I want to believe that Daniel Woodrell is some kind of Hillbilly Hemingway, a moonshine jug in one hand and a sawed off shotgun in the other, writing with his fucking feet as someone strums banjo behind him. So this story felt a little on the nose, though I suspect it’s Woodrell shouting “Here’s yer fucking Portnoy’s Complaint, y’all bunch of citified cockfisters.” Excuse my french.
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