By Steven Aitchison
A few weeks back, I checked a book of short stories out of the library—a book which had won many prestigious awards.
Over the next few days, I read those stories whenever I got a chance, snatching moments out of my day when I probably should’ve been bathing my kids, or washing dishes, or ironing shirts. The stories, the language, the subject matter—it was all just so gripping. What a gift this writer had.
After I finished the final, climactic story in the volume, I flipped to the end of the book to learn more about the author. I expected the silver-haired, well-lined face of an Ian McEwan or Margaret Atwood type. Instead, I was shocked to discover... More...
