I’m a writer from Denver. I received my MFA from Syracuse University, but in a cool way and not like all those other MFA grads. In my MFA, we ate concrete and one guy lost a finger to the jigsaw. I currently work as a public librarian.

I’ve written for LitHub, The Millions, Electric Literature, and more. I’ve got a newsletter and (I get bored, okay!) a podcast with my friend Bill Coberly.

Occasionally I write essays, but I’ve never been able to force the issue on that front. I’m unoriginal as a reader, and all the writers you’ve heard of and which everyone thinks are good, I also think are good, but especially: Muriel Spark, Penelope Fitzgerald, Leo Tolstoy, Denis Johnson, Ted Chiang, Gene Wolfe, Joy Williams, Frederick Buechner, Charles Portis, Barbara Pym, Les Murray, G.M. Hopkins, P.D. James, C.S. Lewis, G.K. Chesterton, J.F. Powers, J.L. Carr (bit of an alphabet soup, there), Saul Bellow, Zadie Smith, Daniel Woodrell, Don DeLillo, Shirley Jackson, Ross Macdonald, Susanna Clarke, Annie Dillard, Gogol, Turgenev, Dostoevsky, Austen, Bulgakov, your mom, your dad–everyone! I’m a lover. Except for Grapes of Wrath. What a trash-heap. I’d probably be more of a hater but my filter is very strong and I no longer bother with books I don’t want to finish unless absolutely necessary.

The below is a poem I think is fun.


Here is the grackle, people.
Here is the fox, folks.
The grackle sits in the bracken. The fox

Here are the fronds, friends,
that cover the fox.
The fronds get in a frenzy. The grackle

Here are the ticks, tykes,
that live in the leaves, loves.
The fox is confounded,
and God is above.