The Hackerman Writer in Residence Program
Enoch Pratt Free Library’s Hackerman Writer in Residence program invites a writer to engage the community through creative projects and events.
The Hackerman Writer in Residence program is designed to support Maryland-based writers in developing their practice and creative projects while providing the whole Library community with invaluable opportunities for inspiration, learning, and growth. Over the course of 11 months, the selected writer will collaborate with Library staff to design inclusive, educational, and inspiring activities that serve all age levels and reflect diverse interests. In addition to public programs, the Hackerman Writer in Residence will offer six monthly office hours open to the public.
Funding for the program has been provided through the generosity of The Hackerman Foundation.
For more information about the Hackerman Writer in Residence program, please email wir@prattlibrary.org.
Taylor Johnson
Taylor Johnson and his book of poetry, Inheritance
Taylor Johnson photo by S*an D. Henry-Smith
The Hackerman 2025–2026 Writer in Residence is poet Taylor Johnson. He is the author of Inheritance (Alice James Books, 2020), winner of the 2021 Norma Farber First Book Award from the Poetry Society of America and a 2024 Whiting Award.
About Taylor JohnsonRead a poem from Inheritance, "Lincoln Town Car," below:
Lincoln Town Car
by Taylor Johnson
My grandfather would spell certain words so that the dog couldn’t comprehend. O u t, F o o d. The dog, that little bear-fighter, ran into the road one day, buried in the yard now. And the next dog, he waited in the backroom for my grandmother to return heavy-footed from around the corner. And when she didn’t return, he sat there unreachable as language.
Something was wrong if we left the country: fluid around the heart, not enough movement, syrup for blood. Leaving meant taking showers and my grandfather fixing my grandmother’s hair. All of us, clean-shirted, in the front seat of the Lincoln Town Car. We shared a humid thought, pressed as we were against the maroon leather, six-legged in the front seat. Before us the highway unraveled. Sorghum and corn and soy— collapsing as the wind fell, listening for light. I listened for muscadines swelling in the ditches on the water-logged sides of the highway. I listened to the quiet narrow as we entered the city.
I loved the language my grandparents spoke: saying nothing, holding both my hands. Was the pines that set off sound in them. My grandmother stared out the windshield and into the hills, saying That man, That man. My grandfather shifted in his seat at the wheel, practicing owning something. I had a feeling that I was the last let into the kingdom of their distance. Something was owed, neither side would spell it out. I counted the fallen pines as the car dipped through the hills in the tidewater, lonely as a dog with the whole world inside. I counted the pines and put my voice inside them.
Upcoming Hackerman Writer in Residence Events
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Join us in celebrating our new Hackerman Artist in Residence, multimedia paper cut artist Annie Howe, and our new Hackerman…September 24, 5 PM
Writing @ The Pratt
Join us for writing-focused events including writers' groups, zine-making classes, and more.