- Art of the Sentence
- Bookseller Spotlight
- Broadside Thirty
- Carte du Jour
- Comics Sans
- Correspondent's Course
- Flash Fidelity
- Flash Fridays
- Free Verse
- From the Magazine
- From The Vault
- Lost & Found
- Tin House Books
Sign Up for News, Sales
Tweets by @Tin_House
News & Events
We surveyed our galley club members—here’s what they thought.
So little fiction has been written about one of the most common of human experiences: childbirth.
There were no witnesses except the woman who’d been up all night…
Ghosts in literature are often treated like hybrid elements: part character, part plot device, part setting.
The idea for this novel began, as many of my works begin, as a dream: a friend and I take heroin, shoplift in a mall, and are chased by store security.
For readers of Jon Krakauer and Susan Orlean, The Coyote’s Bicycle brings to life a never-before-told phenomenon at our southern border, and the human drama of those that would cross. Prologue: EVERYBODY LOVES A BIKE This is the story of several thousand bicycles that made an incredible journey. They were very ordinary, used bicycles. […]
Meg Storey: The Sleep Garden takes place mostly within an apartment complex called “The Burrow,” but a few characters do not exist in this space. Why did you choose to extend the story beyond the Burrow? Jim Krusoe: The Sleep Garden is a combination of two elements. At first, all I wanted to do was to find […]
It so happens that Michael Woodcock, whose painting St. Joseph’s Day appears as the cover of The Sleep Garden, also designed the cover of my first book of poems, a lifetime ago. It’s my hope that what follows will let others know how important he was to me and to everyone who knew him. * […]
I • Where are we? How did we come here? Where are we going? • And anyway, who lies sleeping here with us? Wherever that is— I mean—wherever we are. II • To begin: the Burrow is a low mound that rises out of the ground. It rests on what would be, if not […]
Although many people see “sci-fi” and “Southern Gothic” as incompatible genres, combining the two seems natural to me because the contemporary South exists in the same technology-mediated world as other parts of the US, a world in which the internet inundates the mind with diverse forms of information and where the boundaries between science and sci-fi are often blurry.
A book that I hand sell a lot is “The Boys of My Youth” by Jo Ann Beard. That book stops my heart. I have to pound my chest to get it going again.
As we continue to take applications for our upcoming fiction and nonfiction coastal workshops, we decided to check in with a few of our winter captains to get their perspective on the workshop experience. On the deck, our own Lacy M. Johnson, who will be teaching during Session Two. Tin House: What can you tell […]
Fiction: Imagination working on experience.
As I walked the eerily empty streets of downtown Spartanburg the evening before my reading, I imagined good old boys morphing into slimy reptiles, conducting human sacrifices, and wallowing in bloodbaths, their scales glistening with gore.
“The caterwauling bug song will abate as you do this.” –Padgett Powell
Author Julia Elliott talks about dystopian satires, Southern gothic tall tales, brain enhancements, and fear-hog hunting in this Q&A with her editor.
On a Friday evening in June, stoked by the awesome weather, Chip, Lee, and I were doing tequila shots on the patio of Noah’s Ark Taxidermy.
When I was 16 I discovered subculture and went at it voraciously.
They are still touchstones for many women I meet; secret decoder rings of the bookish of a certain age.
Dryland launches today!
How well do you think you would survive in the wild with only an axe and a knife?
He laughed. He said, That sign’s just there for the guys who come in to read porn. He made quotes with his fingers when he said read.
Debut novelist Jennifer Pashley talks about serial killers, Tori Amos, and listening in this Q&A with her editor.
One of the twins has his mouth sewn shut.
I would love to spend the day of June 16, 1904 in Dublin, Ireland, looking over the shoulder of Leopold Bloom