He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the window. “It’s better not to sleep at all,” he decided. There was a cold damp draught from the window, however; without getting up he drew the blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking of anything and did not want to think. But one image rose after another, incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his mind. He sank into drowsiness. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or the dark, or the wind that howled under the window and tossed the trees roused a sort of persistent craving for the fantastic. He kept dwelling on images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday—Trinity day. A fine, sumptuous country cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He noticed particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. He was reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs and came into a large, high drawing-room and again everywhere—at the windows, the doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itself—were flowers. The floors were strewn with freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windows were open, a fresh, cool, light air came into the room. The birds were chirruping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table covered with a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. The coffin was covered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill; wreaths of flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the flowers lay a girl in a white muslin dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom, as though carved out of marble. But her loose fair hair was wet; there was a wreath of roses on her head. The stern and already rigid profile of her face looked as though chiselled of marble too, and the smile on her pale lips was full of an immense unchildish misery and sorrowful appeal. Svidrigaïlov knew that girl; there was no holy image, no burning candle beside the coffin; no sound of prayers: the girl had drowned herself. She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken. And she had destroyed herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and amazed that childish soul, had smirched that angel purity with unmerited disgrace and torn from her a last scream of despair, unheeded and brutally disregarded, on a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled
The Blog
Other Festival of Books Coverage 
I wrote several posts for the LA Times that are now up on Jacket Copy. One of the best panels I've ever attended was "Life Stories," featuring the new Pulitzer Prize winner Paul Harding ("Tinkers") and Rafael Yglesias, winner of the Los Angeles Times Fiction Award (not to mention Colson Whitehead and moderator David Kipen). […]
Read More Publishing: Editors Speak Out at the LA Times Festival of Books I’m here at the Publishing: Editors Speak Out panel at the LA Times Festival of Books. All of us in the front row are laughing, because it feels like we’re in an orchestra pit — the stage is that elevated in Broad 2160. I’m a bit fearful because publishing panels can turn into zombie attacks […]
Read More Can’t Wait! LA Times Festival of Books 2010 I’m looking forward to all the fun and hubbub surrounding this weekend at the LA Times Festival of Books. I know I’ll sit in on at least three panels: Yann Martel in conversation with Michael Silverblatt Unstoppable Voices Susan Straight Maile Meloy Mona Simpson Jane Smiley Marianne Wiggins Life Stories Paul Harding (author of Tinkers, […]
Read More AWP Recap by VQR At the VQR blog, there's a perfect and funny recap of how AWP feels: At AWP, you sit at a table in the book fair peddling your literary journal, try to answer writers when they ask why you haven’t published their work, walk past tables of literary journals, wondering why they won’t publish your work, […]
Read More Odd Calls for Submissions I’m perpetually amazed by the publications people put together. Sometimes less amazed and more amused. Sometimes less amused and more stunned. Literature isn’t dying, it’s just mutating into the place where really whacked out people publish it. Let’s be honest: these calls for submissions are crazy. Monsters and Mormons Anthology: They say that since Mormons have been […]
Read More Literary Journals Publishing Novellas In the sidebar to the left, you can see I’ve added a new page listing literary markets for novellas. If any of my super-savvy readers know of additional markets, please add them in that page’s comments.
Read More Journals Accepting Novellas ATTENTION: See my updated list. The market for publishing novellas is much slimmer than for short stories, but it’s not non-existent. Below are some markets to send that novella or novelette. Many are literary journals and some are contests. Since I get asked all the time about literary journals that allow you to submit novellas, […]
Read More AWP Journals So these are the journals I got my grubby fingers on and humped back to California in my carry-on backpack. Total # of journals: 18 Total # of pounds lost while carrying them through airport: Unknown, but likely substantial The Sun Blue Mesa Review Crab Orchard Review The Gettysburg Review Third Coast Colorado Review Nimrod […]
Read More Literary Journal Hierarchies "Even esteemed journals sometimes seem like they're run by squirrels, marmots, or lemurs." — Timothy Schaffert At the AWP panel "The Road from Journal to Book," five writers/editors talked about the fiction of literary journal hierarchies. They named Cliff Garstang's Perpetual Folly Pushcart Rankings and the Top 50 Journals by Every Writer's Resource as examples of […]
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