I post it when I have it, folks. And as I'm right in the mid­dle of mov­ing sixty-five cases of books, along with the unim­por­tant stuff, this is likely all you'll get out of me this week, so pay atten­tion to Dar­nell Arnoult at Danc­ing with the Gorilla.


Larry Brown (July 9, 1951 – Novem­ber 24, 2001) is one of the most impor­tant con­tem­po­rary South­ern writ­ers, and he is also one of the most impor­tant Amer­i­can writ­ers. Brown’s work often focuses on the rural and small-town work­ing class and those mem­bers of soci­ety who haven’t quite got their toe hold, or they’ve had it and lost it. He writes about men, women, and chil­dren strug­gling toward some­thing bet­ter than what they have. His sto­ries are real, they are gritty, and some would say they are gothic.  I say they’re damn good, and through his work, Larry Brown has become one of  my best teach­ers. You’ll hear more about Brown’s work in each install­ment this month.

Brown left this world with a lot of sto­ries unwrit­ten, but he also left a legacy of instruc­tion any writer would be smart to study. Larry Brown has said a writer signs on for an appren­tice­ship, and no one knows how long his or her appren­tice­ship will last. Brown also once said he shot and burned an early novel and would have hung it if he could have fig­ured out how to do it. Yet he learned enough from the writ­ing of that novel to do a bet­ter job writ­ing the next novel. Barry Han­nah says in the intro­duc­tion to Brown’s last novel, Mir­a­cle of Cat­fish, that when Brown showed him the short story “Fac­ing the Music” Han­nah was fool­ish enough to think Brown had peaked. Larry Brown was just get­ting his engine warm.

It strikes me that peo­ple may be inter­ested, too, in an intro­duc­tory essay to Night Train I wrote some years ago, an essay that con­cerns Larry Brown.

More next week, peo­ple, when I come up for air.