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Name Sort descending	Genre	Year
Sarah Stewart Johnson	Nonfiction	2021
Denis Johnson	Fiction	1986
R. Kikuo Johnson	Fiction	2023
Adam Johnson	Fiction	2009
Jenny Johnson	Poetry	2015
Taylor Johnson	Poetry	2024
R.S. Jones	Fiction	1992
A. Van Jordan	Poetry	2004
Dan Josefson	Fiction	2015
Rajiv Joseph	Drama	2009
Hansol Jung	Drama	2018
Cynthia Kadohata	Fiction	1991
Agymah Kamau	Fiction	2003
Ilya Kaminsky	Poetry	2005
Joan Naviyuk Kane	Poetry	2009
Seth Kantner	Fiction	2005
Mary Karr	Poetry	1989
Douglas Kearney	Poetry	2008
John Keene	Fiction	2005
John Keene	Poetry	2005
Brigit Pegeen Kelly	Poetry	1996
Randall Kenan	Fiction	1994
Randall Kenan	Nonfiction	1994
Brad Kessler	Fiction	2007
Laleh Khadivi	Fiction	2008
Sylvia Khoury	Drama	2021
Alice Sola Kim	Fiction	2016
James Kimbrell	Poetry	1998
Lily King	Fiction	2000
Linda Kinstler	Nonfiction	2023
Brian Kiteley	Fiction	1996
Matthew Klam	Fiction	2001
Kevin Kling	Drama	1993
Wayne Koestenbaum	Nonfiction	1994
Wayne Koestenbaum	Poetry	1994

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Selected winners

Hernan Diaz

2019

In the Distance

A Novel

Often, the three of them—burro, horse, rider—would simply stand in the middle of the plains. Aside from the occasional sigh or the halfhearted attempt at swatting away an insect, they all stood still, staring into the avoid. Brown flats, blue wall. From his animals, with their serenely sad, bulge-eyed gaze, Håkan seemed to have learned to gape into space. To this absent expression, he added a drooping jaw. They merely stood, completely absorbed by nothing. Time dissolved into the sky. There was little difference between landscape and spectators. Insensible things that existed in one another.

Shubha Sunder

2025

Optional Practical Training: A Novel

I paused outside Porter Square Station, in my wet clothes, to observe what a sign there called a kinetic sculpture—three elevated red objects shaped like tongues, tumbling about their axes and orbiting a tall white pole. My thoughts circled back to Theta’s shocked expression at my rent, which led me to review my predicted costs—food, transportation, utilities—and wonder if I’d overlooked something. After a brief trance, I descended a long escalator to the commuter rail platform and boarded the train to Wilton. Soon I was passing the same backyards and open spaces I’d sped by in March, no longer barren and covered with dirty snow, but green, with that profusion of young spring leaves I associated with Impressionist paintings. A pond slid into view, its edges blurred by clumps of reeds. The rain started again. It drew long diagonal streaks across the windows. Anyone want to get off at Brandeis? the conductor called as she strode up the aisle. That was a question, she added cheerfully. Not a threat.