Bloom Creative Writing: “Not Even Our Brothers,” by P.A. Callaro
The recitation of Kaddish stopped the rain.
Latest Entries
Bloom Creative Writing: An After Dinner Mint
The deal had been struck not only for them, but for the sake of everyone, the whole family. Lisa and Mart were sitting in Lisa’s living room on the sofa, drinking Campari and Soda, an old tradition, and having one of those bitterly truthful talks that are one part booze, two parts bravado, and eighteen parts terror. Continue reading
Memories Called Me to Write: Q & A with Karin Cecile Davidson
. The themes turned up and then kept turning up, whether of longing or desire or wishing to belong . . . I think this happens to all of us as writers and artists—we create and then we see recurring themes and motifs and even obsessions. Continue reading
Features / Interviews / Poetry
On Divinity and Poetry: Q&A with Lisa Dordal
by Lisa Peet
“Throughout the process of reading her letters and then sculpting them into something new, I felt so much love—as if my mother was right there with me working on the book. To me, this speaks to the power of words.” Continue reading
Bloom Creative Writing: We Are Not Having This Conversation, by Michael Horton
“This morning on her way home from church (Val is the only one of us who goes), she stopped at the kids’ new house.” Continue reading
Oldest Female Debut Novelist Tells All
I’d been warned by my editor. She told me that as an older author I might have trouble finding an agent. She knew a Canadian agent who prided himself on never taking on a debut novelist over the age of 45. Continue reading
Grief Wakes Me Early: A Letter From a Literary Conference
By Lorelei Goulding I sit up in bed after a bad night’s sleep, trying to keep my sniffling quiet. My roommate sleeps across from me, in a cap and socks. She gets cold at night, even in the summer. I have noticed that she has trouble falling asleep too, and maybe that is why they … Continue reading
Bloom Creative Writing: Speaking Ill of the Dead
These days, I only come to the café alone. I do not lie to myself about what this café means. I know it is simply a familiar shell into which, like the hermit crab that I have become, I scurry, knowing full well it is a home borrowed from someone else’s past. Continue reading
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