Peter Markus


Peter MarkusI love words. I especially love the sounds that some words make when I hear them in my head: words like ‘mud’ and ‘moon,’ ‘river’ and ‘brother’ and ‘fish’—words which are my brothers. These words form the core out of which the bulk of my fiction is born.

My next two books of fiction will be brother-less. I have said good-bye to the brothers and their dirty river town with that dirty river running through it. They are no longer welcome in my fiction. My new collection of fiction, The Fish and the Not Fish, as well as my novel-in-the-works, In a House In a Woods, are books made up entirely of monosyllabic words. In a book that places this sort of syllabic constraint on itself, the word ‘brother’ is not permitted inside. A new world has risen up out of such a restriction. No brothers. No river. No hammer. No backyard telephone pole studded with the chopped off heads of fish. A new pallet of words, one beat each, now forms the core of this new fiction.

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