This Is Not About Running, by Mary Cain: Just Don't Do It (Support Nike, That Is)

In 2019, runner Mary Cain penned a shocking and revelatory piece in the NYT detailing her physical and mental abuse in the Nike Oregon Project under coach Alberto Salazar. She has expanded that piece and turned it into this book.

This Is Not About Running (out April 28) is now the third book about Salazar and the abusive culture at Nike in the 2010s. Runner Kara Goucher's book The Longest Race also details Salazar's abuse, pseudo-scientific coaching practices, and his penchant for coming up with "creative" ways for athletes to dope without getting caught. Win At All Costs by journalist Matt Hart is based on the US Anti-Doping Agency's investigation and report on Salazar, as well as interviews with some of his former athletes. They're both enraging reads -- not just regarding how such a shitty human could have been in charge of coaching athletes for so long, but also how Nike constantly defended him.

Mary Cain's book, though, is especially damning, because Mary was a teenager during her time with Salazar. The fastest 1,500m runner in the US at age 17, Mary moved cross country from her home in New York to train with Salazar in Portland. She was Salazar's next prodigy -- a can't-miss phenom who would smash world records.

But it didn't happen. And this book explains why. The book, written in present tense so, as Cain explains, you feel like you are right there with her as Salazar is calling her fat, as she cuts herself, as he thinks about suicide, is, in a word, shocking. 

Salazar became obsessed with an arbitrary weight target, which even starving herself, she couldn't hit. In running, confidence is just important as peak fitness, and Salazar (and his shady "sports psychologist" whom Mary had to see) absolutely destroyed her confidence. She got to the point where she couldn't get through a workout without breaking down in a fit of sobs because she was terrified Salazar would scream at her. He often did. Her teammates were mean to her and she had few friends. Salazar even made her stop talking to her parents, not wanting them to "meddle" in her training. Just all absolutely horrific. 

Salazar has since been banned for life from coaching for both doping and abuse, which is justice, but also real justice would be him rotting in jail. Just as infuriating as Salazar's abuse, though, is Cain's details of how Nike treated her after she quit the Oregon Project. As she says, it would've cost very little for a multi-billion dollar company to do the right thing. Instead, when she sued them, they fought her tooth and nail at every turn, trying to make themselves the victim, or blaming Cain as the actual victim. 

Don't read this if you don't want to be angry. Don't read this if you're a Nike apologist. But definitely read if you're a runner or anyone else interested in the very, very bad culture at Nike. 

I Am So Sorry, I Don't Know How to Read Poetry (But I Want to Learn!)

Happy National Poetry Month! I have a confession to make: I don't know how to read poetry. 

I'm only exaggerating a little. I mean, I know how to read poetry. What I don't know is how to understand poetry on the same level I understand prose. Or on the level seemingly every other avid reader does. Or on the level the poet intends. 

I've been a reader my entire life. I've hundreds of novels, memoirs, short story collections, history books, shit, even Dan Brown. I've barely read any poetry. 

Somehow I managed to graduate college with an English/Creative Writing degree having taken exactly ZERO poetry classes. The only time I can recall poetry coming up at all in my college classes was studying a few Shakespeare sonnets. Maybe there was something about John Donne in a Very Old Literature By White Guys class (probably not the actual name of the class) for a minute. But I definitely didn't study anything written in the last 300 years. 

But then so why has poetry eluded me for so long? 

I don't have a good answer. One reason that occurs to me is that my brain works very literally and I like clarity and resolution. Growing up, I loved to read, but I was really good at math and science, too. I was even a chemistry major in college for a few ill-fated semesters. It was the war of my youth: My left brain vs. my right brain...and ultimately my right brain won. But I feel like when I try to engage with poetry, my left brain sneaks over and whispers to my right brain: "Hey man, you're not going to understand this. It's too flowery. Too subjective. There's only barely a story. There are no easy answers." And my right brain, dressed in a linen suit and drinking mint tea, hasn't had the heart to tell my left brain to STFU.

One after another in rapid succession, metaphor, image, symbol, and simile, and even the structure of the poem -- itself imbued with meaning -- means you can't just fly through a poem and go on with your day. A poem requires a close read, and then another. And then probably many more. In this economy? Who's got time for that? 

This is a cop-out, of course. Of course, there is frequent poetic language in the novels and prose I love, too. But they're not so concentrated. You can catch one or two at a time and stop and think and then continue. And if you miss something it's maybe not the end of the world.

But honestly, another reason I haven't read a lot of poetry is because I haven't really tried very hard to learn, either. It's a negative feedback loop and I've been felled by inertia. I'm like a person who tried running for a month in their early 20s, decided they hated running, and hasn't tried again since. (If that sounds like an oddly specific example, well, I lived it. But about a decade ago, I DID try running again, and realized I loved it. And haven't stopped since. Hmm...do we have another possible parallel incoming?)

And so now I'm determined to try reading poems again. No better time than National Poetry Month to learn how to read poetry. To enjoy poetry. To love poetry? 

Look, I know you can't just tell yourself to love something. And then do it. But by putting in some time and equipping yourself with the right tools, I can at least maybe identify why it hasn't worked yet. 

I've also just picked up a book titled Don't Read Poetry: A Book About How to Read Poems, by Harvard professor Stephanie Burt. The book is supposedly "an accessible introduction to the seemingly daunting task of reading, understanding, enjoying, and learning from poems." The words "seemingly daunting task" are doing some seriously heavily lifting in that blurb. 

It does feel daunting. But having been a reader my whole life, I feel like I'm in a good spot to finally figure this out. 

And I have a good collection to start. Every year at AWP (that's the big annual conference for writers), I seem to collect poetry collections. It's always good to support small presses, which are, generally speaking, the purveyors of poetry. So each of the last four years I've come home with a fistful of poetry...that has just sat on my nightstand. 

Collected poetry collections in the photo above:

The Tradition, by Jericho Brown

A Fortune for Your Disaster, by Hanif Abdurraqib

The New Testament, by Jericho Brown

REPLICA, by Lisa Low

Calling a Wolf a Wolf, by Kaveh Akbar

A Map of My Want, by Faylita Hicks

Pilgrim Bell, by Kaveh Akbar

Pisces Urges, by Czaerra Galicinao Ucol

Karaoke at the End of the World, by Genevieve DeGuzman

1919, by Eve L. Ewing

Electric Arches, by Eve L. Ewing

So off we go on the Good Ship Poetry. If anyone has any advice for me, I'm all ears. 

If you're like me and want to learn more about poetry, my employer, StoryStudio Chicago, has several upcoming poetry events and workshops, both online and in person. Check 'em out here. 

Telegraph Avenue, by Michael Chabon: Sussing Out the Sublots Like Pynchon

Here in Chicago, an independent bookstore recently closed due in part to a sharp drop in sales when a new Barnes & Noble opened on the same block. People (me, included) were pissed. A big corporate conglomerate had pushed out another small business, accelerated the neighborhood's already out-of-control gentrification, and damaged the character of the neighborhood.

But other people were (and are) excited. The two-story store is located in a historic building and adds charm and economic oomph to the neighborhood, they say. Plus, the selection of books is much better. 

A similar battle rages in Michael Chabon's 2012 novel, Telegraph Avenue. Archy and Nat are long-time owners of Brokeland Records, a used vinyl shop in an iconic neighborhood in Oakland. But a rich retired football player wants to open a big-ass megastore complete with a similar record shop just down the street from theirs. If that happens, they're doomed. 

So this long novel is about Archy and Nat trying to figure out what's important to them. There are subplots galore -- their wives are partners in a midwifery business, Archy learns he has a 14-year-old son, Nat's son is in love with Archy's "new" son, Archy's 70s blaxploitation movie star father has reentered the picture and past deeds are coming to light. And more. 

The conflict between Team Brokeland Records and Team NFL Star is fertile ground for conflict, but Chabon doesn't spend much time there. Instead, he spends probably way too much time sussing out all the strands of subplot. It gets to be almost Pynchonian in the zany interconnections and off-the-wall characters and comedy. 

Also like Pynchon: Chabon is a maximalist normally, which I can hang with. I don't mind when a writer uses 100 words when two will do, if those 100 words are entertaining. But in this novel, more often than not, those 100 words drag a little. (The critic Ron Charles said something like it felt like Chabon was being paid by the word and had an impending mortgage balloon payment. 😅) It's a dense novel and it doesn't move quickly at all. 

Fun fact: I got an ARC of this novel at the 2012 Book Expo America show in NYC....and it's sat on my shelf ever since. Part of the reason it's sat for 14 years is because of some of the warnings from earlier reviews of its denseness. They weren't wrong. 

But I'm glad I finally read it. It occasionally reminded me how good Chabon is when he's on. And it's been a decade since his last novel (Moonglow) so even though I'm in agreement with most readers that this one doesn't stack up to some of his better novels -- most notably, The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (a masterpiece) -- it was still fun (at times) to jump back on the Chabon bandwagon.

So Old, So Young, by Grant Ginder: I'll Be There For You (Probably)

One of the most fun parts -- and there are a lot of fun parts -- of reading Grant Ginder's new novel, So Old, So Young, about a group of college friends through 20 years of love, life, loss, and partying, is trying to figure out which of these characters you most identify with. Are you a Mia or a Sasha? A Marco or an Adam?

Yes, this is one of those "friends-through-the-years" stories I love so much, and I must say, it's a paragon of the genre in how relatable it feels. What makes it so interesting is that it's centered on five particular parties/gatherings/reunions over the course of two decades -- from 2004 to through 2024 -- of this college friend-group. You'd think this would make the novel feel episodic -- like we're just checking in on these people once every couple years. But a strength of this book is that it is a master class on how to integrate backstory. All of these characters' stories feel whole -- like we didn't miss anything by not seeing them for a couple years.

And further, each character feels full formed, unique from the others, and absolutely fascinating. Ginder takes great pains to convince us to empathize with every one of these people in different ways. For instance, he got me to care about a wealthy, adulterous, "purposefully busy," suburban mom -- and I can tell you, THAT is no small feat. 😅

Through the years, these characters fall in and out of touch, fight and reconcile, harbor grudges against each other, and develop rivalries with their friends' new friends. Basically, life.

But Ginder gets all of those so right. His eye for detail is thorough and his rendering of how relationships evolve is insightful and true. A character struggling with a decision at one point thinks about how each decision she makes cuts future possibilities in half, and the older you get, the more decisions you make, the fewer future possibilities you have, and how do you even go on living with such a depressing thought? The answer: You find something you love.  

And speaking of love, the main throughline is Mia and Marco, a pair who meet on New Year's Eve in the first pages of the novel. They date. Then they don't. And the rest of the novel is about will they or won't they again. 

My advice is to first read this terrific book. Then, send it to your college friend group and fire up the group chat about which character you all think you are. And then hope you're still all friends. 😅

Read More Short Stories! Here Are 12 of My Favorite Collections

Lauren Groff's new short story collection, Brawler, comes out Feb. 24. It'll almost certainly be in my top 5 favorite books of the year when we wrap this here 2026 in about 10 months. Brawler is nine stories -- each more brilliant than the last. And the anchor for the collection is a story titled "Annunciation" which was in the Best Short Stories of 2023, and is my of-late no-hesitation answer in the (very rare) event that someone asks me about my favorite short story. It's a story that comes at you waves, much like the collection as a whole. Anyway...read Brawler when it's out. It's fantastic.

Brawler is so good, in fact, it got me thinking about some of my other favorite short story collections from the last decade or so. So I made a list. Enjoy! 

Tenth of December, by George Saunders -- When I read this collection more than a decade ago, it was the first time I'd read Saunders. I promptly read just about everything else the man has written, because, I mean, once you find a writer with whom you connect, connection soon becomes obsession. And yes, I'm obsessed with how George Saunders writes stories (and novels) of philosophical complexity and the sliding scale of morality in a dearth of words. 

The Tsar of Love and Techno, by Anthony Marra -- I waver between this collection (Is this a novel? It's interconnected short stories. That's a whole 'nother post.) and the one above as my favorite of all time. Russians and Chechens and a painting and life imitating art (or vice versa). This is a paragon of craft. 

Get in Trouble, by Kelly Link -- It's hard to remember a time before Kelly Link was a household name (at least among book nerds), but this is the collection that did it. Inventive, quirky, off-the-wall, funny as hell. 

Friday Black, by Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah -- Before Adjei-Brenvah scalded our brains with his debut novel, Chain Gang All-Stars, this story collection gave us a glimpse of his genius. Every story in this collection is fantastic, but the story "Light Spitter" about a school shooter named Fuckton who has regrets has haunted my soul since I first read it in 2015. And the story "Zimmer Land" about an amusement park in which racists can role play shooting people who are just existing while Black is sadly even more powerful now than it was in the direct aftermath of George Zimmerman. 

Music for Wartime, by Rebecca Makkai -- What stood out to me most about this lyrical collection is Makkai's ability to draw the reader in, set the scene, and create intrigue, all in a first line. 

Bliss Montage, by Ling Ma -- Whenever I talk about this book, I always tie myself in knots trying to explain what I think Ma is doing with these brilliant stories. It's something like this: In these stories, she's creating a fantastic, metaphysical element – like an invisibility drug or 100 ex-boyfriends living in the same house as the narrator – and using that element to create a literal representation of the symbolic point she’s making with the rest of the story, like alienation, ghosts of our past, or needing to escape. Does that make any sense? No? Well, then you'll just have to read it! 

Beneath the Bonfire, by Nickolas Butler -- Same warmth and empathy as in Butler's novels, but in these shorter pieces. Still uber-Midwestern. Still a delight. 

Craft: Stories I Wrote for the Devil, by Ananda Lima -- Another "collection" that is maybe actually a novel. This collection combines the realistic (the story about the writing workshop, "Idle Hands") with the fantastical. Lima, like Ma, also literalizes the metaphysical to make a point -- and it's so much fun to read. 

Florida, by Lauren Groff -- When you pick up any piece of writing by Lauren Groff, you can be pretty sure it's going to be excellent. Several of the stories in this collection have the same (or a similar?) narrator -- a mother who is a writer. Hmmm....

A Visit From the Goon Squad, by Jennifer Egan -- I mean, right?! Reading this book was one of those eye-opening experiences when I thought, Oh my god, so THIS is what fiction can do. "Time's a goon, right? You gonna let that goon push you around?"

Single, Carefree, Mellow, by Katherine Heiny -- This book is an example of why you ALWAYS read the recommendations of other readers whose opinions you trust (this one came from one of my bookseller colleagues soon after RoscoeBooks opened). This very good collection is about a lot of very bad people. But it's also very funny.

Half Wild, by Robin MacArthur -- An instance of book serendipity -- at BEA 2016, I was waiting in line to see Richard Russo, and MacArthur's table was next to his, and no one was waiting, and the publicist called out, "Hey who likes short stories?" and I like short stories, so I stopped by to meet her and pick up this ARC. Ninety-nine out of 100 times, the book would've sat untouched among the dozens of other BEA books, but something about this spoke to me. And I'm so glad I read it. The stories are mostly about characters in rural settings struggling to connect with the modern world. Timely and so well-crafted!