A Conversation with Millay House Rockland’s Writer-in-Residence William Torrey
by Cynthia Reeves
William Torrey is the July 2026 Writer-in-Residence at Millay House Rockland, where he spent the month writing in the birthplace of Edna St. Vincent Millay. In selecting him for the residency, Gretel Ehrlich—the American travel writer, poet, essayist, and novelist acclaimed for her lyrical nature writing and vivid depictions of rural life—stated:
This talented writer gives us swift, light-footed prose that sweeps us into the collapse and resurgence of four men, ill-equipped to face themselves and their questions of shame and redemption, as well as the necessary ingredients and value of true friendship.
A fiction writer and essayist from Richmond, Virginia, Torrey has published work in The Missouri Review, The North American Review, and other literary journals. His debut novella, Freedom of Movement, will be published by Regal House Publishing in January, 2027, marking an important milestone in his writing career. He has received fellowships and grants from the Delaware Division of the Arts, the Mid-Atlantic Arts Foundation, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. He teaches writing at Hampden-Sydney College. ____________________________________________________________________________
The Millay House residency attracted an exceptionally competitive pool of applicants from across the country, yet your work stood out to final judge Gretel Ehrlich. What did it mean to learn that you had been selected, and what has this month of uninterrupted writing time given you that ordinary life rarely does?
Gretel Ehrlich is one of those writers whose sentences seem to breathe differently, so knowing that she connected with my work was deeply meaningful. A residency is always a gift, but when it comes with that kind of affirmation, it gives you permission to trust your own instincts a little more.
Just as valuable, though, has been the time itself. Ordinary life is wonderfully full—teaching, family, gardening, hiking—but it also fragments attention. Here, I could wake up each morning with the work already waiting for me. Instead of constantly trying to remember where I left off, I was able to stay inside the fictional world for weeks at a time. That sustained attention is increasingly rare, and I think it's one of the greatest luxuries a writer can have.
The theme of this issue of Third Fig Review asks writers to reflect on how winning prizes—and sometimes not winning them—shape their literary identities. Your stories have won prizes—including the prestigious Pushcart Prize. Your novella Freedom of Movement didn’t win Regal House Publishing's Fugere Prize, yet the press chose to publish it anyway. How have you processed these experiences? Have the honors changed the way you perceive yourself as a writer? Did the publication of Freedom of Movement feel like its own kind of victory? Did these recognitions change the way you think about literary competitions?
One small clarification: Freedom of Movement wasn’t submitted to the Fugere Prize. It came through Regal House Publishing’s open submissions, and they selected it from the general slush pile. In some ways, I find that especially encouraging because it reminds me that good work can still be discovered in the ordinary ways.
I've become much less interested in treating prizes as verdicts. They’re snapshots of one group of readers responding to one piece of writing at one particular moment. They’re wonderful when they happen—I was genuinely honored by the Pushcart Prize—but they aren’t the same thing as a writing life.
Publishing Freedom of Movement felt like its own kind of victory because it represented something I’d wanted for a long time: finding the right home for a book I believed in. More than any individual award, that gave me confidence that persistence matters. If anything, these experiences have made me more patient. The goal isn’t to win every contest; it’s to keep writing work that surprises you and eventually finds the readers it belongs with.
Every writer remembers the moment when a first book becomes real. As Freedom of Movement moves toward publication, how has this first book changed the way you see yourself? Has it altered your confidence, your ambitions, or even your relationship to the work itself?
I think the biggest change has been psychological. For years, publishing a book existed somewhere in the future, as an aspiration. Now it’s simply part of my life. That shift has been surprisingly freeing.
It’s also changed my ambitions. I don’t feel pressure to repeat this book or to prove that I deserved it. Instead, I feel encouraged to take greater creative risks. A first book teaches you that the finish line isn’t publication—it’s continuing to make work you’re proud of after publication.
In that sense, Freedom of Movement feels less like the culmination of something than the beginning of a much longer conversation.
You’re beginning this next chapter of your career with both a first book forthcoming and a prestigious residency behind you. What are you hoping this period represents—not just for your current projects, but for the kind of writer you hope to become over the next decade?
More than anything, I hope it represents consistency. Writing careers can feel episodic—a publication here, a fellowship there—but the writers I admire most have built lives around steadily returning to the page, year after year.
I’d like to become someone whose work continues to deepen rather than simply accumulate. I want to write fiction that grows more emotionally generous and nonfiction that becomes increasingly fearless. If, ten years from now, I’ve published several books but have also become a more attentive reader, teacher, and observer of the world, I’ll feel I’ve been successful.
At the end of the day, I’m less interested in building a résumé than in building a body of work that feels honest and enduring.
Cynthia Reeves is the author of three books of fiction, most recently the novel of Arctic survival The Last Whaler. After a decade in fund-raising and management consulting, she earned an MFA from Warren Wilson College and taught creative writing at Bryn Mawr and Rosemont Colleges before “retiring” to devote herself to writing full-time. She lives in Camden and is a board member of Millay House Rockland.
