Quetzalcoatl Comet

He looks out across his resplendent city in the glowing sunrise and sees the sacred sun silhouette the Temple of Tlaloc and Huītzilōpōchtli. Will the latter god save them from the annihilation in his recent dreams, or had the war god grown sick of the priests’ gifts of gory hearts and flayed corpses? Had he decided to do the unthinkable and abandon the Mexica to darkness, famine and extinction? The dawn sun basks the sky in a fiery orange. The water of Texcoco scintillates in the light, and the causeways reach out to the world beyond Tenochtitlan, from where the strangers with metal skin and moveable volcanoes for weapons will deceive him and raze his kingdom to the ground.

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Some Random Thoughts on Voice (Or, Why Writing Programs and Workshops Aren’t Really Worth Your Time)

Last week I shared with you some of my thoughts about the works of John Updike, Richard Yates, and William Gaddis as representative of what I call the ‘Literature of Angst and Malaise.’ This week I want to examine the notion of ‘voice’ in one’s writing, what having a Voice really means, and how it is widely misunderstood.

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