The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham Jones
When I was a kid growing up in Montana, hunting was a steadfast part of my family’s life. Elk, deer (mulies and white-tails), antelope, pheasant — if you wanted to eat it, you had to go out into the snow-covered woods before the break of dawn and hope that you would find something early enough that you wouldn’t have to spend the rest of the day dragging the cleaned carcass back to your truck. There were rules, of course: respect nature to the point of veneration;
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There were two interesting articles about publishing that I ran across, the first via a link in the second: No…
My pleasure, Robin! And yes, it surely is some kind of an experience, to be sure....
Thanks for the solution to a mystery many decades old. One of my favourite novels, this. Hilariously funny, completely unpredictable,…
Thank you. I’m all caught up. Back to reading Crimson Embers.
Enjoyed your review. I’m reading A War in Crimson Embers and am having the hardest time reminding myself where everybody…