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5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd.
Ann Arbor, MI, 48103
United States

Dzanc Books is nonprofit press specializing in literary fiction and nonfiction. In addition to publishing activities, Dzanc Books also supports the Disquiet International Literary Program.

ALAN MICHAEL PARKER: FICTION, POETRY

OUR MENTORS

ALAN MICHAEL PARKER: FICTION, POETRY

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AMP 2017.jpg
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ALAN MICHAEL PARKER: FICTION, POETRY

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Categories: Fiction, Poetry
Availability: six hours per month
1-hour session: $20
2-hour session: $35
4-hour session: $50

 

Special note: Unavailable spring semester, 2018

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ABOUT THE MENTOR

ALAN MICHAEL PARKER is the author of twelve books, including The Committee on Town Happiness (Dzanc, 2014) and Christmas In July (Dzanc, 2018). The Douglas C. Houchens Professor of English at Davidson College and faculty in the University of Tampa MFA Program, he has received two selections for Best American Poetry, three Pushcart Prizes, the Fineline Prize, the 2013 and the 2014 Randall Jarrell Award, and the Lucille Medwick Award. He has been called “a general beacon of brilliance” by Time Out, New York.

Mentorship sessions are available at a cost of $20 for one hour, $35 for two hours, or $50 for four hours. All payments are processed through Submittable at the time of manuscript submission.

To book a mentoring session with Alan Michael, please select one, two, or four hours (depending on availability) from the product menu above.  Please continue clicking through the checkout process; though you will not be charged at this time, finishing your purchase reserves your hours with this mentor.  Once your purchase is completed, a Dzanc staff member will be in touch to help you submit your manuscript and your payment through Submittable.

SAMPLE FROM CHRISTMAS IN JULY

Picture a little paper napkin in a diner, one of those napkins from a metal dispenser, the cheap ones. Pour water from a glass onto the napkin. Soak the paper napkin in a puddle on the countertop. The napkin turns gray when wet. Pick up the napkin and twist it tighter and tighter even though it gets mushier, until you can’t anymore. That’s me.

I’m on the bus. Christmas, the girl next to me, is asleep already, her feet stretched out on that pull-down footrest, the spring-loaded one that always snaps up and wakes me if I zone out on a bus. She was asleep before the driver finished making his dumbass announcements.

A bus is the best little universe, I love the bus, and here, finally, I get to feel alone in the cone of my own reading lamp, the light’s all mine, with my own on/off switch. It’s the only place. If my seatmate’s a pain in the ass, I wear my earbuds and pretend I’m listening to music, move my lips like I’m singing as I stare at myself in the window. I amuse myself because it’s just me. But tonight I really have something to say—or maybe it has to be spit out. I have to tell what’s inside me, even if I’m just going over the details in my head and the words are driving the highway all night like the bus, over and over the words on the wet road, owning nothing, move along, passing through. If the words are loud, well, it’s probably about time, but if the words come quietly, so thick on my tongue that no one on the bus can hear me or understand, that will be okay too.