HolyWhiteMountain writes beautifully. I so easily pictured him wrapped in the buffalo robe on his bed in Montana, listening to the crackling radio amid complete silence. He reminded me of myself as well, with "the paperbacks of Tolkien's trilogy I had taken from my mom's bookshelf." This passage was especially beautiful:

When it came time to turn off the light, I would tune the radio to the far end of the dial—the hallowed 106.1 that changed my life—hoping that, at some point, the sound of rock, having crossed the vast Northern Plains night, would reach my bedroom. And then I would sleep...

And of course, the last few sentences were spectacular:

And still later I saw that if I conveyed to another through my writing even a small piece of what I had felt during those winter nights, listening to rock music on the radio, rapt in the darkness of my new bedroom, then it would be enough. It would be good. It would be enough.

These "Growing Pains" that The New Yorker published in this Fiction issue are spectacular. I think they should do more of them. As somehow who doesn't love poetry, I do love short prose such as this, which can be read and thought about in a short sitting, while getting to know a great author.

HolyWhiteMountain published Featherweight in a recent issue this year, which I thought was a fantastic piece of fiction. Looking forward to reading more of his writing.