{"product_id":"why-i-dont-write-isbn-9781984899873","title":"Why I Don't Write","description":"\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eNOTABLE BOOK • A “clear-eyed and fearless” (\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e) collection of ten short stories from the award-winning author of \u003ci\u003eEvening\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Tender, precise, emotional, insightful, and funny.”—JULIANNE MOORE\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eA writer dryly catalogs the myriad reasons she cannot write; an artist bicycles through a protest encampment in lower Manhattan and ruminates on an elusive lover; an old woman on her deathbed calls out for a man other than her husband; a hapless fifteen-year-old boy finds himself in sexual peril; two young people in the 1990s fall helplessly in love, then bicker just as helplessly, tortured by jealousy and mistrust.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIn each of these stories Susan Minot explores the difficult geometry of human relations, the lure of love and physical desire, and the lifelong quest for meaning and connection. Her characters are all searching for truth, in feeling and in action, as societal norms are upended and justice and coherence flounder.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eUrgent and immediate, stunningly observed, deeply felt, and gorgeously written, the stories in \u003ci\u003eWhy I Don't Write\u003c\/i\u003e showcase an author at the top of her form.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Intimate, adventurous, stark and lyrical . . . Few short story collections shine as brightly.”—\u003ci\u003ePortland Press-Herald\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A winning blend of emotional intensity, capricious playfulness and keen-eyed observation.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eMinneapolis Star Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Tender, precise, emotional, insightful and funny.”\u003cb\u003e—Julianne Moore\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eWhy I Don’t Write: And Other Stories\u003c\/i\u003e, [Minot’s] first in some thirty years, showcases her versatility. Its ten stories range from mainstream to experimental, with sundry stops in between. . . . She has an unmistakable knack for distilling things, and gorgeously, at that. . . . Taken as a whole, Minot’s collection is, by turns, spiky and intimate, adventurous, stark and lyrical. . . . Few story collections shine as brightly.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePortland Press Herald \u003c\/i\u003e(Maine)\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eWhy I Don’t Write \u003c\/i\u003eis a quiet collection, but it is not a halting or timid one. Minot still has a poet’s instinct for the surprising volta, the striking image, the bracing final line. After thirty years away from the short story, it is good to have her back, clear-eyed and fearless as ever, whispering difficult truths and ambiguities that a less assured writer would feel compelled to shout.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Susan Minot is an author well reputed for the purity and terseness of her prose exhibited over a career of more than three decades. Her latest book, a collection of ten stories is no exception. . . . Minot excels in description of people and places. . . . [A] rewarding read.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eNew York Journal of Books\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[\u003ci\u003eWhy I Don’t Write\u003c\/i\u003e] is strikingly visual. Here, the light is often white, people’s heads are bullet-shaped, and the littered car of a scoundrel professor is a fish tank. At their best, the sentences are frozen frames peering at the reader, as the reader peers back, peeling new information with each read. . . . [These stories] spill with luscious sentences that scintillate.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eChicago Review of Books \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Minot’s] gift is for illuminating revelatory moments in characters’ lives. . . . Throughout, Minot is keenly aware of how men hurt women—as well as how women sabotage themselves.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Minot . . . finds hints of violence, grief, and trauma in her characters’ interior lives in this precise, shimmering collection.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eSusan Minot\u003c\/b\u003e is an award-winning novelist, short-story writer, poet, and screenwriter. Her first novel, \u003ci\u003eMonkeys, \u003c\/i\u003ewas published in a dozen countries and won the Prix Femina Étranger in France. Her novel \u003ci\u003eEvening\u003c\/i\u003e was a worldwide bestseller and became a major motion picture. She lives with her daughter in New York City and on an island off the coast of Maine.The Torch\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eShe lay back on the clean white pillows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs that—? Who’s there? she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJohn? she said in a weak voice. Is that you, John? Happiness came into her tone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, it’s me, said her husband, taking her hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere have you been?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve been right here. You just woke up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAre we at home?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, he said. We’re at the house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou came from—? she whispered. She shook her head. No,\u003cbr\u003eshe said. That’s not . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs there anything I can get you, dear?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo, John.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere, have a little water. He held up a paper cup. His hand was shaky. He managed to guide the bent straw to her lips.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThank you, John, she said. Saying his name pleased her. She smiled, though her husband would have hardly called it a smile. Her face had lost most of its flesh and her profile was more pronounced, even regal.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eShe spoke with great effort. I’m thinking of the dancing, she said. Isn’t it lovely to think of? Her eyelids were low and her black eyes looked elsewhere.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIt is, he said. He stroked her hand. Her hand had not changed so much, though her wedding band was loose beneath her knuckle. But her wrist was different, flat like a board, and her fore- arm where it emerged from her dressing gown was like a plank.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHave you changed the music, John?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat, dear?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m sorry, she said. I’m confused.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePainkillers, he said. The medicine is making you confused.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHer gaze flicked in his direction with a sharp bird-look, testing the soundness of this. The medicine, she said uncertainly, and nodded. What time is it?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHe consulted his watch and after some time reported, Twenty to five.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIn the evening, she said with suspicion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the evening.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey sat for a while.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen she said, Tomorrow I think we might go to the shore.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWe’ll see.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eShe lifted up her narrow arms and dropped them on the bedspread. Oh, God, she groaned, I’d love to swim. In lovely cold water.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eYou would like that, he said.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI wanted to swim with you, John. She frowned. But they served dinner so early.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIt’s all right, he said.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThey kept the tables apart, but everyone danced after, she said. I thought—but then she came the next day. Her mouth turned down. What did you say to her, John?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe man shook his head.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhat? she said.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI can’t remember, the man said with resignation.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eShe was prettier than I. That, everyone knew.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI don’t know about that, he said.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eCouldn’t dance as well though. But she was chic. I remember she had a really good-looking scarf and a wonderful suit. Better clothes than mine.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe woman’s hand waved slowly; it didn’t matter so much now.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eYou were a wonderful dancer, he said. You are.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eDid you love her, John?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNo, he said. I loved you.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe woman nodded, her expression placid, skin stretched over her cheekbones.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI know, she said, meaning to reassure him. I know. Her eyes closed, winglike. I wondered if you believed in Christ, she said.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHer husband watched her fall asleep. In their lifetime he’d watched her face go through many changes, but he could still see the first face he’d known when she walked up from the beach that day.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhere are we again? Her eyes stayed closed.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHome, in the house on Chestnut Street.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOh yes. In my room.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIn your room.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThat’s right. Her eyes opened. You’ll stay here, John? You won’t go away?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI won’t go away.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHe sat and watched her sleep, looking at her dry lips and polished forehead. Past the bed out the window, it was turning blue and he looked at his watch. The doctor was coming by after five. He stayed in the chair. He looked at his thumbs meeting each other.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAfter an uncertain amount of time there was a tap on the door. The doctor’s head appeared, the door was pushed farther ajar. Sleeping? the doctor said.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe man nodded.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eCould I talk to you? the doctor said, with a twitch of his head.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThey stood side by side at the upstairs railing, both looking down at the top of the lamp on the hall table below. I want to ask, said the doctor, how you are holding up.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe man stared ahead of him, not wanting to speak.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAndrew, said the doctor. It can be hard on a man.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAt the mention of his name, Andrew turned to face the doctor. Yes, he said. He knew.","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301986783461,"sku":"NP9781984899873","price":16.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781984899873.jpg?v=1767744272","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/why-i-dont-write-isbn-9781984899873","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}