Photograph courtesy of Cynan Jones
Cynan Jones spoke to online editor Ted Hodgkinson about why he doesn’t want to be defined as a Welsh writer, the pleasures and challenges of writing short stories and novellas and writing about the growing pains of adolescence.
Photograph courtesy of Cynan Jones
‘There’s this paradoxical nostalgia where even though yi suffered, yi miss it.’
Memoir by Graeme Armstrong.
‘She boils her sentences down to high-sucrose sweeties and calibrates her tone for maximum engagement.’
Fiction by Natasha Brown.
‘The monstrous years of my late teens lay lined up alongside the rest of my life like bullets in a gun.’
A story by Sophie Mackintosh.
‘Without waiting for me she removes her white shirt. Each button a piece of my own spine, undone.’
Fiction by K Patrick.
‘I followed him onto the dancefloor and he put his hands on my hips as if he’d known me for at least an hour.’
Fiction by Saba Sams.
Cynan Jones was born in 1975 near Aberaeron, Wales. He is the author of five short novels, The Long Dry, Everything I Found on the Beach, Bird, Blood, Snow, The Dig, and Cove. His work is published in over 20 countries and has won several prizes including a Betty Trask Award, the Jerwood Fiction Uncovered Award, the Wales Book of the Year Fiction prize, and the BBC National Short Story Award. He has also written stories for radio and screen, and a collection of tales for children. Other writing has appeared in numerous publications including Granta and the New Yorker. He was elected a Fellow of the RSL in 2019. www.cynanjones.com
More about the author →Ted Hodgkinson is the previous online editor at Granta. He was a judge for the 2012 Costa Book Awards’ poetry prize, announced earlier this year. He managed the Santa Maddalena Foundation in Tuscany, the affiliated Gregor Von Rezzori Literary Prize and still serves as an advisor. His stories have appeared in Notes from the Underground and The Mays and his criticism in the Times Literary Supplement. He has an MA in English from Oxford and an MFA from Columbia.
More about the author →‘A kestrel is not domestic. The one time I tried affection the bird put his beak through my lip.’
‘A pair of seagulls. I say a pair. They might just be good friends.’
‘Believe me – it will be impossible for you not to wonder – when I vow I am entirely sane.’
‘In the car lights he could see just beyond the runs the bodies of cars like some disassembled ghost train littering the field.’
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