Mary Robison drops the reader into each story with little or no setup, exposition—you're just THERE. I love that. Every detail is so accurate and authentic to the late 1970s in this collection. The turd-brown, nicotine-stained kitchens, the polluted lives—both rich and poor. The shabby, Catholic disillusionment of it all.

This is my first foray into her work. I stupidly confused her with Marilyn Robinson, who I know is worshiped by her famous students but really doesn't inspire me. It's embarrassing to admit. Not until I read Robison's Paris Review Interview did I realize my idiotic mistake. I plan to read every story she ever wrote because it's already changing how I approach the writing of our sacred short story craft.

Finally, a word about her dialogue, which is exquisite. The profound reflective moments are camouflaged so effectively between the lines, one must read with care lest they slip past. Though totally different from Joy Williams, my delight in discovering Mary Robison has that feeling.

Lumped into the unfortunate, wildly inaccurate category of "minimalism," Mary's lean, to-the-point short stories aren't "minimalist"—she's a Precisionist.