This is Flint, Michigan – where serial entreprenuers lurk around historic storefronts, and you can hear shots of dangerously good espresso being fired off in the streets, a city where students help pioneer next-generation vehicle energy sources and every artist carrys a concealed brush. Watch your back world, we're coming for you.
Novelist and publisher Connor Coyne has assaulted hundreds of readers with subversive fiction and sharp prose, available at connorcoyne.com. As director of Gothic Funk Press (gothicfunkpress.com), Coyne has lain nefarious plans to export avant-garde literature to the world on a massive scale. In Flint itself, his work as the 7th Ward Artist-in-Residence (intersect7.org) has helped engage residents in the city's master planning process. Far from a fugitive, Coyne flouts the authorities as an gardening addict and stay-at-home dad in Flint's College Cultural Neighborhood (or as degenerates like Coyne call it, "the East Village").
Jan Worth-Nelson has been committing wordslaughter and literary crimes of passion as a poet, novelist, and essayist for longer than you’ve been alive. She carpetbagged into Flint in 1981 after youthful misdemeanors as a newspaper reporter in Southern California and a Peace Corps volunteer in the hot climes of Polynesia. She interloped into the’ 80s poetry scene at the late Hat’s Pub, and eventually found her way to an M.F.A. from Warren Wilson College and a long career as a writing teacher at UM – Flint. Her autobiographical novel Night Blind recounts her Peace Corps shenanigans. Her poems and essays have been widely published in the outside world, but her favorite accomplishment as a Flintoid is her column “Village Life” on the back page of East Village Magazine, where she wallows in literate melancholy and amused self-deprecation, proffers lots of chewy adverbs, and celebrates post-industrial serendipities.
Ted Nelson is a felon for love. This flinty-eyed miscreant from the hedonistic hellhole of Hollywood prowls the perilous environs of the College Cultural neighborhood in relentless pursuit of his longtime moll and muse, poet Jan Worth. Long the supreme leader of Tinseltown’s notorious appreciation cartel, Nelson’s iron-tongued domination of the tchotchke industry is legendary. When questioned by TSA agents at Bishop International Airport about his suspiciously frequent excursions to Flint, Nelson responded with the following explanation: “I come to Flint for love. Why the hell else would anyone come here?” Nevertheless, authorities are keeping a sharp eye on his activities here, particularly his newly opened small business--”Ted’s Lucre Laundry.”
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