When I鈥檓 downtown in Orlando, there are any number of excellent independent shops I like to support, but where I live, miles from the city, one neighbor has a horse and another keeps chickens. On cold nights, I hear the chickens clucking. On colder nights, my neighbor brings the chickens in.

Not much, then, in the way of coffee, except for the place by my house. That鈥檚 where I write鈥攐r wrote鈥攆ive days a week. Before the arrival of COVID-19, I dropped my daughters off at school, then arrived at my coffeehouse by 9 a.m.

Kevin, the man who most days works the morning shift, would greet me. Kevin plays in a band. I鈥檝e never heard his music, and he鈥檚 never read my books. It鈥檚 not that kind of friendship. Which isn鈥檛 to say that it鈥檚 a lesser friendship. It鈥檚 a friendship that doesn鈥檛 require admiration for one another鈥檚 art. Kevin makes my coffee. Sometimes I tip him extra. Sometimes my coffee is free, a perk that comes along with being a regular.

Before the pandemic, my office was the coffeehouse.

Then, most days, I get to work鈥攐r got to work鈥攆inding a quiet corner, facing away from the windows and the rest of the customers, firing up my laptop, securing my noise-canceling headphones over my ears, and navigating to one of three audio recordings I keep bookmarked: bathroom fan, airplane hum, summer storm. The white noise blocks out coffee orders, background conversations, and the chug and hiss of the espresso machines. Within minutes, I鈥檓 in a trance, the world falls away, and I can dream my way into fiction.

Most of my novel, Lake Life (published in paperback by Simon & Schuster last week), was written at this coffeehouse between the hours of 9 a.m. and 3 p.m., before I returned to my daughters鈥� school to bring them home for the day. Now, our home is their school, and my bedroom doubles as my office.

But before the pandemic, my office was the coffeehouse. There, I would drink two cups of coffee, maybe three, dark roast, with cream and a dash of sugar. I like bitter, and I鈥檝e always preferred strong coffee to lattes or cappuccinos that tend to be mostly milk.

After weeks spent on a 2016 book tour across Europe, I returned to Florida and, for a month, drank straight espresso. But I never found anything in Florida approaching the strength of the ristretto shots I grew fond of in Venice and Milan and Palermo. (This, I recognize, is a pretentious-sounding sentence. In truth, I haven鈥檛 traveled particularly widely, I just got lucky with my last book. And I don鈥檛 drink dark, strong coffee to feel cool. I鈥檓 decidedly un-cool. I rarely drink alcohol. I don鈥檛 smoke. And, as a matter of fact, the darker the roast, the less caffeine the coffee has. I just happen to have a palate that favors bitter. I鈥檒l take dark chocolate over milk chocolate any day.)

When asked why I don鈥檛 prefer writing at home or in the office that 麻豆原创 provides, I have several answers. First, I鈥檓 undisciplined. If I鈥檓 home, there is the TV. There are walls of books. There鈥檚 the bed. Any number of things are more tempting than sitting down to write for hours. Once I鈥檝e started, found my way into a story, I鈥檓 good, on task鈥攂ut resolving to sit down and write for the day, that鈥檚 the hard part. At the coffeehouse, there鈥檚 no TV, and I bring no books. I don鈥檛 even activate the Wi-Fi, so as not to be distracted by Twitter or Facebook鈥檚 endless scroll. No, if I鈥檓 at the coffeehouse, I have one job, and I do it. After all, my afternoons and evenings are occupied by teaching, so if I don鈥檛 write in the mornings, I don鈥檛 write.

Then there鈥檚 the coffee. It鈥檚 always a little better at the coffeehouse than the coffee I make at home. I have a coffeemaker, a French press, and an overpriced espresso machine. I order the best beans. I grind them fresh. Still, I can never match what they do there.

What I miss most about my coffeehouse, though, isn鈥檛 the coffee or the gift of a place to write. What I miss most, I鈥檝e discovered, is being with people. If it鈥檚 true that you can be lonely at a party thrown by friends just for you, it鈥檚 also true that you can feel loved surrounded by people you don鈥檛 even know.

At the coffeehouse, once I鈥檝e finished talking to Kevin, even after I鈥檝e plugged in my laptop and turned my back to the crowd, there鈥檚 a feeling that rises from the floor and tangles up in the rafters, a security that comes from being among others, as in church, each of us struggling in a job or a marriage or just trying to finish a novel, everyone alone, but together, a body of humans, breathing as one, warm, at once, all in one place.

It鈥檚 been more than a year since I stopped going to the coffeehouse, and I have yet to return. The coffeehouse is open. Everything, where I live, opened up almost a year ago. But I鈥檓 wary. Even masked and vaccinated, it will be some time before I鈥檓 comfortable writing among others, breathing the same air. And this is a loss.

I miss Kevin. I miss the taste of coffee made the right way by pros who know what they鈥檙e doing. Over a year in quarantine, and my home brew still pales in comparison. Though, if nothing else, I鈥檝e proven to myself that I can write anywhere. A new book is finished, and another is underway, so all is not lost.

But I鈥檇 trade this, the books and my newfound productivity, trade it in a second to return to a world pre-pandemic. To sit among strangers and friends, and strangers as friends, and feel safe. To not be afraid of my fellow humans.

David James Poissant is an associate professor at the 麻豆原创 where he teaches in the MFA program in creative writing.聽 He can be reached at David.Poissant@ucf.edu.

The聽麻豆原创 Forum聽is a weekly series of opinion columns from faculty, staff and students who serve on a panel for a year. A new column is posted each Wednesday on 麻豆原创 Today and then broadcast on W麻豆原创-FM (89.9) between 7:50 and 8 a.m. Sunday. Columns also are archived in the campus library鈥檚 collection and as W麻豆原创 podcasts. Opinions expressed are those of the columnists, and are not necessarily shared by the 麻豆原创.

Let me explain: I鈥檓 in kindergarten, and our teacher is teaching us to tie shoes. I don鈥檛 get it. I can鈥檛 do it. I try the floppy cardboard foot with the laces woven through. I try my own shoes. Either way, the rabbit won鈥檛 go around the tree or through the hole, or whatever it is the rabbit is supposed to do. Either way, the laces won鈥檛 tie. My teacher chides those who get it wrong, and I don鈥檛 want to be chided.

Then, it hits me. I don鈥檛 have to tie my shoes my teacher鈥檚 way. I just have to make it look like I tied my shoes her way. I tie a knot. I make two loops. I knot those loops, and, voila, laces tied.

Decades later, my fraud would be vindicated when a scientific study, 鈥淭he roles of impact and inertia in the failure of a shoelace knot,鈥� (I swear I am not making this up) would prove once and for all that the way we鈥檙e taught to tie shoes as children is careless, inefficient and leaves laces prone to loosening. My impromptu method, devised to avoid getting yelled at by an impatient teacher, turned out to be the smarter, more efficient method after all. Sometimes stubbornness isn鈥檛 such a bad thing.

I鈥檓 talking about the times your method isn鈥檛 wrong, merely different, when different can be a good thing.

First, though, let me define my terms. When I say stubbornness, I鈥檓 not talking about ambition, grit or the many characteristics under the umbrella of perseverance for which most people already hold the utmost admiration. Nor am I referring to the kind of stubbornness surrounding strict adherence to a suspect or outdated tradition, times when the stubborn individual might be better served by evolution. No, I鈥檓 talking about the need, at times, to fly in the face of unfounded tradition. I鈥檓 talking about resilience when you鈥檙e waiting for the world to catch up with your way of thinking. I鈥檓 talking about the times your method isn鈥檛 wrong, merely different, when different can be a good thing.

Maybe shoelaces are a silly example. Here are some better ones:

Swedish pro golfer Jesper Parnevik, one of the finest golfers in the world, freely admits to holding his clubs all wrong.

鈥淢y knuckles go white,鈥� he says in an interview with Golf magazine. 鈥淚鈥檝e putted with a glove forever, but I鈥檝e worn putter grips all the way down to the metal. That鈥檚 a little weird.鈥� Weird may be the word, but that weirdness hasn鈥檛 kept Parnevik from netting over $15 million in career earnings on the PGA Tour.

Or consider iconic painter Frida Kahlo. As art historian Gannit Ankori points out in Imaging Her Selves: Frida Kahlo’s Poetics of Identity and Fragmentation, Kahlo, in her lifetime, was known mostly as the eccentric wife of painter Diego Rivera. She died unappreciated and virtually unknown outside of Mexico before several books and retrospectives resurrected her work and shined a long overdue spotlight on her art. But living in Rivera鈥檚 shadow didn鈥檛 keep Kahlo from completing a staggering 143 paintings before she died at the age of 47.

Parnevik and Kahlo are outliers, you might argue. Consider, then, something that most of us do most days: type.

Numerous experiments, including Finland鈥檚 Aalto University study 鈥淗ow We Type: Movement Strategies and Performance in Everyday Typing,鈥� have shown that self-taught typists can type just as fast with as few as six fingers as professional typists, trained under the traditional touch-typing method, who type with 10. What matters, in the end, isn鈥檛 the 鈥渂est鈥� method but muscle memory and commitment to a single typing style.

Whether famous or workaday, sometimes we must work against conventional wisdom in order to achieve a desired outcome.

Whether famous or workaday, sometimes we must work against conventional wisdom in order to achieve a desired outcome.

Stubbornness, of course, is risky. There鈥檚 the risk that holding your club your way will injure your back. There鈥檚 the risk that you鈥檒l paint your way into obscurity. There鈥檚 the risk that you鈥檒l type your way and flunk that typing-speed test. Always there鈥檚 the risk that your way is not the better way, that things are one way for a reason, that you鈥檙e making things harder for yourself than they have to be. Always, always there鈥檚 the risk that you鈥檙e wrong.

As leadership consultant Muriel Maignan Wilkins points out, stubbornness carries with it the risk of Pyrrhic victory. Proving a thing can be done your way doesn鈥檛 necessarily prove your way was best. In short, if you鈥檙e stubborn about everything, you鈥檙e doing stubbornness all wrong. As Wilkins notes, there are times when it鈥檚 far better to listen to others, synthesize ideas, consider tradition, stay flexible, compromise, and even admit when you鈥檙e mistaken.

My point, then, is simple but no less profound for being so, I hope. Despite platitudes and T-shirts, movie quotes and what passes for wisdom these days, there鈥檚 rarely one right way to do a thing. Where a prevailing method reigns, there are nearly always practitioners achieving at high levels in opposition to the dominant or 鈥渂est practices鈥� methodology.

In other words, just because there are many ways to do a thing wrong doesn鈥檛 mean there鈥檚 only one way to do a thing right. And sometimes your way is just waiting to become the new dominant way of doing a thing, as when American athlete Dick Fosbury, dismissed early on as the 鈥渨orld鈥檚 laziest high jumper,鈥� won the 1968 Olympic gold medal with his signature 鈥淔osbury Flop鈥� and changed the face of the sport forever.

All of which is good news for me. After all, at 40 years old, I only use seven fingers to type, and I still tie my shoes my way.

David James Poissant is an associate professor at the 麻豆原创 where he teaches in the MFA program in creative writing.聽 He can be reached at David.Poissant@ucf.edu.

The 麻豆原创 Forum is a weekly series of opinion columns presented by 麻豆原创 Communications & Marketing. A new column is posted each Wednesday at http://today.ucf.edu and then broadcast between 7:50 and 8 a.m. Sunday on W麻豆原创-FM (89.9). The columns are the opinions of the writers, who serve on the 麻豆原创 Forum panel of faculty members, staffers and students for a year.

From their early Velvet Underground sound (1987鈥檚 Dead Letter Office boasts three covers alone) to their eventual synthesis of post-punk, folk, and garage rock, R.E.M.鈥攁 band that picked its name out of a dictionary (the term stands for rapid eye movement, a state accompanying the dream stage of sleep)鈥攈elped define the sound that America would come to call alternative.

This was no small feat. Not only was R.E.M. fighting for attention in a crowded Southern music scene, they were fighting an industry and a listenership that, initially, didn鈥檛 want what R.E.M. had to offer. Still, throughout the 80s, R.E.M.鈥檚 jangly guitars and anti-pop ballads continued to sidestep the slick melodies of Madonna, Paula Abdul, and New Kids on the Block, a choice that culminated in Rolling Stone鈥檚 December 1987 issue crowning R.E.M. 鈥淎merica鈥檚 Best Rock and Roll Band,鈥� despite lead singer and lyricist Michael Stipe鈥檚 assertion, years later, that 聽鈥淲e always wanted to make a rock record. I鈥檓 not sure we ever quite achieved that.鈥�

The sound R.E.M. achieved is more elusive and unquantifiable than rock.

No, the sound R.E.M. achieved is more elusive and unquantifiable than rock. Trying to define that sound, though, that鈥檚 the hard part.

So, what does R.E.M. sound like? After listening, again, to all of their albums, my advice to the casual listener is to seek out the band鈥檚 best stretch, those records that came along when R.E.M. toned down the feedback-heavy screech of their early albums and before they traded their unpredictable chord progressions for the electronic lull of a late-90s-infused Radiohead influence (Radiohead opened 24 of R.E.M.鈥檚 1995 Monster tour shows, so maybe something rubbed off). I鈥檓 speaking of that revered trinity: Out of Time (1991), Automatic for the People (1992), and Monster (1994).

Out of Time is an unaccountably weird album, its opening track, 鈥淩adio Song,鈥� a fun, funky masterpiece. Stipe sings. Hip-hop artist KRS-One raps. For some reason, there is a string and horn section arranged by New Orleans musician and producer Mark Bingham. This is not music-by-committee or some overproduced, studio-squeezed sound. This is collaboration at its finest. Three songs on Out of Time feature Kate Pierson of The B-52s. Peter Holsapple, of the band the dB鈥檚, appears on several tracks too, including 鈥淟osing My Religion,鈥� the band鈥檚 highest-charting single.

R.E.M.鈥檚 next offering, Automatic for the People, is an album drenched in grief. These aren鈥檛 the anger-infused tracks of 1987鈥檚 Document or 1988鈥檚 Green. Automatic for the People is simply the stuff of raw, unrelenting mourning. There鈥檚 鈥淓verybody Hurts,鈥� a paean to sorrow; 鈥淢an on the Moon,鈥� a haunting tribute to the late Andy Kaufman; and 鈥淣ightswimming,鈥� R.E.M.鈥檚 best song (yeah, I said it), a melancholy lament translating the risky, youthful exuberance of skinny-dipping into a meditative, quasi-religious act.

As Stipe sings: 鈥淣ightswimming deserves a quiet night / I’m not sure all these people understand / It’s not like years ago / The fear of getting caught / Of recklessness and water / They cannot see me naked / These things, they go away / Replaced by everyday.鈥� Sung, that final lyric suggests both the adjective 鈥渆veryday,鈥� signaling the mundane, and 鈥渆very day,鈥� signifying the banality of the daily trudge, each its own brand of bleak. Even at the age of 13, both interpretations broke my heart.

A good song lets you live a life you鈥檝e yet to live.

Listening to 鈥淣ightswimming鈥� in 1992 left me nostalgic for a feeling I鈥檇 never had, before I knew what nostalgia was, about an act I had yet to commit, and that is what good music does. A good song lets you live a life you鈥檝e yet to live.

1994鈥檚 Monster was not destined to be another album obsessed with death, though the band dedicated the disc to the late River Phoenix (his sister, Rain Phoenix, sings on track eight, 鈥淏ang and Blame鈥�). But both 鈥淏ang and Blame鈥� and 鈥淟et Me In,鈥� written for the late Kurt Cobain were relegated to B-side status at a time when B-sides existed and very much impacted which songs listeners listened to.

No, on Monster, the mourning is over, the anger is back, and the acoustic sound is out the window. Everything鈥檚 electric, grunge meets glam rock meets punk.

Monster鈥檚 opening track 鈥淲hat鈥檚 the Frequency, Kenneth?鈥� takes its title from the taunts shouted at Dan Rather during a real-life 1986 beating. The guitar-heavy track kicks your teeth in, and from there, the record is Stipe, in character, embodying a new persona for every song. These are songs of monstrous, sex- and fame-obsessed men, something akin to David Foster Wallace鈥檚 Brief Interviews with Hideous Men.

While each of these albums boasts its own style and theme, there are precursors and holdovers, a connective tissue that links all three. Out of Time鈥檚 鈥淟osing My Religion鈥� and Monster鈥檚 鈥淪trange Currencies鈥� might be more at home on Automatic for the People, while Automatic鈥檚 鈥淚gnoreland鈥� and 鈥淭he Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite鈥� belong unquestionably to Out of Time.

Taken together, these aren鈥檛 three albums so much as one masterwork, a musical trilogy, the sound mature, the lyrics intelligible, the music accessible but never simple, nuanced but rarely cryptic.

In total, R.E.M. released 15 studio albums. The six records that came before the big three are imperfect. The band is shedding influences, searching for a sound they鈥檙e about to embrace. The six records that follow the big three are imperfect, the band searching for a sound they鈥檙e losing along the way.

But, for three albums, R.E.M. never sounded like anyone so much as themselves. They became the proprietors of what I鈥檇 call the R.E.M. sound.

But they were more than that. They were the soundtrack of a decade.

David James Poissant is an associate professor at the 麻豆原创 where he teaches in the MFA program in creative writing.聽 He can be reached at David.Poissant@ucf.edu.

I am a writer, and writing leads to book tours. These readings satiated my desire to move an audience to laughter or tears. But readings are safe. The author stands behind a podium, anchored to a book.

I wanted more. Which is how I found myself enrolled this year in an improvisational comedy course at the SAK Comedy Lab in Orlando.

Most cities have a comedy scene, but Orlando鈥檚 is no joke, and neither is SAK, the site where Whose Line is it Anyway? star Wayne Brady got his start.

Improv, for the uninitiated, is the art of building a scene or song, usually comedic, around an audience-suggested subject. Unlike standup comedy, the material is made up on the spot. Sometimes, the results are spectacular. Sometimes they鈥檙e failures. Both are fun to watch. Even if you鈥檝e never seen improv, chances are your entertainment has been steered by it for decades. From Saturday Night Live to The Office to The Daily Show, most casts and writers鈥� rooms are staffed with people who got their start in improv.

Improv is the best cure I鈥檝e found for anxiety.

So, why improv? Why would I, a stage fright-prone, spotlight-phobic, generally anxious person subject himself to the torture of standing onstage before strangers without the safety net of memorized lines or written material? Because, counterintuitive as it sounds, outside of therapy, improv is the best cure I鈥檝e found for anxiety.

There are few rules to improv, but here they are: Don鈥檛 think. Listen. Say yes to everything. And, give yourself permission to make mistakes, because you are not alone.

That鈥檚 it. I mean, there are hundreds of tips and tricks, but all of them fall under the umbrella of those general guidelines, and it鈥檚 those guidelines that spit in the face of anxiety. Because, what is anxiety? Anxiety is a fear of the future. General or specific, anxiety is the voice that tells you to worry over what happens next. As a friend once told me, you don鈥檛 have to worry about whether you will die. You will. Make peace with that, and figure out how to live. Simple, but not easy.

So, how does improv training combat anxiety?

First, anxiety is often the result of spending too much time in your head. In an improv, there鈥檚 no time to think. And here鈥檚 the beautiful part: You don鈥檛 have to think, because there鈥檚 no wrong answer. The only wrong answer is no. Recently, I saw an improv show in which a woman was dancing. Her scene partner interpreted the dance as wing flaps. He thought she was a chicken. But, the scene had already established her as a woman. So, for the preservation of both truths, she became a woman who laid eggs. This happy accident led to material that was 10 times funnier than anything they鈥檇 been doing.

All of which is to say, second, that improv is a safe place to make mistakes. In good improv, everything鈥檚 incorporated, even the errors. This takes practice, sure, but it can be done. And, even when it鈥檚 done poorly, improv audiences are remarkably forgiving. Unlike other comedic forms, improv is rarely performed in clubs. The culture of improv is closer to theater than stand-up. I鈥檝e never, for example, seen improvisers heckled.

Third, improv combats anxiety because it comes with teammates built in. You鈥檙e never alone. If your anxiety takes over, your scene partners will rescue you. Say you freeze onstage, they鈥檒l even use you to guide the scene. (鈥淟et鈥檚 get this ice sculpture inside before it melts!鈥�)

But, the most anxiety-obliterating aspect of improv is that your answer to almost every suggestion is already written for you. The answer is 鈥�Yes, and.鈥� (Player 1: 鈥淚 heard you turned your backyard into your very own Jurassic Park.鈥� Player 2: 鈥淵es, and the velociraptors are loose again.鈥�)

You don鈥檛 have time to question your partner鈥檚 motivations. You don鈥檛 have the luxury of overanalyzing the offer or weighing your options. You have no time to wonder whether your response could be rephrased for maximum impact, or whether it鈥檚 potentially problematic, or whether it鈥檚 funnier to one political party or the other, or whether it鈥檚 going to get you in trouble at work, or whether your children are watching, or whether your parents would approve, or whether your answer will showcase your smartest, best, most photogenic self. You don鈥檛 have time. You freeze, you鈥檙e an ice sculpture. You flee, you let your scene partners down. So, you fight. You perform. You say 鈥�Yes, and,鈥� and you say whatever pops into your head, no matter how silly or strange.

How fulfilling, then, to have an outlet like improv, a place to be anyone you want for at least a few hours a week.

And there鈥檚 something freeing about that onstage, if not necessarily in life. Life isn鈥檛 the ideal place for such behavior. How fulfilling, then, to have an outlet like improv, a place to be anyone you want for at least a few hours a week.

Please don鈥檛 misunderstand. Improv is not a get-out-of-jail-free card to be offensive. Improv is at its best when it鈥檚 tolerant and accepting of all, when every offer comes from a place of love and celebration, and when the fun we poke is mostly at ourselves. But, if you鈥檙e someone who agonizes over every Tweet and Facebook post, or how each word will land on others鈥� ears, you might, like me, embrace a culture where it鈥檚 okay to mess up, a place where you鈥檙e given the benefit of the doubt, because it鈥檚 assumed you want to honor others and make them laugh.

In a world where we tend to think the worst of others until we鈥檙e proven wrong, it鈥檚 a pleasure to find a place like SAK where it鈥檚 safe to take risks and play, no anxiety required.

The 麻豆原创 Forum is a weekly series of opinion columns presented by 麻豆原创 Communications & Marketing. A new column is posted each Wednesday at /news/ and then broadcast between 7:50 and 8 a.m. Sunday on W麻豆原创-FM (89.9). The columns are the opinions of the writers, who serve on the 麻豆原创 Forum panel of faculty members, staffers and students for a year.

The festival will be held from 9 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. in the CFE Arena. Admission and parking will be free.

The festival is hosted by 麻豆原创鈥檚 College of Education and Human Performance in partnership with 麻豆原创鈥檚 Morgridge International Reading Center. Attendees are invited to meet with the authors鈥攚hose works are featured in classrooms and libraries around the country鈥攁nd learn about their creative processes and how they bring their characters to life.

The keynote author will be Andre Dubus III, who wrote The New York Times bestseller House of Sand and Fog. His most recent book, Dirty Love, was released in October.

Other notable authors include Capt. Luis Carlos Montalv谩n, The New York Times-bestselling author of Until Tuesday:聽 A Wounded Warrior and the Golden Retriever Who Saved Him, and David Menasche, author of The Priority List: A Teacher鈥檚 Final Quest to Discover Life鈥檚 Greatest Lessons.

Throughout the day guests can attend author forums, listen to readings, attend book signings and receive free book appraisals.

There are activities planned for all ages, with special events for teens and children. Advanced registration is required for the free teen activities, which include a writing workshop led by 麻豆原创 faculty and young adult author Kristen Simmons, and a live-action game based on the book Divergent.

Local chefs John Rivers of 4Rivers Smokehouse and Hollis Wilder of Sweet! By Good Golly Miss Holly will demonstrate recipes from their cookbooks.

麻豆原创 faculty participating in the festival include David James Poissant and Nathan Holic from the English Department. Authors Ward Larsen and Will Wright are 麻豆原创 alumni.

To register for the teen workshops, view a schedule of events, or for more information, visit www.bookfestival.ucf.edu.

Poissant鈥檚 first book, released in March, is a collection of tales about families and relationships published by Simon & Schuster.

This weekend, Poissant will join more than 30 authors from around the country at the 麻豆原创 Book Festival, which will be held Saturday from 9 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. at the CFE Arena. The festival is free and open to the public.

Read on for more about Poissant, a winner of the Playboy College Fiction Contest whose short stories have appeared in The Atlantic and in the New Stories from the South and Best New American Voices anthologies, among many other publications.

When did you first know you wanted to be a writer?

I didn鈥檛 figure out that I wanted to be a writer until after college. I was in my early 20s. I taught high school English and wrote during the summers. Once I figured out that the summers weren鈥檛 enough for me, I knew that I needed to make a major life change. I applied to MFA programs, got into the University of Arizona, and my wife and I traded Atlanta, Ga., for Tucson, Ariz. I鈥檝e been writing seriously ever since, about nine years now.

How did you end up teaching at 麻豆原创?

After Arizona, I went to the University of Cincinnati to earn my PhD. As I was finishing up at UC, I applied to creative-writing jobs around the country. I was very happy to accept the job at 麻豆原创, and I鈥檓 thrilled to be a part of the MFA faculty where I get to mentor and work with graduate students.

What鈥檚 your favorite part about being a professor?

The students! Their passion for reading and writing is contagious. And their exuberance helps me to stay motivated. It鈥檚 easy to forget when you鈥檙e lucky, and having students who are so excited about writing reminds me not to take what I have for granted.

Your most recent book, The Heaven of Animals: Stories, is a collection of stories centering on family and relationships. What inspired the subject?

I wanted to write a book about love, but I wanted it to be full of stories that most people would never call 鈥渓ove stories.鈥�

These are stories about guilt and atonement, about hurt and redemption. We love the people who make up our families, but we hurt those same people, too (sometimes on purpose, and sometimes without meaning to), and I wanted to explore both sides of that difficult equation.

Did you face any hurdles in writing the stories?

Every story presented a hurdle in one way or another. Some were easy to write but hard to publish. Others found homes in magazines, but only after I鈥檇 revised them many times over the course of four or five years.

For the 15 stories in the collection, another 20 published stories were left on the cutting-room floor, and who knows how many more remain unfinished or finished but requiring a few more revisions. I think that the trick was not to think too much about the end product of 鈥渁 book鈥� along the way, but to try to make each story as strong as it could be.

What do you like to read?

I love to read fiction, poetry and essays.

The last great book I read was a collection of essays by Ryan Van Meter called If You Knew Then What I Know Now. My favorite poets include Sherod Santos and Louise Gluck. My favorite short story writers include Brad Watson, ZZ Packer, Karen Russell, Chris Adrian, Bret Anthony Johnston, Raymond Carver, Amy Hempel, Christine Schutt, Rick Bass, Ethan Canin, Lorrie Moore, Denis Johnson, and Ron Carlson. My favorite novels include The Great Gatsby, Franny and Zooey, Marilynne Robinson鈥檚 Home, Frederick Barthelme鈥檚 Bob the Gambler, and Magnus Mills鈥� The Restraint of Beasts.

How do you like to unwind when you鈥檙e not teaching or writing?

When I鈥檓 not teaching or writing, I love to read, and I love movies. I also like to go on long walks by myself or with my wife and daughters.

What鈥檚 your top piece of advice for an aspiring writer?

Read! Sure, you鈥檙e going to have to write a lot in order to get good at writing, but I鈥檇 argue that you should be reading even more. Read everything. Read widely. Find an author you love, then read everything that he or she has written. Find an author you don鈥檛 love and try to figure out why. Sometimes the fault is with the writer. Sometimes the fault is your own.

Students sometimes worry that if they read too much, they鈥檒l start to sound like the writers they read. I鈥檝e found that the opposite is typically true. The more you read, the more likely you are to find that the multiplicity of voices will coalesce into something you鈥檒l one day call your own 鈥渧oice.鈥�

What鈥檚 next for you?

Currently, I鈥檓 at work on a novel under contract with Simon & Schuster. The novel borrows a couple of the characters from the collection and picks up 30 years after where their story leaves off.