begin with a spread of French cheeses, Spanish salami and gluten-free crackers. He would recommend a sprightly white:…
a story by Jeremy Garrett
The darkroom reeked of tobacco. Yesterday had been Andrew’s turn to empty the fix trays and banish the glossies to the drying cabinets for the night, so it must have been the ghost of his cigarettes the teacher smelled. Paul didn’t think to reprimand his student. Mingled with the chemical fumes, the tobacco scent took him back to his own nights of afterhours chain-smoking in his art school darkrooms.
Back in their spring/summer issue, The Atlanta Review brought us “the very first poetry from inside the pro-democracy movement in Iran.” The spring issue contains a powerful, moving, and devastating collection of poems. In fact, we asked the editor, Sholeh Wolpé, if we could reprint a couple of the poems.
And then she said yes! x
Fiction by Amber Sparks
Kay keeps lists of everything; it’s her illness. So when she told me she has a List of Attempted Suicides, I wasn’t surprised. ***
Fiction by Xenia Schiller
No More Ugly Surprises™ asks the tough questions that other matchmakers never even consider. At No More Ugly Surprises™, we pride ourselves on being the only dating service in the world that provides full disclosure to our clients.
Welcome, everyone, to the new Splinter Generation blog. Here at Splinter, we want to find the best new literary and artistic minds out there, voices that can define who we Splinters (otherwise called millennials) are, and we’ve spent the last few years going through submissions and finding some really, really excellent work (and getting so many submissions we had to turn some of it down, even!)
And now, we’re starting a blog.
We’ll be posting links and random musings about our generation and fiction and poetry and nonfiction and music and art. We’re gonna have fun with it and we’re gonna nerd it up and it will be spectacular. We’re going to cull the Internet for things you’ll be interested in, and we’ll also, hopefully, be able to talk about ideas that are important to our generation and to literature and to art in a less formal way here.
But that’s not it. We also want this blog to start conversations. That’s one of the things Splinter is about: we want to get people who aren’t talking to each other to start talking to each other. So we encourage comments, and we want to hear from you about what it means to be a part of this generation. If you feel like a story needs to be told, or if you have a generational rant that isn’t necessarily literary but you want your opinion voiced, you can email us at splinterblog (at) gmail (dot) com and we’ll post some of your thoughts as we get them.
We’ll be here a couple times a week! Check in often. x
I can’t believe I thought you were cute telling me you stuttered. We’d been going out for a month. You acted like you were letting me in on a secret. You acted like you were letting me in on a secret. You must have forgotten trying to say your name to my Uncle Jack. He gave me grief about it for weeks, how you looked at the ceiling and bit your lip. x
When Zooey says I do, I close my eyes and watch dark clouds drift across my eyelids. On the sidelines in my sky blue dress, I clutch my bouquet of tulips, my hands beginning to sweat. I wish I could see her face, but I’m confronted instead with the elegant knot of her hair, remembering how I braided it for years, all our sleepover nights. A few curls fall on her neck and blow slightly toward me in a goodbye wave. p