JON BOILARD: FICTION
JON BOILARD: FICTION
Availability: 8 hours per month
1-hour session: $20
2-hour session: $35
4-hour session: $50
ABOUT THE MENTOR
JON BOILARD was born and raised in small towns in Western Massachusetts. He has been living in Northern California since 1986. His award-winning short stories have appeared in some of the finest literary journals in the United States, Canada, Europe and Asia. Jon's debut short story collection, Settright Road (Dzanc Books/2017), was preceded by two novels, The Castaway Lounge (Dzanc Books/2015) and A River Closely Watched (MacAdam Cage/2012). ARCW was a finalist for the Northern California Book Award. He has participated in the Cork International Short Story Festival in Cork, Ireland, the Wroclaw Short Story Festival in Wroclaw, Poland, and LitQuake in San Francisco, California.
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 Jon, 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. Though you will need to provide a billing address, you do not need to enter a credit card at this time.
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 SETTRIGHT ROAD
I sniff paint thinner in Bobby the Killer’s garage. I’m supposed to be mowing the lawn and he’ll be pissed. I’m only living with him because he’s banging my Aunt Haylie and she has custody. They met when he fixed the tranny on her car—a two door, four cylinder rice burner with a hatchback. She couldn’t get it out of first gear. He’s got a little shop in a barn behind the garage where I’m sitting on a stack of studded snow tires and looking out the busted fucking window.
The sky is strange. A crack of blue and clouds and pink. The glass-faced thermostat reads ninety nine degrees and the humidity is always a bitch this time of year. I can hear him pounding on an alternator with a rubber mallet. It’s an old redrusted Willy’s jeep. It’s just me and Bobby right now because Aunt Haylie is slinging beers over to the VFW. She used to dance at the Castaway Lounge but Jimmy the Greek told her she was too fat for that anymore. She cried from bed for three days straight. Then she met Bobby. He’d just moved down from Turner’s Falls.
He’s different, she said to me. It’s gone to be different. You’ll see.
Maybe I don’t want it to be different, I said.
But this might be just the thing, she said.
Those are just words, I said. You used the exact same ones last time.