Author: Christine Nessler

Kelsey L. Smoot (they/he/Kelz) is a gender theorist, an elective Southerner, a writer, and a poet. Their autoethnographic style has become the lens through which they understand and reflect on their experience navigating the US sociopolitical landscape. They are the winner of the 2021 Sad Girls Club Spring Literary Contest and the Grand Prize Winner of the 2024 Button Poetry Video Contest. Kelz is a Tin House Workshop alum, a Pushcart Prize nominee, a Best of the Net nominee, and a Best New Poets nominee.

Their poem “For Kenny” won the 2023 Honeybee Poetry Prize, and their latest collection of poems, SOULMATE AS A VERB, is available now from MIT Press. Their previous chapbooks include: we was bois together and Muse.

You’ve described yourself as a self-trained poet. How has forging your own path shaped your voice and approach to craft?

I think being self-trained definitely means being intentional about studying craft elements in poetics by reading the work of other poets, by going out of my way to seek poetry resources. Those who know me well know that I definitely enjoy a good form. I think it trains a different muscle than free-verse poetry does, so to that end, I often tell people that I think that poetry is both an art and a discipline. The art component of it is so fun to engage and explore and share with the world, but I do think the ‘discipline’ component–which to me sometimes includes writing poems that are more functional practices and experiments than they are creative expressions–is definitely important for my overall development as a poet.

What poets or writers have most influenced your work, and in what ways?

So there are kind of the writers that are in my personal Mount Rushmore—so Audre Lorde, Toni Morrison, Octavia Butler, and James Baldwin—but also June Jordan, Lucille Clifton, and contemporary poets like Cameron Awkward-Rich and K.B. Brookins. Each of these writers (and many, many more that I don’t feel like I have enough space across a lifetime of empty pages to write about and express my gratitude for), has created something that I fully see myself in; they’ve reflected their experiences back to me, and my experiences back to me. And I have ultimately realized that I think that is also a huge goal in my writing. I think a lot of writers want to write something that’s completely original and to feel like they are pioneering something, whereas I am personally so thrilled and honored to be writing within the lineage of writers and thinkers that have come before me. Each of these writers has challenged me to think critically about my identities and how they show up in my work. They each are very reflective and nostalgic, but also highly forward-thinking and futuristic, and have a penchant for sharing hard truths and not shying away from literary honesty and authenticity—something I hope to do in my work as well.

I read about the story of your brother inspiring the title of SOULMATE AS A VERB in an Electric Lit feature, and I was struck by your idea that soulmates are created through “trust and mutuality.” The title reframes love as something we do rather than something we find. How did that conversation shape the larger vision of this collection, and what does that shift mean to you personally and poetically?

Yeah, so with regard to SOULMATE AS A VERB, with the title being something that was born of a conversation with my brother, it definitely informed the vision of this project as a body of work that would intentionally deviate from or complicate popular notions of “soulmates.” I certainly wanted the concept of soulmate to function in this collection as a tool, a lens through which we can see ourselves, our loved ones, our communities, and also our political orientations more clearly, and determine how to embody a practice of love that is less about predestination and romantic alignment and much more about commitment, agency, and devotion to others. Personally and politically, that has meant building out my concepts of love that don’t revolve solely around a romantic partner. I’m still always good for a love poem, but I think some of my best love poems within the collection are those written to and for non-romantic loves across the expanse of my life.

What do love and soulmates look like to you right now? Must soulmates be romantic, or can they take many forms?

Right now, love and soulmates to me look like choices. I absolutely don’t think that soulmates must be romantic. I’d argue that most people are more likely to connect with non-romantic soulmates in their lifetimes , just because I do think romantic love—especially operating in systems like patriarchy, capitalism, and white supremacy—is highly precarious and volatile. But I think that most people would say that they could not survive their daily lives without their communities, their families, and their friends, and I do think there’s always a radical potential to build soulmate connections within those groups and to take it a step further, to organize movements around viewing our communities as soulmates.

The description of your collection outlines themes of kinship, masculinity, grief, and desire. Which of these themes surprised you most while writing?

I would say none of these themes particularly surprised me, because they are themes that I am constantly thinking about, writing about, and discussing within my daily life. I think my creative work really is so truly an extension of my inner world as well as my academic writing and research, so to that end I think it just felt really beautiful and fitting to have a new space in which to explore these themes that could be messier, more honest, creative, and intimate.

Your collection blends various poetic forms. What draws you to experimenting with form? Is there one form you gravitate towards? What is it about that form that speaks to you?

Yeah, I think experimenting in form just makes poets so much more intentional. There is this poem called “The Quiet World” by Jeffrey McDaniel that I love, and in the poem people are limited to 167 words per day. For a chatty dude like myself, that’s a terrifying thought, but also in the poem it is clear that this restraint forces individuals to be so incredibly thoughtful about each word that they utter. And in the same capacity, I think that that’s what forms can do for a poet. I think they force you to be disciplined and make hard choices. I really like the Kwansaba, of which there are several in SOULMATE AS A VERB. It’s a short form with very specific limitations on line count, line length, and word length. To that end, I think you can cover so much ground in a Kwansaba because it isn’t supposed to be this sprawling epic form of writing. It’s this, for me, short, tight little glimpse into a topic or a moment or feeling. I have always loved writing poems that have left enough space for me and the reader to meet each other on the page and co-create some additional meaning that resonates specifically with them.

How does this collection differ from the poems you wrote earlier in your career or in your chapbooks we was bois together and Muse?

I think poems that I wrote earlier in my career were really written, by and large, to process my feelings, so some of them read a little bit more like diary entries. Some of them, I would also say, are lowkey embarrassing in that they are really me just fumbling around and discovering what my poetic voice was going to be. And then moving into we was bois together and Muse, I think those are both projects born of trying to create companion writings for my academic work, which I felt like was so much less accessible and available than these poems could or would be. But I think that SOULMATE AS A VERB really is an offering of reflections–refractions, theory, political advocacy, love poems, and just attempts to offer the world some documentation of what it’s like to exist in the body that I do, in the time that I do, still seeking love and connection. I think these poems are more outward facing.

How does writing poetry help you make sense of the world around you? How does it also function as a form of advocacy or witness?

I do think that poetry does still absolutely help me make sense of the world around me, in that it is the way in which I bear intimate witness to my life. I think that there are things that we can read in poems that might challenge us or awaken us in a capacity that feels more approachable or less politically intimidating. A lot of people have said that they’ve shared my poems with a loved one in order to shed some light on a particular aspect of an experience or social justice that they otherwise might struggle to converse about with that person. I definitely think that poetry has become my best method for activism at this point in my life.

These can feel like hateful and frightening times. Where do you find hope or resilience during difficult seasons?

Honestly, I find hope and resilience in youth culture. It feels wild to recognize how quickly I went from feeling so young and inexperienced to starting to feel like a bit of an elder, especially when it comes to younger queer folks, but I think that the younger people in my life—from Gen Z adults that I work with and/or little kids in my life whose adulthood will likely be shaped by a very different set of material conditions than mine currently are—are all so curious and loving and brave, I think, in comparison to how I felt at their ages. These are really scary times, and yet I’ve never lost faith in the radical potential for humanity to outlive these oppressive systems and for people to keep dreaming of a different world. I hope to do that in my work, but also I hope to embody that optimism in my life.

Writing often asks us to be both protected and exposed. How are you feeling after the debut of your first full-length collection?

I feel really proud. I look at how far I have come as an artist and just as a thinker, and I realize that I will likely look back on these poems with massively different perspectives and experiences down the road and still feel so glad that these are the poems that I got to kind of introduce myself with into the literary world. The people around me know that I am committed to a consistent sort of vocalization of my truth, and I also do still strive to protect the privacy of people that I talk about in my work, but I am always working toward becoming more courageous, more honest, and more free. So I think that’s my biggest priority at this time when the book is so newly in the world.

How do you hope readers respond to SOULMATE AS A VERB? What conversations do you hope the book inspires?

I hope that readers respond to SOULMATE AS A VERB by engaging their loved ones in more conversations. I hope they feel emboldened to take up more space in their bodies and and in their communities, and I hope that they feel galvanized to adopt a framework of love that decenters romantic connection, or at the very least, broadens the concept to include all different types of loves and all different types of soulmates.

What do you hope younger queer and trans readers might feel when they encounter this book?

I hope that younger queer and trans readers might feel seen when they encounter this book. I told a friend the other day I certainly think I’ve written many of the things that I really felt like I needed at 16 but didn’t have access to or couldn’t find because they didn’t yet exist. I hope that younger queer and trans readers also feel emboldened to write their own truths and make their own art, which could look like poetry but could also look like any other authentic expression of self.

After this debut, what kinds of stories or projects are calling to you next?

After this debut, I am working on expanding my arts writing, as well as longer-form essays, but I am also definitely in the works of developing a second full-length manuscript tentatively titled Hope Is the Next Best Thing to Certainty. I want my next iteration of poems to be forward-thinking, more experimental, but certainly still continuing some of the themes of this work around love, kinship, truth, and liberation.

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Congratulations, Kelz, on the creation of such a stunning debut full-length collection, and THANK YOU! for being a part of our growing community. We appreciate you and the time you spent with Christine on this interview. We hope you keep the celebration going for this book and wish you the best with future writing endeavors!

Alayna Powell (she/they) is a biracial Black writer with roots along the Southern East Coast and Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Her debut chapbook, After Forgiveness (2024), was published by Bottlecap Press. She is a fourth-year MFA student at the University of Alabama, where she’s also pursuing a certificate in Archival Studies and serving as the current Poetry Editor for Black Warrior Review.

Powell’s piece, I Conjure My Great-Grandmother In a Dream; She Gives Me a Lesson on Revision, won the Honeybee Prize for Flash CNF.

Tell us about yourself.

• I’ve lived in six states.
• I’m a middle child.
• I have two cats: Misha (named after Misha Collins; Supernatural) and Zuzu (named after Zuzu Bailey; It’s A Wonderful Life).  
• I’m about to start my fourth and final year of my mfa program at the University of Alabama. This year, I’m the Poetry Editor for our grad-student lit magazine, Black Warrior Review. I’m also getting a certificate in Archival Studies.
• I love stone fruits. They often appear in my poems. 

What was special about your relationship with your great-grandmother as referenced in your Flash CNF,  I Conjure My Great-Grandmother In a Dream; She Gives Me a Lesson on Revision? How did she influence your life?

I actually never met my great-granny, but I would still say we have a growing relationship. Her name was Elmira (people called her Mollie) and she passed away in 1982.

Mollie was born in Cabal, South Carolina in 1894. She was biracial. She gave birth to ten kids and her husband died young. Mollie never learned to read or write. She lived with my poppy, her son, her whole life. She made quilts. She made salmon cakes. She picked cotton. She went to Sunday School every week.

There are the fragments of Mollie’s life I’ve collected over the past years. There is so much I don’t know, will never know, about her. My grandmother believes Mollie would have said more, told them more, if they had just asked. So now, I ask questions. I listen to story after story. I write it all down. I want the knowing to be easier for those who come after me. And it was Mollie who really set me on this path. My research and writing about my family has blossomed, and it’s allowed me to connect with my older relatives in really special ways.

While reading I Conjure My Great-Grandmother In a Dream; She Gives Me a Lesson on Revision I was swept up in the poetic prose and repetition. Does much of your CNF have a poetic feel to it? Conversely, does much of your poetry reflect your personal experiences like CNF? Do you often blend genres?

Most of my work is hybrid, but up until about a year ago, I considered everything I wrote a poem. When I wrote this essay, I thought it was a poem. At the time, I was taking a historical persona poetry class. I was writing about my great-grandmother a lot – from her perspective, from the perspective of her children, etc.

That same semester, Ander Monson was a visiting writer for our MFA program. He offered to hold conferences with us, so I asked for feedback on this piece. The first question I had for him was, “Do you think this is a poem? If not, what is it?” 

And he very straightforwardly told me, no, this is not a poem. He told me he considered it a speculative essay. We talked about the power of the “I” in an essay versus a poem, which is what really opened my eyes to the possibilities of CNF.

So, when I think about genre I think about the function it serves for me as a writer. Genre is most helpful for me during the writing process. I’ve found that I need repetition when I’m writing about real people and real things. When you’re holding someone’s history in your hands, you realize how fragile it is. It’s easy to get caught up in getting it “right.” Repetition keeps my momentum going. It fills in the blanks so the story can unfold naturally. Then, in the editing stage, you can remove the excess.

I’ve just recently started to consider myself a hybrid writer; however, my poetry has always drawn from real life and experiences. I’m still happy calling my essays poems once they’re complete.

How has poetry benefited your other forms of writing?

I think poetry teaches you to pay attention to the details. When I’m writing poetry, it’s a very auditory process. There’s a feeling or an image in my head that I need to translate to paper. It’s my voice – I just need to find the right words.

When I’m writing CNF, specifically persona, the details are even more important. I start with the facts – these are the bones of the piece, the bones of the speaker. I have to see their whole body, in the time and space they existed, before I can hear their voice. Once there’s a clear image in my head, I can begin the poetic process of imagining and translating their voice.

Also, I think it’s cool to use line breaks in essays.

What writer or artist has most inspired you in your own writing career? Why?

Toni Morrison <3. Her work encapsulates the hybridity I try to instill in my own writing. She pulls from the historical record and extends it into new possibilities. You could take an excerpt, at random, from any of her books, and it would read as a poem. And she always leaves the reader with questions to bring back to their own life. I really appreciate that.

Tell us about your chapbook, After Forgiveness, and why it is a testament to love.

I think, as humans, we want emotions to fit into these neat, contained boxes. My poems taught me that wasn’t true. I wrote about my anger for a long time before I realized I was also writing about the love, and loss, I had experienced. Once, in a workshop, a friend told me that I wrote “haunted love poems” and that description really stuck with me.

My chapbook is a reflection on relationships and the evolution of those relationships. I will always love the ritual of fishing with my father, but I will never again be a child on his boat, and that hurts. My mother’s cancer has been in remission for twelve years, but the fear of being motherless in middle school remains with me. I still dream about my roommate who moved out five years ago, but despite the anger I hold towards her, the dreams are always sweet.

I think the love we hold for ourselves and others is always changing shapes and sizes. After Forgiveness really leans into that. It doesn’t have a lot of answers. But it’s trying its best to make sense of things, while also keeping the plants alive.

What do you think of when you hear, “the good life?”

The good life, in my opinion, is picking plums straight from the tree. It’s when your loved ones are always nearby, and your cat feels like cuddling, and you think you figured out the twist at the end of the movie, but you end up surprised anyway.

Thank you, Alayna, for spending extra time on this Q&A and for the lovely audio recording of your work. We’re grateful to have you as a part of our growing community and wish you the best with your writing and other pursuits!

A multiple Pushcart nominee, Sharon Lee Snow earned an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of South Florida in Tampa, Florida. Her award-winning short stories, creative nonfiction, and poetry have been published in Passengers, Burningword, New Plains Review, South 85, Gulf Stream, and other journals. She currently lives in Tampa where she teaches professional writing to college students and works on her short story collection.

Snow’s piece, When Mr. Boppo Joined the Cohort, won the 2025 Honeybee Prize for short fiction is available in Issue #20 along with the judge’s endorsement and audio of Sharon reading a portion of her work.

How would you describe yourself—not just as a writer, but as a storyteller in everyday life?

Like most writers, I consider myself a student of human nature. In everyday life, I am trying to make sense of our complicated world and our interactions within it. I am deeply interested in human motivation – what makes a formerly “good” person do something deemed “bad?” How do we act when faced with an extreme situation? How are we all alike yet unique in our humanity? Watching closely, not as someone judging people, but rather, in empathy as a fellow human, I try to make sense and find the beauty and moments of grace in this mess we call life. My characters are deeply flawed as are we all, and I try to see the shared humanity in their struggle and failures. I care about my characters as people, and at the end, I want to see at least some vision of hope for all of us.

Readers often interpret characters through their own unique perspectives. As you wrote When Mr. Boppo Joined the Cohort, what did Mr. Boppo personally represent to you?

I have a fascination with clowns, especially the story of Pagliacci, which I love for its play-within-a-play concept and timeless plotline of jealousy, adultery, and murder. When Mr. Boppo walked through the classroom door in that MFA fiction workshop, I saw him as an actual clown who challenges the main character, Evan, as an ambiguous kind of antagonist who also represents many things to Evan who is struggling at that moment. I encourage readers to create their own interpretations of my writing, but I definitely know what Mr. Boppo means to me, even if Evan can’t see it until the end. I hope my readers can enjoy the bizarreness, yet strange normalcy of this clown character who is more real than he seems.

Have you ever experienced a time in your life when you felt like a “clown” or an imposter? How did you navigate or move past that feeling?

We all feel like clowns or imposters at some points in our lives, especially when we try something new or are out of our comfort zone. That is not a great feeling, and it can hold you back if you don’t push past it. I am constantly jumping out of my comfort zone into new situations, such as a move to LA or a new job in a new field, and it is both exhilarating and terrifying! When I walked into my first college classroom as a Visiting Instructor, I definitely felt like an imposter! To help with those concerns, I went to training sessions, talked to colleagues, studied the material and prepared, and then dressed in a confidence-inspiring outfit, took a deep breath, and addressed my students with a confident hello! Preparation and acting “as if” will get you far! Talking to colleagues and friends is also key. The main thing is to remember that you have the credentials, you can do it and move through until you beat those imposter lies.

In what ways did your time in the MFA program at the University of South Florida shape or influence this story?

My time in the MFA program at the University of South Florida definitely shapes this story! First, I could vividly visualize the classrooms, campus, and this fictional cohort with their professors and picture exactly how they interact, having been an MFA student and taught first-year composition in those very classrooms! But more importantly, my amazing professors and MFA student colleagues have been beyond generous in helping me progress as a writer. They are talented writers and great colleagues who inspire me daily. Also, our course readings were varied and many of us found similar interests. I am a huge fan of science fiction, fantasy, magical realism, speculative fiction, and weird fiction. I became inspired by works by Jeff VanderMeer, Aimee Bender and Karen Russell, novels such as The Midnight Library, by Matt Haig, The Night Circus, by Erin Morgenstern, and Piranesi, by Susanna Clarke, and wonderful work by my mentor, author John Henry Fleming. While I have a little fun in my imaginary Mr. Boppo MFA program, I am forever grateful for my wonderful MFA experience at USF!

How do you guide your first-year composition students to give and receive constructive feedback on each other’s writing?

I guide my first-year composition students in receiving and giving constructive feedback through thinking back on my experiences in the MFA program where we learned to focus on what’s working in the writing and provide positive suggestions on what to consider for revision. In all my writing classes, we have discussions on kind and useful peer review considerations before we undertake the actual work of peer review! It’s important to seriously consider language choices and tone in how you present your information about someone’s writing. First-year students are often new to university life as well as college-level writing. I make the atmosphere a welcoming, safe environment. If students don’t feel safe or heard, they will shut down. My goal is to let everyone know, writing is a process. We all start at the beginning and can improve through feedback and revision. There is not one right or wrong way to do this. Everyone has a voice.

What do you believe is the most important lesson a new writer should learn early in their journey?

I believe that the most important lesson that a new writer should learn early in their journey is to read voraciously – both inside and outside of their chosen genre – to learn how to read as a writer. Writers need to study other writing for structure, language, plotting, and characterization. They should find their cohort or people who can help them on their journey, such as fellow writers, readers, or friends who encourage them. They should also read about the craft and art of writing from authors such as Stephen King, Anne Lamott, Annie Dillard, James Scott Bell, and others. Most importantly, stop worrying about the work not being good enough – just keep writing and revising. Keep a solid writing schedule that works for you. Then send it out and keep sending it out. We need your writing!

You’ve published a great deal of poetry. How has writing poetry influenced or enriched your fiction writing?

Writing poetry definitely influences and enriches my fiction writing. I write poetry because I love the dance of words on a page and enjoy the concision needed to convey an image or thought in a poem. However, beautiful, crisp, concise language and the dance of words enriches fiction just as well. I also have longer stories to tell than a poem can convey, but I always love the language too. Poetry has been helpful in learning concision. I’m a long writer, but today’s readers don’t always want long stories. I used my poetry training to help me narrow down a 24-page short story into a 2-page flash fiction piece that became my first published flash fiction story! I enjoyed that challenge very much, and poetry definitely helped by giving me new tools.

When you hear the phrase “the good life,” what comes to mind?

When I hear the phrase “the good life,” I see a person relaxing on a beach! I live in Florida and don’t get to the beach as often as I’d like. But more generally, the good life feels like a state of mind more than a place. I’d like to think that we all deserve the good life – whatever that means to us: abundant resources and things we need to live without stress, but also, the chance to encounter, enjoy, and create art and things we love. Joy. Being in nature or with loved ones – that’s the good life too. But again, I think it’s about being in a good place mentally. Your journal is The Goodlife Review and its beautiful covers with an adorable bee logo make me smile along with your mission created out of the pandemic to foster not only writers, readers, and art, but also positivity and kindness. That, I believe, is truly the hallmark of the good life.

Thank you, Sharon, for spending extra time with us on this Q&A. We’re grateful to have had the opportunity to work with you and wish you the best with your writing and all life’s endeavors!

Jim Parisi lives in Washington, D.C., with his long-suffering wife, Beth, and Dolce, a spicy mix of boxer, pit bull, and Australian cattle dog. (Their two kids, Aidan and Nora, have flown the coop.) After a long career as an editor of research products for the academic market, he is focusing on fiction writing and freelance editing while he still has that new-unemployed-guy smell. Much of his free time is spent coaching Little League softball. His writing has been published in FlashFlood Journal and ihavethatonvinyl.com.

Parisi’s piece was the winner of the 2025 Honeybee Prize in flash Fiction. “While Making Out the Lineup for Tomorrow’s 12U Softball Championship Game” is available in Issue #20 along with the judge’s endorsement and audio of Jim reading a portion of his work.

How would you describe yourself—not just as a writer, but as a storyteller in everyday life?

My wife heard me read this question aloud and said that I’m a “quick- witted wiseass.” I started to protest but had to concede that she nailed it. I try to infuse every text, every email, every conversation, ever social media post, every story with humor. That was true even before I started writing fiction with a sense of purpose–and urgency, given my relatively late start—the past couple of years. But I’ve found that as I’ve become more confident as a fiction writer, I have also become more adept at telling stories in everyday life, both orally and in writing. I’m still a “quick-witted wiseass,” but I have become better at spinning a tale that goes beyond one-liners.

While Making Out the Lineup for Tomorrow’s 12U Softball Championship Game feels deeply personal, almost like flash creative nonfiction. How did your own coaching experience shape this piece?

This story came very easily to me, but it is not autobiographical or even based on situations or characters from my time as a softball coach. (In fact, the only player in the story who was based on a player I knew in real life ended up on the cutting-room floor after the first draft.) But I have been immersed in that world for years, and from the moment I came up with the premise for the story, I had a clear idea of how I would describe the lives of each of the players. I had to figure out the interpersonal relationships of the adults as I went along, but that also came pretty quickly, even though the suburban town I imagined as the setting is foreign to my experience as a coach.

This story moves so naturally from humor to something much more heartfelt. How do you approach building emotional tension and conflict in such a short space?

In my first draft I set out to give a fuller picture of the personalities and circumstances of the players along with the interweaving of relationships between the adults. The beauty of the structure of this story is that I could describe each girl in one discrete paragraph and could also explain, when the story called for it, how that girl or her family played a role in the plight of the coach. So building tension and conflict was fairly easy. I did it one block of text at a time, whittling my expansive first draft (all 3,400 words of it) to home in on a few telling details and plot developments. The humor comes naturally to me, but I’m constantly on the lookout for signs that the humor is coming off as too glib or facile and dampening the emotional resonance of the story. It’s a work in progress, an ongoing struggle in all my writing. (My wife just interjected, “in all your life.”)

The father in the story feels layered—like someone who may not have planned to coach, but stepped up for the sake of connection. Was that part of the character from the start, or something that emerged as you wrote?

I envisioned the father as someone who got started in coaching because his daughter’s team needed a coach and he agreed to fill that role. (That’s how a lot of coaches get their start, even lifers like me who end up sticking around long after their kids have moved on.) The connection with his daughter would have been part of his reason for wanting to coach, but when he started coaching, his personal life had not yet taken a turn for the worse. So he would have been doing it because he wanted to be a good dad who also liked teaching the other kids how to play. But as I kept heaping misery upon misery on the poor guy, I came upon the realization that softball was one of the cherished tethers to his earlier life with his daughter, which added to his sense of melancholy approaching this last game of the season.

Do you often experiment with different forms or genres in your writing? What draws you to flash fiction in particular?

I always thought that I was too much of an overwriter to be any good at flash fiction. It sometimes takes me 200 words just to clear my throat. And my writing in no way resembles the prose-poemy lyricism of the best flash stories. But I’ve found that I love being able to come up with an idea, then write a first draft that might indulge my proclivity for excess, then pare that down to get to the heart of the story and the characters. When it works well, I can come up with a finished story in a few days (then pick at it endlessly, something I had to stop myself from doing with this story even after it won the prize). Most of my flashes tend to have traditional story structure or verge on being vignettes. This story’s annotated lineup is an exception. I have recently completed the first draft of a novel that I began in 2023. I’m currently taking a brief break from that to gear up for writing the second draft. During this downtime, I’ve been writing stories that I hope will, if my nascent plan bears fruit, find their way into a novella-in-flash that I will return to whenever the novel stalls.

Flash fiction often relies on what’s left unsaid as much as what’s on the page. How do you decide what to include and what to leave out?

I am constantly fighting my natural urge to explain too much. I think I’ve gotten better about it, but I still need to be vigilant about leaving those spaces for the reader to fill in. But I am an editor by inclination as well as training; so as I’ve gained confidence in writing flash fiction, I have been able to direct my editing efforts to focus not only on correcting what’s on the page but also on figuring out what doesn’t need to be on the page. That too is a work in progress.

There’s such warmth and subtlety in the humor here. How has humor influenced your writing voice over time—and how do you decide when to use it? 

My biggest struggle lies in figuring out when not to use humor. My default mode is writing humor. Buried somewhere in my attic is a report card from the eighth grade on which my English teacher wrote. “Jimmy’s sense of humor comes out in his writing.” REDACTED years later, I am still at heart that thirteen-year-old kid, especially when writing dialogue. I have found that the subject matter and natural rhythms of the story dictate when to use, and when not to use, humor. But even in the more serious parts of this story, my intention was for the coach to use humorous asides and self-deprecation to leaven what could have been a relentless litany of misery and indignities. I can’t imagine writing characters without the use of humor, either overtly or subtly.

Which writers or storytellers have had the biggest influence on you, and what is it about their work that sticks with you?

This is the question I’ve been dreading. Ask me to name my favorite or most influential anything, and I’ll draw a massive blank. But I’ll try my best.

I could go on about many authors, but I’ll pick the first three who popped into my head as having influenced how I think about writing over the years. I was a huge John Irving fan in my early twenties, back when he wrote novels that were Dickensian in scale but filled with humor. I wish I could write as well, and as perceptively, as Kurt Vonnegut, but I certainly aspire to the liveliness of his prose and his ability to use humor to point out society’s absurdities and outrages. And Roddy Doyle’s dialogue jumps off the page for me, especially in his earlier books. He has definitely influenced my approach to writing dialogue.

But honestly, the publication that had the biggest influence on me from an early age was MAD Magazine. I read that religiously as a kid. MAD—along with genetics (from my father, although my mother can hold her own in that department) and a healthy dose of New Jersey attitude—definitely played a significant role in developing the comic sensibility that runs through everything I write.

What do you think of when you hear, “the good life?”

What comes to mind when I think about the good life is vacations with my family: sitting on the nearly deserted beach late in the afternoon, the sun setting behind us, the sound of the waves crashing, the sense of peacefulness. I think I’ll need to make a concerted effort to conjure that image to counteract the sense of dread that pervades my thoughts whenever I think about the state of the world.

Thank you, Jim, for being a part of our growing literary community and for spending extra time with us on the Q&A as well as the audio reading. Congrats again on the prize… we wish you the best!

Hiokit Lao is a 29-year-old, self-taught artist based in NYC. She aims to create art that ignites conversations and celebrates life, encouraging viewers to explore different narratives within the artwork. Each piece is a homage to cultural diversity, intertwining social narratives and her artistic vision. Through surreal, abstract, and vibrant elements, she aims to create meaningful art that instills hope and positivity.

Lao’s piece, entitled “Kunik,” is the cover art of Issue #17. In her own words, “it showcases two Inuit women sharing a ‘Kunik,’ symbolizing profound love and strength. Like mountains, they stand resilient, their nurturing spirits akin to the enduring peaks—steadfast, forgiving, and strong, embracing unwavering love and fortitude.”

Tell us about yourself.

Hi, I’m Hiokit Lao, a self-taught artist currently based in Washington, DC. Art has always been my safe space, a way to let my imagination run wild ever since I was a child. My style leans towards surrealism because I love translating those quirky, dreamlike visions in my head into something tangible. These days, art is more than just a passion. I want my artwork to create a sanctuary – a place where people can get lost and feel a sense of peace. My goal is to create pieces that spark conversation and remind us to embrace our unique voices because that’s what makes life colorful.

A kunik, is also known as an Eskimo kiss, nose kiss, or nose rub. You explained that in various Indigenous cultures, it is usually interpreted as a form of greeting and affection. What could other cultures learn from this intimate expression?

Every culture has its own ways of showing love, and the kunik is a beautiful example. I first learned about it from a video a few years ago, and the way it was explained really stayed with me. In my culture, we’re not super big on verbal or physical affection, so as a kid, I remember craving those tender moments with family. The kunik teaches us that affection doesn’t have to be loud or dramatic. It can be quiet and personal, and that’s just as meaningful.

I think it’s a reminder for all of us to express love in ways that feel authentic. Whether it’s a nose rub, a hug, or even a simple smile, these small acts of love can bridge gaps between us. It’s never too late to show someone you care and celebrate the love and connection in our lives because it’s a narrative we all share.

There is something so beautiful about the women in Kunik forming the peaks of a mountain. What is the first step for women towards building that strong bond of love and strength with each other?

I think women have a natural ability to nurture and form deep connections. Society often frames conversations about women around equality, and don’t get me wrong, that’s important, but sometimes we forget to celebrate the things that make women uniquely powerful.

To me, the first step is recognizing that strength in vulnerability. It’s about lifting each other up, sharing stories, and being present. For us to come together, we need to acknowledge that our empathy, compassion, and ability to love deeply are powerful strengths. This kind of connection, whether it’s between mothers and daughters, friends, or strangers, is what helps to build our communities and our world. It’s about celebrating our differences while standing united, and that’s a lesson everyone can learn from.

What does a bond like that model to future generations? Who did you imagine as the person climbing the peaks formed by the two women?

When women build strong, loving connections, it shows future generations what resilience and collaboration look like. The person climbing those peaks carries the love and strength passed down from the women before them. They are a symbol of these bonds. They represent our hope.

The mountains are challenges we face together and represent the heights we can reach when we’re united. This force of resilience and mutual support teaches all of us that strength isn’t just about power. It’s about leaning on and learning from each other. In a world that often feels divided, We need to build a world where love, compassion, and forgiveness lead the way so that those who come after us can stand on solid ground and continue climbing higher.

How would this mountain differ if there were two men engaged in the kunik? Or a man and a woman? Or two children?

The beauty of this piece is that it transcends gender. Women are creators of this world. The two women in this piece represent all people, regardless of gender, background, or identity. If there were two men, or a man and a woman, or even two children engaged in the kunik, the meaning would still hold. The essence of the bond isn’t dependent on gender. It’s about the connection, the love, and the care that people share. It’s a universal story about relationships and support.

Why does our world especially need an image of unity and strength at this moment?

Our world is in a state of constant flux, and it feels like misinformation, division, and uncertainty are everywhere in our lives. It’s easy to get lost in all of it. Before I picked up art again, I was stuck and overwhelmed by all the negativity in our world today. Art became my way of finding peace, and I think everyone needs something like that: a safe space to recharge and channel hope, both individually and collectively.

In the midst of everything, we still need reminders of hope. We need to see that love and strength are possible, even in the toughest times. But it’s not just about personal healing. It’s about coming together to rebuild trust and connection. Through actions big and small, we can remind each other that there’s still hope, even when things feel impossible. If my artwork can be that for someone, then I’ve done my job.

What do you hope people experience while taking in your beautiful image of kunik?

When people look at this piece, I hope they feel a sense of calm and peace. I want them to pause for a moment and think about the people they love and reflect on the love they’ve received in their lives. This piece is a reminder that love and connection are huge parts of our lives. We’re all human. At the end of the day, we just want to feel loved and understood.

What do you think of when you hear, “The Good Life?”

For me, “The Good Life” is all about simplicity and peace. I think of a cozy little brick cottage in the woods with a red door and a chimney puffing out smoke. It’s about having a place to call home, being surrounded by people you love, and feeling content with where you are. It’s waking up to birds chirping, sharing meals with friends, and spending evenings drawing or reading a book. The good life is about living in peace with the world around you and feeling your heart full of love.

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Thank you, Hiokit, for being a part of our growing community and for spending extra time on this Q&A with us. We wish you the best with your art, continuing to embrace peace and hope, and living a good life.

Deidre Jaye Byrne is a retired teacher and recovering Long Islander happily living and writing in the Hudson Valley. Her previous work has appeared in The Bellevue Literary Review, The Avalon Literary Review, Cafe Lit, Literally Stories, and other online and print publications.

Deidre’s short fiction piece, Puppy, is featured in Issue #17.

Tell us about yourself.

Over the course of my life, I’ve had many jobs, all of which have influenced the person and the writer I am today. I’ve been a waitress, a cook, a dishwasher, and a bookkeeper. I’ve worked in a cemetery, delivered pizzas, been a career counselor and a paralegal. I was a teacher and a lawyer. Today I am retired but still a wife, mother, and grandmother. And a writer. That last one was, for the longest time, the most difficult to claim, perhaps because it is the one that is hardest to define. 

Is someone a writer because they’ve been published or because they continue to write, maybe in secret, without any acknowledgment of their work? I don’t think I felt comfortable calling myself a writer until my fourth or fifth story was published. Saying aloud “I’m a writer” used to trigger something like imposter syndrome in me. I’m over it now, mostly, because I’ve just become more comfortable within myself. Puppy is my ninth published story, so that helps.

In Puppy, how has Dina’s experience with adoption made her hesitant to bring a puppy home after several attempts?

Dina is a woman whose lived experience has not made her stronger. She is choked by a need to fix her perceived failure as a mother, but without the confidence that she can succeed. In getting a puppy she hopes to prove to herself she can raise a living thing successfully; it’s a do-over for her. Dina blames herself for Erika’s problems. But she can’t see that Erika had and has agency and bears responsibility for her own choices. Dina wants to raise a puppy because that feels like a less daunting challenge than raising a human. But she can’t commit because she doesn’t want to make another mistake. She perseverates and is paralyzed by her perseveration. What would it mean if she did a better job with a puppy than she did with Erika? Dina isn’t sure and she’s afraid to find out.

Adopted or born of your own body, don’t most people go into parenthood blinded by expectations and hope? How has Dina had to adjust her expectations?

I love the phrase “born of your own body.”  I’ve rolled it around in my brain for a few days now and I think it applies, not just to one’s natural child but also to the process we all go through as we mature. Our adult selves are born of our own bodies as well. 

Yes, we are all blinded by our hope and expectation when we become parents. The difference I think is that as the birth parents we feel we can always match up our children’s personality traits, as well as their physical traits, and sometimes faults, tie them to the genetic pool. “Oh, he has grandpa’s eyes!” or “She’s stubborn like her father,” which leads us to have certain sense of familiarity, a level of comfort and confidence. And certain expectations. We think we can anticipate the meaning of those traits and our hopes grow from there. In this situation the genetic connection is absent. 

Of course, as parents we want certain things for our children. The hardest part of parenting, and particularly of being a mother, is learning that the child who came from your body does not belong to you. He or she grows into an adult and an autonomous person; we must love them just as they are and let them go on to live their own lives, even when it may not be what we hoped. Dina never understood that.

Through your story there are several analogies for adopting a child vs. adopting a puppy. Dina’s husband Hal suggests two solutions to their adopted daughter Erika’s behavior, both seeming more appropriate for managing an unruly puppy rather than a young woman. Does Dina also view Erika as an unruly puppy? Is that why she has yearned to raise a four-legged adoptee? So she can have the happy ending she pictured prior to Erika’s adoption?

The analogies were intended in part as commentary on the way our society has been blurring the lines between pets and humans. People talk about their “fur-babies” and “grand-puppy” the same way they talk about their children and grandchildren. They share pictures on FaceBook, they frame photos and put them on the mantel, they buy outfits for them. We no longer purchase pets, we adopt them, and it makes no difference whether they come from a small home breeder, a puppy mill, pet store, or a shelter, the language is always the same. I know someone who was getting a kitten, and her friends held a shower for her as if she were having a baby. I think it’s very interesting.

So, for Hal to use a phrase like “brought to heel”, it might go unnoticed in another context, but here it stands out because of Dina’s fixation on getting a puppy, of having that do-over, as if children and puppies are interchangeable. And for some people they are.

How much of a factor do you think generational trauma plays into a person’s personality or condition?

I think we still don’t appreciate the ways that trauma seeps into a person. Yes, it permeates culture, socio-economic history, and in a host of other ways, but I think the most visceral and least understood is the way trauma gets into our cells. The body holds trauma; and I think that in a pregnant woman that trauma can transcend the placenta and can influence the developing fetus. 

Our bodies hold our experiences and shape us in ways that we not only don’t necessarily understand but also in ways that don’t show up for years and years in some cases. Our adult selves are born of all that our bodies hold. The reader, like Dina and Hal, knows nothing about Erika’s natural parents, we know nothing of the birth mother’s circumstances or how she came to be pregnant. But whatever the circumstances, I think those things are baked into Erika’s cells and have made her who she became, irrespective of any parental failings on Hal and Dina’s part.

How did your years of teaching influence your writing?

It taught me the importance of allowing for the interplay of planning and the factors that disrupt planning. Having a perfect lesson plan and then, without notice, there’s a fire drill in the middle of class—well, it’s not unlike being halfway into a story and realizing the main character is all wrong or the idea you thought was so great is really rather lame. It’s made me appreciate flexibility and the ways it can work to a writer’s advantage. It’s okay to be committed to the story in my head, but I’ve got to be willing and able to roll with it when something doesn’t work the way I expected or anticipated.

What did your students teach you about life?

Everything takes longer than you think!

Our everyday life influences our writing, but how has your writing influenced your everyday life?

This is a great question; I’d not thought much about until you asked, and it’s led me to do some journaling around it. I don’t know if this is the final answer, but I think my writing has made me more conscious of time, how much time I have available to devote to my work in any given week, and how much time my other roles demand. But also, I find that sometimes, when I’m waiting to see what comes up next for a story idea, I start putting my life at arms’ length, examining it to see if there is something there I can use. I don’t know if I like that I do that, but I see myself doing it. 

What do you think when you hear, “the good life”?

As soon as I read the question I heard in my head Frank Sinatra singing “The Good Life”…to the good life, to be free to explore the unknown… This was funny to me because I am not particularly a fan of Frank Sinatra, and I don’t know any other words to the song. And yet, when I started to think about it, the freedom to explore, to discover who we are, to move through as many iterations of ourselves as we wish, to find the place where we thrive and when we’ve had our fill to move on. Yes, that is the good life.

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Yes, Deidre, you ARE a writer and we’re grateful for the opportunity to work with you. Thank you for being a part of our growing community and for spending extra time on this Q&A with us. We wish you the best with life and all your writing endeavors.

Mychal Hope is a writer from a small-ish town in California. Her work has been featured in the San Joaquin Review. Most of her free time is devoted to creating stories she rarely finishes.

Mychal’s fiction piece, Babygirl, is featured in Issue #17 as well as our Winter 2025 Issue, “Best Of” Edition.

Tell us about yourself.

My name is Mychal and I got into writing a couple of years ago, sort of tapped into something that I hadn’t thought to explore before. I like to write in multiple genres, but my favorite is fiction, it also happens to be the one I struggle with the most. I love to gallivant around without any particular direction because I find a lot of peace in my surroundings. I’m still figuring everything out, life-wise, but I like to think I’m trying my best. 

The comparison between the women of a complicated family and female hyenas was very well done in your story Babygirl. What first sparked the idea to combine the two? Was it family dynamics you’ve witnessed or the hunting practices of hyenas? 

It was a combination of both. The hunting practices I’ve witnessed within families, especially that of mother and daughter. I think the way a mother interacts with her daughter is inherited, unintentionally passed down between lineages. I ended up associating the women in Babygirl with hyenas because of their matriarchy. The “leaders” in this story are the mothers, they call the shots and roll the dice, this is true for hyenas as well. Hyenas tend to fight rough and a little dirty, nipping at ankles and leaving their food alive; I found this comparison to be incredibly true for Babygirl’s family, just less blood. 

Family members often have repressed feelings toward each other. How do you imagine the drama between these sister-in-laws first started?

I think the drama started for Mama when her brother got married. A competition was born that only Mama was trying to win, “Who can be the best daughter?” She has a need to prove herself and be the epitome of perfection, but just keeps “failing” at this unspoken rivalry because her family doesn’t look the way she wants it to, the way she’s been told it should. I think the aunt felt Mama’s resentment and carried it with confusion until she met it with hostility. They were playing nice until all of their cards were laid out.

For someone described earlier in the story as “kind and good, heart as golden as her daughter’s hair,” the sister-in-law/aunt was vicious at the birthday supper. Do you think that’s normal human behavior? To act out of character when hurt? Why or why not?

I feel that as humans we have this desire to separate ourselves from the fact that we’re animals. We react when someone pokes us and fight back when pushed too hard. I think it’s normal to act vicious when hurt. It’s within most people’s character to be mean when they’re angry, spit stuff out that’s usually swallowed down. 

How did Babygirl standing up to Rosie bring Babygirl closer to her mother?

When Babygirl stood up to Rosie it changed her perception of Mama, she started to see her as something young and fragile. This realization brought a unifying closeness; they’re both daughters in need of defending, unable to live up to their families expectations. 

What do you hope readers take from your story, Babygirl?

I hope that readers have fun with it. See themselves as the angry girl that gets their comeuppance, the outcast that can’t really figure out how to fit into their family. I want them to carry a sense of exhilaration, this was a kid that broke down ages of petty peace with physical force. I want them to understand the brokenness of generational trauma, the burden a daughter can end up carrying on their mothers behalf.

What is your favorite form of expression? Why?

My favorite form of expression is writing. It’s the one thing I’ve buried myself in that genuinely interests me and keeps me coming back. It’s hard and time-consuming and sometimes not very fun, but I love it nonetheless. I usually get going in the other direction when the going gets a little tough, but I try when I’m writing. There are times when I feel a bit like an idea generator, great at coming up with concepts, but quite terrible at following through. There’s thousands of voice notes on my phone where I’m speaking as fast as possible to get the idea down before it runs away from me and you can barely hear me over the sound of the shower in the background or terribly typed up quotes that I had to do fast because I pulled over into some random ditch while I was driving. 

How do you make expression a part of your daily life?

I think that expression bleeds through me in subtle ways. I try to only say what I mean, which is semi-difficult because I come from a family of exaggerators and lovers of harmless little lies. I try to be a good person and actively pursue things I find fascinating, absorbing knowledge from people around me and falling down rabbit holes.

What advice do you have for other creatives?

• I’m still relatively fresh to the game, but some advice I have is that art isn’t linear, it’s okay if yours is different. Have fun with whatever you’re creating, experiment and mess up and try again. Good things take time. 

What do you think of when you hear, “The Good Life?”

When I hear “The Good Life,” it makes me feel calm and content. I associate it with writing, the feeling you get when you’ve created something you’re proud of. The buzzing in your hands when you’re fully absorbed in an idea that you’re (finally) carrying through. 

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Thank you, Mychal, for being a part of our growing community and for spending extra time with us on this Q&A. We’re glad we were able to connect and we wish you the best with your current and future writing endeavors (including the hundreds of notes on your phone), and with whatever else life brings your way!

Daniela Garvue hails from central Nebraska but now lives in Missoula, Montana, where she received her MFA in creative writing, and works as a gardener and receptionist. Last year, her band, The Pettifoggers, released their first album, Small Claims, available everywhere. She’s been published in several magazines including The Bellevue Literary Review and the Tahoma Literary Review, and has a forthcoming story in The Sewanee Review. This year she finished her novel at her desk job, which unfortunately means she has to start paying attention to her work.

Daniela’s short CNF, A List of Missoula Area Grocery Stores to Cry In, Ranked, is featured in Issue #17.

Tell us about yourself.

I come from central Nebraska, but these days I live in Missoula, Montana. I moved here for the writing program, but stayed for the beautiful community I’ve found. Seems like everyone is moving to Montana these days, and it’s funny being from the midwest because no one blames you for being from Nebraska the way you get flak for moving in from California or Massachusetts. My place of origin has smoothed tensions at cowboy bars more than once. My writing tends to be place-focused, and I especially love getting to know the ugly side of each place – the abandoned lots, the trash in the weeds, the drain pipes. These, I think, are access points to the inner life of each place. So I do a lot of walking around, looking behind fences, etc. But the process of writing is so lonely and unforgiving that I often turn to music, which gives me immediate joy, even when I’m playing badly. Music also connects me to my family, who I miss and I wish I lived closer to them. My father was a great musician, but a terrible teacher. So he bought me my first guitar, but I had to learn on my own. He died in 2016 and most of my writing and songs are about him in some way. I started a band called The Pettifoggers with a grad school friend / accordion player in 2018, and since then we’ve been adding friends and instruments. Right now the count is at six members, with a potential seventh in the works. We just put out an album last year, and this year I’ve been writing new music and trying (mostly unsuccessfully) to get out of the folk/Americana genre. My secret dream is to be in a punk band, but unfortunately I have very rosy cheeks and like to go to bed early. 

A List of Missoula Area Grocery Stores to Cry In, Ranked is so creative. Of all the ways to express sadness, what was it that made you determine ranking the best grocery stores to cry in was the most poignant?

There was no part of me that calculated the poignancy of crying in grocery stores; it’s just that I realized I’d cried in almost every grocery store I’ve ever been to. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the time of day when I go shopping, after work, when I feel I have to finally decompress. Or maybe I just cry easily. Grocery stores are really tied to relationships for me – shopping with parents, with boyfriends, roommates. These relationships get painted into the whole experience of the place, so wandering the grocery aisles becomes very meditative for me. And as I followed this train of thought, I realized I had preferences. Like, if I go to X store, will I be able to cry in peace? Are the aisles wide enough to hunker down somewhere and hide? Will I have to interact with anybody? I was sitting in bed, crying from the most recent grocery trip, where I did run into an ex, and in a fit of sorrow I just wrote it all out as a dark parody of a clickbait article. I also wrote a song about it.

How has writing helped you get through your own sadness?

This is a really funny question, because when I first got into the MFA program here I was at loose ends. I’d just been dumped by a long-term boyfriend, I’d moved away from Seattle, my dad was recently dead and both of my grandparents were pretty actively dying. They’d lived right next door and had helped raise me. So I was really sad and I was writing A LOT to process that grief. Then, when I started going to school here, I met a bunch of incredible new friends and I had a new purpose in life. I called my mom and was just gushing about how happy I was, and she said, “That’s so great, Daniela. But are you actually writing? You know you always write more when you’re unhappy.” And I thought that was so funny and so true. I wasn’t writing as much, even though I was in school for it. I think that’s when I started playing music more. Because music, for me, stems a lot more easily from joy than does prose. So long story short, writing is one of the ways I process my grief into anything manageable. And when I’m not actively grieving, I do other things. I have more fun. But it’s all gathering material for when I turn back inward. Writing will always be there for me.

What do you hope your reader gains from reading this clever ranking?

I hope the reader gets a good chuckle out of it, but I also hope they feel some recognition of the strange act of public crying. We try so hard to avoid it, but often can’t. And there you are at the checkout aisle, trying not to make eye contact with the clerk. Anyone who’s been in a similar situation will feel some kinship there. I hope they feel seen.

How has having your MFA in creative writing benefited your life as a writer?

Number one is my cohort. I can’t praise them enough. I had the best class a writer could ask for – talented, generous, kind. We were all great friends, and after the workshops we’d just meet up and talk for hours. That was the best part; finding like minded people who share your peculiar obsession. We all read each other’s work enough to know each other deeply. The second advantage is gaining access to the nepotism of the publishing world. It’s an unfortunate fact, but one I intend to take advantage of. Having professors or friends in the literary community is huge for just getting read. For not getting passed by due to the sheer volume of submissions. You just have to use the connections you have. Third, the program taught me some very useful skills. I edited for the UM lit magazine (Cutbank – it’s a really excellent publication) and learned how daunting the slush pile is. The first sentence is really all you have to hook an audience. You have to make it count. Another skill: developing thick skin. I’ve become vain about my rejection letters and my workshop criticism. I try to love them. Of course it has its downsides. It’s much harder to get swept up in a book because I’m constantly evaluating it. I think part of your innocence gets lost in grad school.

Do you write the lyrics for your band’s songs? If so, how has honing your writing craft in the MFA program influenced your music?

I do! I write the music and the lyrics. I don’t know if the program specifically changed the way I write song lyrics. I try so hard not to think about the lyrics too much. The way I write songs usually comes from the guitar first. I mess around with some chords over and over, mumbling, until the words find themselves in the song. Once I have something that fits, I try not to mess with it very much. I think the spontaneity can be really beautiful, and can turn a song into something you didn’t expect. I like the surprise, and I like that music lives in a different part of my brain than writing.

What is your favorite form of creative expression? Why?

It’s impossible to choose! It depends on the day and what I am experiencing. I would say music is the most immediately gratifying, but writing might be the most lasting. I also love to garden. It’s very satisfying, both immediately and long term. I like to get tired. 

What do you think of when you hear, “The Good Life?”

I just think of long road trips as a kid. My aunts and uncles live in Colorado, and on the way back home we’d pass the big green sign that says “Welcome To Nebraska – The Good Life,” and we’d cheer.

I kind of like the slogan that made the rounds a few years ago. “Nebraska: It’s not for everyone.” It’s funny because it’s true.

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So true indeed! Each time a new slogan comes out, it’s like, oh what’s this now. Nebraska Nice? Good gravy! (Mostly only people from Nebraska say “good gravy”)

Thank you, Daniela, for being a part of our growing community and for spending extra time with us on this Q&A. So much of this is very relatable and we appreciate you sharing. We’re glad we were able to connect and wish you the best with current and future writing, music, and gardening, endeavors. And with whatever else life tosses your way.

Corrina Chan graduated from Lewis & Clark College in Oregon, where she majored in psychology and later English literature with a focus on creative writing. While attending Lewis & Clark, she wrote for and edited the student journal, The Mossy Log, founded the Prose Club, a creative writing group, and was the fiction editor for the youth-run literary magazine, Diamond Gazette. She was also an editorial intern at Future House Publishing. Combining her curiosity about all things literary and a willingness to take on new challenges, she hopes to continue to write and publish more of her work.

Corrina’s short fiction, Before the Waters, is featured in Issue #17.

Tell us about yourself.

I am a current postgraduate student who is looking to break into the publishing world. I love reading, some of my favorite genres including fantasy and science fiction. I recommend the book series Shadow of the Fox by Julie Kagawa and the author Erin A. Craig for YA fantasy romance lovers. As for writing, it was always a creative outlet when I had something to say. Each piece has a little bit of me inside it somewhere and I hope others will find themselves in them too. 

Before the Waters shows Greek Mythology character, Charon, managing transportation to the underworld with payment other than the traditional coin the deceased were buried with. What form of payment do you think you’d offer Charon to cross the river Styx? Why?

I have a lot of sentimental items that I keep with me. Paintings made by friends, cards written by my family, jewelry given to me by my parents and grandparents, dog tags from all the family pets I used to have, and so much more. All of these items represent my heart and the life that I lived. But if I had to choose one thing to give to Charon, it might be a home cooked plate of pork cutlet and napa soup—my mother and grandmother’s recipes. I like to think that I put a lot of good into the world and take care of others. Items may no longer be meaningless to the ferryman, but giving him something that will last, like the taste of honey on his tongue, is very important to me. 

I like the idea of Death being sensitive and appreciating the lives of humans. How did Death’s influence change Charon for the better?

Death collects the souls directly from their resting place on Earth. He gets to see their last moments and he gets to see who or what is around them when they die. He gets a very human perspective from the natural passage that Charon just doesn’t. Collect the coins, drive the boat—that is all he does. That is Charon’s one and only job. Being underground, away from the context of the lives each passenger lived takes away a lot of the humanity that others may otherwise have. Death understands both ends of the spectrum and served as a medium for Charon to better understand the passengers in his boat. 

How has Greek mythology influenced your writing?

Greek mythology was fairly omnipresent when I was growing up, and I can’t say that Rick Riordan didn’t have anything to do with it, other than the fact that you learn a lot of Greek and Roman mythology in western literature. Mythology has always slipped its way into my writing in one way or another, somehow. I’ve written stories about angels and demons, shapeshifting creatures, gods and goddesses. Fantasy often draws in some of it somehow. For this piece, I was inspired by the original story of Charon and the River Styx/Acheron, but there are also elements of other mythologies in there as well. 

What editorial or publishing tips can you share with other writers?

The most basic thing I can say is the standard line edit and format of your piece. I have received a lot of submissions in an illegible font with dozens of typos. There is a lot of competition out there, so anything you can do to make your piece easier for publishers and agents, the better. Have someone read your document before submitting and especially before spending money to submit. 

You wrote your first short story at the age of six, how have the themes of your writing changed over the years and how have they stayed the same?

My first ever story was a knock-off of Back to the Future with a fantastical touch to it. My work has evolved to not rip off major films and added a lot of personal touch to them. The fantasy is still there though, and I do not think that is something that always needs to be shaken off as you grow up. Write what you love. 

How does your knowledge of psychology shine through your writing? Do you enjoy diving into the human psyche? Why or why not?

I honestly say that I cannot tell. Psychological principles, studies, and tendencies have become such an unconscious part of my mind (ironically) that I cannot tell when I apply them. Oftentimes I am surprised when someone points them out or when I analyze someone’s work according to those principles and they have no idea what I am talking about. 

What do you think of when you hear, “The Good Life?”

I am personally an optimistic nihilist, so take this with a grain of salt. I think “The Good Life” refers to whatever events, actions, friends, family, pets, or really anything that makes life worth living for you. Anything that makes you happy, even for a minute; anything that makes you or your loved ones smile, even on a hard day; and, though it is incredibly cliche, anything that gets you out of bed in the morning. The things that you do, the loved ones you surround yourself with, and the little things that you cherish are all what makes this The Good Life. Remember it all when it is your time to cross the river. 

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Thank you, Corrina, for being a part of our growing community and for spending extra time with us on this Q&A. We’re glad we were able to connect and we wish you the best.

Author Q&A with Carey Salerno

Carey Salerno is the executive director and publisher of Alice James Books. She is the author of Shelter (2009), Tributary (2021), and the forthcoming The Hungriest Stars (fall 2025, Persea Books). Her poems, essays, and articles about her work as a publisher can be found in places like American Poetry Review, Poets & Writers, NPR, and The New York Times. She serves as the co-chair for LitNet: The Literary Network and occasionally teaches poetry and publishing arts at the University of Maine at Farmington. In 2021, she received the Golden Colophon Award for Independent Paradigm Publishing from CLMP for the leadership and contributions of Alice James Books. careysalerno.com

Carey’s poem, “Little Sparrow, Baby Mole (The MoMo Twins)” was featured in Issue #17.

Tell us about yourself.

Well, I’ll start with this question gives me superlative-for-high anxiety, because I always feel like there’s nothing really to tell. Moreover, I hate talking about myself. It always feels indulgent, or maybe I’m just more of an in-person vibes person? At the same time, I really love being indulgent. I love joy, fulfillment, and pleasure in absolute excess. As well I love beach naps, green olive and pineapple pizza, shoes, snowboarding, poems that I can turn over in my head all day long, and car washes with rainbow soap. I grew up in Michigan, so I have a deep love for sand dunes, snake grass, and apple orchards. My first job was farming Christmas trees on my family farm. I always wanted to wield the machete, but we retired the business before I was old enough to do so. As much as I was happy to no longer be chased by blue racers, I highly regret that. Oh, I’m also a poet and work in publishing. I’d love one day to dream in black and white.

The form of “Little Sparrow, Baby Mole (The MoMo Twins),” is very unique. Would you say poetry has more creative flexibility than other forms of writing? Why or why not?

I think so, though I see more formal variation and risk-taking starting to come into play in other genres, to be seen as more acceptable in other genres. There’s a book I just read, Exhibit by R.O. Kwon where she weaves short prayers and also Korean lore throughout the “main” narrative in a way that feels highly poetic. I fell in love with that book. God, I’m still in love with that book. In terms of poetry, back to the topic, there’s more flexibility because the medium is, typically, more brief. There’s more room for ambiguity and syntactical dance in poems because poets aren’t working with elements like plot, which must at some point be somewhat straightforward. Readers of poetry are more willing to readily accept a poem solely for its emotional impressions, or to walk away from a poem having, perhaps, not entirely understood its meaning. They can find elements of satisfaction and joy in that act.

What is your favorite form of poetry to write? Why?

I don’t necessarily know if it’s my favorite, but it’s become obvious to me that I’m highly attracted to the couplet form. Most of my poems seem to fall into place that way even though as I draft them, they arrive as blocks of text or whatever a block of text is within my phone’s notes app. Still, I find the couplet so useful for elongating metaphor and extending narrative. It’s also perfect for making leaps in the narrative or sudden gear switches in tone. Ugh, and internal rhyme. What a lovely form for playing with sound. I wonder if this is because the stanza is so brief that it doesn’t really allow its reader/writer the opportunity to get too comfortable. Like, just when one settles into a couplet, it’s completing its task and you’re onto the next one. They feel temporal, an invitation to stay and to go simultaneously, and perhaps that’s what I love about them? Their fleetingnesses. Their perpetuation of threshold. 

What do you hope people experience while reading “Little Sparrow, Baby Mole (The MoMo Twins)?”

I hope the readers of this poem will gain a deeper understanding of the internal landscape of individuals who experience pregnancy loss and those who have to make unexpected and complicated decisions with regard to pregnancy. This poem delves into the internal landscape of a speaker who had to make a hard decision to abort part of a pregnancy that involved not one but three embryos. In this poem, the speaker grapples with finding her grounding. She’s awash with emotions, many of which society doesn’t have adequate structures to help her cope with or express. When people read this poem, I hope they experience the complexity of grief and longing attached to the loss and also to the loss that is the loneliness we’ve devised for people who experience this type of loss. Within loss is a feeling of interminability, and beyond the specificity of the poem’s subject matter, I think its readers can find resonance with that concept emotionally.

How, as a writer, do you hope to connect with your readers, whether through poetry, essays, or articles?

The way I hope I connect with readers is the same way I hope to connect with a writer when I read. By that, I mean, I hope to find/make authentic connections with the writer and their work. I want to find/establish an element of generosity. I want vulnerability. I love drawing and being drawn deep into the interior world of someone else. It’s my favorite place to be. 

How has a career in publishing helped your own writing?

Has it? I’m kidding a little. In the sense that I read a lot of good writing constantly which challenges me in my own work, I’ll say it’s helped me immensely. For those same exposures, though, it also can be difficult to sustain belief in my own voice. There’s so much good writing out there. Hm, I think it’s made me have to work harder to believe in myself, to put conscious effort toward quieting the negative self-talk. Oh, and I have a deep and abiding love for every editor and publisher out there. I don’t think I would have the same appreciation for the ridiculous amount of work they do without being in the field myself.

How has your writing style changed from your first publication to today?

I’ve certainly become more open and more willing to take risks. After my first book came out, I didn’t feel the pressures of perfection so intensely. I don’t think that feeling is incredibly unique. When you read my first book, Shelter, you see a lot of left-hand justified 1-page or shorter poems. I’ve certainly branched out in terms of form and in terms of trusting the language of the poem to guide me toward its most organic form. A friend of mine recently told me that if someone handed my second book to them after they’d read my first book, they wouldn’t have thought they were by the same poet. Perhaps this means part of my identity as a poet is being receptive to evolution. I’m really flexible in my writing (more flexible than I realized), and to me writing is about following my intuition. My intuition will always be mine, so in that sense, I guess, it is a rather fixed entity; however, my intuition continues to develop over time as I amass knowledge, curiosity, and deeper faith in the capabilities of language.

As a publisher, what are you looking for in a writer?

Someone who makes me feel, think, see. That might seem simple. Perhaps it’s meant to be simple, to seem simple, and it is…or it isn’t. This is poet-me responding, so please forgive such indulgence in opacity. I hope that any and every writer I read is someone who is trying to connect with me in an authentic way. What I mean by that is there’s no withholding, no purposeful confusion, no manipulation–unless, I’m in on it all. I look for writers who show up looking for readers, who want readers. They’re out for partners in their crimes and confessions. There’s something they want to say. If that’s you, I already want to be your confidante. 

What do you think of when you hear, “The Good Life?”

I bet NO ONE has given this answer to you ever before, but honestly, Kanye West and these lyrics: “The good life, let’s go on a livin’ spree / Shit, they say the best things in life are free.” My son, disgruntled about school at the tender age of 11, recently got into West’s Graduation album, which I listened to in my 20’s. I was relieved because he was listening to so much Weird Al it was getting unnerving. What an intense time. Regardless of my feelings about Kanye now, I love the idea of going on a living spree and celebrating the fact that the best things in life are free, even while these two ideas seem to conflict with each other. It gets me wondering what really is free, but that’s a conversation for another time. Perhaps it’s the energy of “The Good Life” which I also equate to being a reminder about having one life and the fact that it’s up to me to make it good, to define what makes it good, and pursue that with a sense of seriousness and responsibility. Is it morbid to say I think about being on my deathbed a lot? I don’t want to be in a place of regret when I die, wishing I’d done whatever it was I didn’t. That feels like failure to me, to be sad when dying, to be reluctant because I wish I had more time to do whatever it was I didn’t for whatever reason I didn’t. Wow, that got a little dark. “The Good Life” is pure light, though. Thank you for that and this thoughtful conversation. I appreciate you and all you do for writers!

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Thank you, Carey, for being a part of our growing community and for spending extra time with us on this Q&A. We’re glad we were able to connect and we wish you the best with your current and future writing endeavors and with your publishing career.