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One of my favorite short stories is Anton Chekhov’s “Gooseberries.” It was one of his last, written in 1898. He died a few years later of tuberculosis. He was forty-four years old.

In “Gooseberries,” Ivan Ivanych tells two friends about his brother’s lifelong desire to own a farm. The brother dreamed of growing and selling gooseberries. And it happened. The dream, though, blinded the brother to those around him. His wife, who financed his dream, died at a young age. The peasants who worked...

In the 1990s, I taught middle grades in an all-Black boys’ school on Chicago’s West Side. I was the only English teacher, left to stem students’ past education struggles and create interest in the world of print. After a few false starts that no doubt felt familiar to what they had already experienced in school, my students and I figured something out about literacy—it really does emanate from the personal: personal connections, interests, uses, etcetera. Because of that, anything that...

I lived off and on—mostly on—for six years in Anderson, Indiana, during the late 1970s and early 1980s. A good part of it was spent in the house shown here. I lived in all three apartments at one time or another. They were my college days. Anderson was an automobile factory town. General Motors parts plants spread across a large swath of the southeast side, employers of over 25,000 people in the late 60s, early 70s. My step-grandmother and step-grandfather worked at Guide Lamp and Delco-Remy,...

If you had asked two months ago how my heart health was I would have laughed at the absurdity of the question. Why ask about something so obvious? My heartrate was consistently around fifty—a runner’s heart. It took a herculean effort to get it above 140, and then it came down precipitously fast as soon as I stopped...

It is not often in life we have a chance to celebrate collectively those who were pivotal to who we become in later life. And seldom can we do it publicly. I was given the chance when the 1982 Anderson College’s cross country was inducted into the school’s athletic hall of fame on October 11, 2025. I was a member of that ’82 team.

Our coach was Larry Maddox. He recruited all of us. He was the singular adult influence the first twenty-two years of my life.

I am proud to have been able to...

Anyone who grew up poor in rural America will be familiar with some aspects of Ian Henry’s life in Kenneth Cadow’s young adult novel, Gather (Candlewick, 2024). They will understand the sixteen-year-old’s bias toward the wealthy and his desire to live his life as he pleases, in his case, ensconced in nature. They may also have had experienced school as irrelevant in the face of daily struggles and impositions.

What some readers may not know, or may not have experienced, is the generational...

This book review may appear dated. To bring it up to date, substitute MAGA for Tea Party.

A few years ago I read Arlie Russell Hochschild’s Strangers in Their Own Land. As a sociologist, Hochschild spent a few years getting to know Tea Partiers in Louisiana who had in various ways been affected by environmental disasters and economic downturns over the course of their lives. They were all White, working class, conservative southerners. She wrote early in her book of her desire to scale the...

I started writing middle grade novels when I was well into my fifties. I sent my first query at 58 and got my first rejection soon after. Six years and a couple hundred queries later, the rejections keep coming, and not for one book but for two. What have I learned? Literary agents, on balance, are too young.

Let’s face it, getting a literary agent is hard. Anyone in the game has heard the stories of the writing slog amidst mounds of rejections. Combine that with the sound of crickets that...

When I turned 63, I decided it was time to start a new career. I had been a university professor for twenty-five years and had been thinking about a change for a while. The plan wasn’t to stop being a professor, at least not immediately. Instead, I committed to a timeline for ramping up to the new career as I wound down the old one. I gave myself five years, or until I turn 68, to become a middle grade fiction writer.

Detractors might pass off a five-year career transition at 63 as a phased...