Category: interviews

Siobhan Ring is a writer, organizer, and progressive movement-builder in the Pacific NW. She writes about parenting, caregiving, health, illness, and survival in a world that seems bound on destruction but overflows with beauty anyway. Her work has been previously published in The Write Launch, Lunch Ticket, and The Forge: Journal of Organizing Strategy and Practice. She lives with her sweet queer family in Seattle.

Siobhan’s essay “Space / Time” appears in Issue #19 ~ Spring 2025.

Tell us about yourself.

I live with my wife and our almost-adult kid in the beautiful PNW, a place that became my home 30 years ago. I’ve lived in cities most of my adult life, but I carry the small town, rural, kid I was with me. I work in progressive movement organizing and deeply appreciate both cats and coffee in my everyday life.

What unique or surprising detail can you tell us about the origin, revision process, and/or final version of your piece appearing in this issue?

Revision is everything. Writing is humbling. This essay took so long to write, and it needed so many revisions. I thought it was going to be a very short, darkly funny story about an absurdist road trip, but it became something else. I revised and revised and revised. I have piles of leftover language that might be seeds of another essay.

What do you hope readers take from the piece?

Give yourself grace. “The past isn’t going anywhere.” (folk singer Utah Phillips). We really have lived through that pandemic, and we are not and will not ever be the same. Grief is unwieldy and like the ocean in its vast, unrelenting, insistence. Our ancestors are right beside us.

What fuels your desire to write (or engage in other creative outlets) and how do you make expression a part of your daily life? Or how do you find a balance between your writing and other responsibilities?

Writing is how I give love to my own voice and experience, amid the cacophony of everything else. I am a very slow writer, both in the pace of writing and in the long pauses when I don’t write a word. I’ve lived in the constrained space between parenting my own child and caring for ill parents for the past 16 years, and I have an intense job and a dirty house and a long list of everything else. I write when I can, when I feel the impulse pull me, and I don’t waste any time feeling bad about not writing enough. The time and energy I do have for it feels precious like water.

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

The good life is freedom, safety, love, and community. All of us deserve it, and not enough of us have it. 

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Thank you, Siobhan, for sharing part of your story and for being willing to spend extra time on this Q&A with us. We’re grateful we had a chance to connect and wish you the best.

Alicia Elkort’s first book of poetry, “A Map of Every Undoing” was published in 2022 by Stillhouse Press with George Mason University, after winning their book contest. Alicia’s work appears in numerous journals and anthologies and she reads for Tinderbox Poetry Journal where she also writes reviews. Her poem, Ode to the Wet Towel on the Floor, appears in our spring issue.

Tell us about yourself.

I started writing poetry 15 years ago. Five years ago I moved from Los Angeles to Santa Fe, NM, place of my birth. I love hiking in the mountains and clouds and art and good food, so I’ve found a kind of heaven.  

What unique or surprising detail can you tell us about the origin, revision process, and/or final version of your piece appearing in this issue?

I wrote Ode to the Wet Towel on the Floor not long after my mother passed away in 2016. The poem poured out, all the dualities that I was facing, how she was no longer alive, but she lived on in my memory and also how I had conflicting memories of her love. I worked on that poem for months and months and when I thought it was as good as it could get, I sent it out. When it wasn’t getting picked up, I stopped sending it out. Recently I pulled it out again. After having been away from the poem, I edited it down from four pages to three pages. As always, when I come back to a piece months or years later, I am a different person, a different poet from when I first wrote it, maybe better, maybe not better, just different. I was able to edit out what now seemed not needed. I started sending the revised poem out and was pleased that it fairly quickly found a home at TGLR. 

What did you learn (about yourself or craft or life in general) through writing and revising it?

I am always amazed how the more I take away, the stronger the poem becomes. How craft and mastery rely on concision.

What do you hope readers take from the piece?

I hope they take what they need, whatever that might be. 

After sending the link to the poem to friends, the responses I received were varied. For one friend, the poem reminded her of how loved she felt by her father, though he never used the words. For others it was about how memory shifts and may be unreliable. For others, the poem captured the complicated feelings one has when a person close to us passes. 

Years ago at my very first featured reading, with another poet, when we were done, the host asked each of us to read one more poem. I had brought this poem but was hesitant to read it because of its length. But when they asked for one more poem, I decided to give it a whirl. After the reading, a woman came up to me with tears in her eyes, saying that her mother had just passed away and she was conflicted about her death. She said my poem gave her permission to feel the ache of the loss while also recognizing the limits of her mother’s ability to love her. It was okay that her mother was both a good and a bad mother, and now she could move on. I ended up in tears too, thinking if no one else ever read this poem, this moment is why I wrote it. 

What fuels your desire to write (or engage in other creative outlets)? Or what have been the biggest influences in your writing?

I write to learn what I know. I write to transform my losses and yearnings and traumas into something beautiful, to get them out of my body and on the page. I write to bring myself closer to the ineffable. I write to play with language and meaning and expression. I write for the sheer pleasure of having written. I write to express something that I don’t have words for. 

But I also write to re-write paradigms. I love taking old myths, fairytales etc. and re-creating the paradigms/stories behind them to one that is more consistent with women’s autonomy and agency.

The influences in my writing are usually individual poems where the poet captures something extraordinary and that might be something mundane, if that makes any sense. I want to emulate their consciousness or skill or ability to express the fundamental gorgeousness of it all, including the ugly and profane, meaning the fullness of human experience. Ross Gay’s “The Opera Singer,” slays me every time I read it. “Another Insane Devotion,” by Gerald Stern. “It’s 4pm in the ER and I Am Rearranged with a Small Sadness,” but Sonja Halvorson. “Ballad” by Diane Seuss. I could go on and on. And tomorrow I will fret that I didn’t name four different poems.

How do you make expression a part of your daily life? Or how do you find a balance between your writing and other responsibilities?

Writing is a responsibility. Almost every day whether I want to or not. 

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

When I hear “the good life,” I think freedom, freedom to choose how I spend my time. For me that is art, nature, family, friends, animals, fresh food, contemplating the divine. But it’s also my ability to be an expression of good, of love in the world, to give and to receive. 

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Thank you, Alicia, 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.

Corinne is an author, digital nomad, and avid traveller. Her fiction has appeared in The Bond Street Review, Remington Review, Elegant Literature, inScribe, Cool Beans Lit and others. Her flash fiction, Flying Fish, appears in our spring issue.

Tell us about yourself. 

Three years ago I put all my possessions in storage, stopped renting accommodation and decided to house sit for different properties and pets across the UK as a way to live, as I’m lucky enough to work remotely. My life is now taken up with travelling every few weeks, exploring new places, dog walking and writing. I’ve found my travels have always informed my writing and I use my stories to explore different cultures, histories and places.

What unique or surprising detail can you tell us about the origin, revision process, and/or final version of your piece appearing in this issue?

Flying Fish was inspired by a painting in a place I was house sitting for in Wimbledon, London. It was a period when I was attempting to instil the habit of writing every morning (which … I’ve half kept up). The painting showed several women scattered on a beach, picking up bottles from the sand. It wasn’t clear which country the painting was set in, but the owners of the house frequently travelled to South Africa, something which was evident from the decorations in the house. I decided the painting was set in Cape Town and the story that emerged came from musings on what had brought those women to the beach and why they were picking the rubbish strewn across it.

What did you learn (about yourself or craft or life in general) through writing and revising it?

Writing this story was an exercise for myself in whitling down a story to the bare essentials and I learned that the revision process is valuable for detecting those elements that are superfluous. It started as a longer piece, but I decided to try and cut it down only to its most important moments. I wanted to play around with characterisation and reveal the life of the protagonist through a short exchange with a stranger.

What do you hope readers take from the piece?

The story took several forms throughout the writing process, but I wanted the final draft to show a brief encounter that may have been uneventful on the surface, but one that highlighted separate extremes of living experienced by different people in one place. The protagonist and the boy are both on the beach in the early hours, but their different reasons for being there highlights the disparity in their socio-economic states and the racial segregation that is present in a lot of places in the world.

Ultimately, I hope that through my piece, readers will get a sense of place and how it can mean entirely different things to different groups of people.

What fuels your desire to write (or engage in other creative outlets)? Or what have been the biggest influences in your writing?

I think creative outlets are important for making sense of yourself and the world around you, so I’ve come to see writing as something that’s incredibly therapeutic. I’ve always been an avid reader and I’ve been writing since I was young, but since making writing a habitual part of my life, it’s become that moment of the day I look forward to!

How do you make expression a part of your daily life? Or how do you find a balance between your writing and other responsibilities?

I sometimes use my writing practice time to record my travels or I’ll use daily writing prompts to guide my writing practice. I’d love to say I wake up at the same early hour every morning to write before work, but I unfortunately like my morning lie-ins too much! Fitting it around other responsibilities is often a case of seeing what the day brings and finding time to write in the spare hours in mornings, afternoons or weekends.

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

When I hear “the good life”, I think of a life filled with travel, new experiences and time with friends and family.

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Thank you, Corinne, for being a part of our growing community and for spending extra time with us on this Q&A. Best wishes with writing and wherever your travels take you next.

A native of South Texas, Rose Marie Torres is an MFA candidate at LSU with a focus on screenwriting and creative nonfiction. Since 2023, Rose has been the Creative Writing Program Assistant for the LSU English Department. She has been supported by the 2025 Tin House Winter Workshop and can be found in Latinitas Magazine, Hothouse, and her flash essay, “I like when my ass hangs out of my shorts,” is featured in our spring issue.

Tell us about yourself. 

I was proudly raised in Alice, Texas, a small town in southern Texas. After graduating from the University of Texas at Austin, I decided to get my MFA from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge, where I currently reside. Most days, I’m catching up with friends, on the phone with my family, or spending time with my roommates. I treasure connection (and karaoke bars and green tea and blue jeans).

What unique or surprising detail can you tell us about the origin, revision process, and/or final version of your piece appearing in this issue?

This piece found its way into my brain during a creative nonfiction workshop taught by Joshua Wheeler. During class, he would have us write for five minutes straight, without stopping. It was a way to produce without judgement, but also to see what ideas, experiences, moments in time were coming up for us. So, in five minutes, I wrote a rough version of what is now, “I like when my ass hangs out of my shorts.” It’s been revised since then, but the main idea remains.

What fuels your desire to write (or engage in other creative outlets)? Or what have been the biggest influences in your writing?

I write to express my gratitude. I write to create mementos. I write to weave community. I write to understand. I write to discover and uncover. I write to make moves and be moved. I write to champion the people that came before and that people that will come after. But most times, I write for my own sanity.

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

When I hear “the good life,” I think about a world where people have the ability to be and express themselves. I imagine a society that provides basic rights and basic human needs. I see a time where people are not persecuted for traversing land their ancestors sowed. And I hold hope.

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Thank you, Rose Marie, for being a part of our growing community and for spending extra time with us on this Q&A. Best wishes with your writing and all current and future endeavors.

Ezra lives and writes in San Francisco, CA. In their writing, they explore impermanence, and non-duality, and how it pertains to their subjects of lineage, queerness, and spirituality. You can find their work in or forthcoming in TriQuarterly, EcoTheo Review, Zone 3, Zócalo Public Square, and elsewhere, and their poem, Don’t Ask Me About the Hymns, is featured in our spring issue.

Tell us about yourself. 

I am a black, trans, and queer writer. Currently, I am slowly falling more and more in love with the bay. I just recently moved to San Francisco, and I am only now starting to settle in, though I don’t think I will ever get used to walking out of my apartment and seeing the ocean! Getting to walk down to the beach in a short five minutes every morning for sunrise and every evening for sunset feels unreal. I moved here from Bloomington, Indiana where I completed my MFA in Creative Writing at Indiana University, though I am originally from upstate New York just outside of Rochester. I hold a BA in Writing from Ithaca College.

Outside of writing, I am on this lifelong journey of becoming more comfortable with being uncomfortable, specifically with being bad at something. I feel like we get into our niches at a young age and stay in our lanes. I am all about trying new lanes and learning new things as an adult! My most recent endeavors have been roller skating and drumming, which I’ve been learning for a few years now. Catch me trying, failing, and trying again at toe spins at the local rink, or drumming along to some Paramore or Stevie Wonder. You can just imagine me as Sam from Love Actually grooving to “All I Want for Christmas” to give you a better mental picture. 

What unique or surprising detail can you tell us about the origin, revision process, and/or final version of your poem appearing in this issue? 

This poem was inspired by Michael Kleber-Diggs’ poem “Coniferous Fathers,” which reimagines father figures outside stereotypes of harshness and stoicism, envisioning instead fathers who are soft, gentle, and attentive. I don’t even remember how I came across this piece, but it’s one of those poems that moves you, aches you, and stays with you from the opening line: “Let’s fashion gentle fathers, expressive—holding us.” Like COME ON. Please go right now and read that piece.

I began to think of not just fashioning our fathers, but also “God the Father.” Can we fashion a “God the Father” who loves us in our softness, in our vulnerability, in our queerness? Although I am not religious myself, I see great benefit in these utopic imaginings.

Additionally, the title, “Don’t Ask Me About the Hymns,” plays with “Hymns” and “Hims.” I liked this idea of hymns as repetitive music that feels timeless in service, ancient yet ever-present—and thinking about queerness being just as eternal as these hymns. The title works on multiple levels: “don’t ask me about the hymns” refers to the church teachings these boys are ultimately unlearning, while “don’t ask me about the hims” speaks to my refusal to keep apologizing for or explaining the desire for authentic connection.

What did you learn (about yourself or craft or life in general) through writing and revising it? 

Through this poem, I discovered the power of lyrical digression. Part ii serves as a short lyrical aside that resonates emotionally in ways distinct from the rest of the piece. The image of David dancing came naturally to the poem, and it opened a door for me to explore more of these emotional interludes in my other work.

My poems typically exist in narrative, situating readers within specific scenes, but this piece taught me the emotional impact of these lyrical digressions. They don’t just add sonic texture—they create space for vulnerability that works differently than narrative. They can crack the reader’s heart open just a little bit more, offering a moment of breath and reflection within the larger framework of the poem.

I want to continue experimenting with these moments of lyrical pause in my work—these small sections that might seem tangential but actually carry tremendous emotional weight. They provide a different kind of intimacy, a sideways approach to feeling that complements the more direct storytelling I’m drawn to as a writer.

What do you hope readers take from the piece? 

 I think oftentimes writers are asked about their subjects, and for me, currently, it would be queerness, spirituality, lineage, all of which are present in this piece. But recently, during my Master’s thesis defense, my thesis advisor Ross Gay commented that throughout my manuscript, all my poems seemed to hold a lot of grace. The word “grace” has ever since stayed with me.

I think of Ross who has been on his journey with the word “joy” throughout his work, and I began to consider that concentrated pursuit. What would my word be, if everything was stripped away? “Grace” to me seems like a worthwhile pursuit to examine, to embody, to encourage, to extract within my work. So maybe that’s what I would like readers to take away from the piece, in one word: grace.

This piece is currently situated in a manuscript of mine tentatively entitled “As Boys Do,” which looks at multifaceted notions of masculinity. In exploring this topic, I began to realize how often men desire closeness, yet the confines in which touch, closeness, and vulnerability can be expressed are restricted to perhaps the most hypermasculine and violent/physical spaces—coincidentally enough, like a basketball court. It creates this strange tension, which often acts as grounds for homophobia, or this back and forth between wanting to be close, but not too close. This poem focuses on that tension, even more pressurized with the oppositional relationship between the court and the church when it comes to play, touch, and men’s closeness.

 What fuels your desire to write (or engage in other creative outlets)? Or what have been the biggest influences in your writing? 

I have such a clear memory of the moment as a young child where I felt this giddy sensation from writing and having my work seen. At my elementary school library, the librarian had this laminated display which she rotated each week with a new “poem of the week,” featuring her favorite poets. I remember showing her the first poem I had ever written—an unconventional ode to the skunk, which was my favorite animal at the time. Perhaps I just thought they were cute, or misunderstood. In any case, the next week at the library, there my poem was, displayed at checkout as the official “poem of the week” for all to see. Her act of kindness, so small to her but monumental to me, was the first step on this creative’s path. She showed me that my words had worth and my ideas had value. That sent me down this trajectory, clinging to this encouraged belief that my words mattered. 

On a more internal level, writing has become a medium for me to wrestle with things, to piece together complicated emotions with the often simplicity of living. Within that serious practice, what also fuels my desire to write is this sense of play, of puzzling things together and staying curious. Perhaps there’s something profound about how this wonder and play feels so intrinsically childlike, and how my origins in this craft began in childhood.

I write to remind myself of things that were much more accessible as a child—a deep presence and gratitude for the oftentimes overlooked things in not an oversaturated world, but an overworked one. I write to remind myself to notice what I have been noticing. Writing to me isn’t just a hobby or a career pursuit; it seems like a deeply therapeutic, spiritual, vital practice to my wellbeing, to my capacity for aliveness and all that that means.

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

This is THE question, isn’t it? When I hear “good life,” to me it is a present life. Can I be present to life’s unfolding? That includes the hard bits, the messy bits, the grief-ridden bits—can I be present to it all and still be able to see the beauty of this strange and wonderful and silly and good life?

When I hear “good life,” I think of my life. It wasn’t always like this. There were many years where I didn’t feel like this life was even worth living. But now, when I hear “good life,” I can just think of my life, how I cannot remember the last day I went without laughing. To me, my good life is how easy it is to laugh with my partner Annalise, how we laugh many times throughout the day until our stomachs ache. In that pang in our ab muscles, in the tears rolling down our cheeks, in the echoing of our laughter, I don’t have to think it—I can feel that this is a good life.

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Thank you, Ezra, for being a part of our growing community and for spending extra time with us on this Q&A. We wish you the best trying EVERYTHING and being at peace with how each of those endeavors turns out. Best also with your writing and manuscript(s).

Marilee grew up in a small Iowa town and now lives in Washington DC. She writes about invisible outsiders searching for where they belong and is inspired by the women in her family: no-nonsense farmers and nurses who drive pickups, eat at McDonald’s, and don’t get knocked over by a 40-mile hour wind or anything else that life hurls at them.

Her short stories have been published in The Saturday Evening Post, The Bitter Oleander, The Colored Lens, Cleaver, Molotov Cocktail, Mystery Weekly, Orca Literary Journal, and her latest story, Mall Goddess, is featured in our spring issue.

Tell us about yourself. 

I’m a small town Midwesterner at heart. It’s a little strange that in my lifetime, many midwestern malls reached their prime and are now going extinct. But I’m an optimist—these big buildings will somehow evolve into something better than retail.  

What unique or surprising detail can you tell us about the origin, revision process, and/or final version of your piece appearing in this issue? 

Mall Goddess started off as a story all about place. The final version just as much about power. Another thing is that the story is rooted in time as much as geography. As I revised, I found myself thinking back to the 90s. Writing about a mall wouldn’t be complete without glimpses of it in its golden days. 

What did you learn (about yourself or craft or life in general) through writing and revising it? 

I learn about craft every time I write a story. With Mall Goddess, I took some chances on pacing. It moves a bit methodically, taking its time, just the way the janitor of a very quiet mall might go about her duties.

What do you hope readers take from the piece? 

There’s always the possibility of empowering change, both personal and societal. 

 What fuels your desire to write (or engage in other creative outlets)? Or what have been the biggest influences in your writing? 

A mall is brick and mortar. Now everything—not just shopping, but human connection in general—is increasingly online. Creative activity is a way to break impulsive scrolling and existing in the ether, and stay more grounded.

How do you make expression a part of your daily life? Or how do you find a balance between your writing and other responsibilities? 

I’m a 6am writer. Much later than that and daily life somehow gets in the way! 

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

Palm trees and no email. Coffee and creative inspiration. Time and freedom to do exactly what you want—that’s the good life. 

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Thank you, Marilee, 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.

Poets and alumni of the University of Nebraska-Omaha MFA, Cat Dixon and Jamie Wendt, recently came together to discuss their new poetry collections. Dixon’s chapbook, Dispatches from the Unfillable Sinkhole, was published by Alien Buddha Press in 2023, and Wendt’s collection, Laughing in Yiddish, was recently published by Broadstone Books in March 2025. Both writers are on the poetry team for The Good Life Review. In this conversation, they exchange questions and answers about the books, a few specific poems, their writing processes, and their love of language. 

Jamie Wendt: Let’s first talk about your newest book, Dispatches from the Unfillable Sinkhole, which revolves around commentary on fast food, candy, overeating, and other food imagery that work as metaphors for the end of a relationship and marriage. Did you set out to write your book with this theme and focus, or did it come about over time? 

Cat Dixon: My intention was to critique the pervasive culture of excess in American life. I was interested in how consumerism, particularly through the lens of food, reflects broader societal values. Initially, the poems were centered around the allure of fast food and sugary indulgences, representing a commentary on the pursuit of instant gratification and superficial satisfaction. The way the West consumes and wastes food with abandon seems to parallel how we often handle relationships—grasping at immediate pleasures without consideration for long-term consequences. I found my main inspiration in the Netflix show BoJack Horseman. All the poems began as acrostics of the characters’ names, and all the food mentioned in the book appears in that show. BoJack Horseman explores addiction, trauma, and dysfunctional relationships. I wanted to write about those issues, too. 

JW: Many of your poems are pretty humorous and touch upon cultural hungers for fast food and binge eating. How has food inspired your writing? What do you like to eat or drink while you write? 

CD: This is the second chapbook centered on food. The other one is titled Table for Two, which was published in 2019. The persona was a homicidal chef, the table of contents was set up as a menu, and food appeared in every poem. I don’t eat while writing as it’s an escape from the body—an opportunity to forget I exist. 

JW: Your writing is very witty and thoughtful. I love the craftiness of lines that show frustration toward a significant other, such as “the B + life” they had because “all you wanted to do was sit / and click from show to show until the batteries died, and the screen went to / X and your skin had merged with the fabric of the couch.” In the poem “What are you doing here?” the narrator’s previous lover is “slumped / anonymous in my doorway like a pouty / kebab stewing in its own juices.” Can you talk about your writing process when writing these poems about relationship struggles in particular? 

CD: Thank you! Many of the choices were due to the form. With an acrostic, I am working towards that next letter I must use. I needed an “X” because that letter appeared in the character’s name, so it was like a puzzle—trying to fit all the pieces together. The personas in the poems are the characters from the show, so I had to take on their voices and relationships. Even though I enjoy the acrostic, I had to edit some of these poems into prose poems eventually. I didn’t want to sacrifice the poem just to stay in the form.

JW: How has your MFA and your experience as a poetry editor for The Good Life Review influenced your writing?

CD: I graduated from the MFA program in 2007, so it’s been a long time, but I was thrilled when The Good Life Review began because it was an opportunity to work with others from the program and meet new people. The writing group critiques I have received have been invaluable, and I’m grateful to the mentors and classmates for their feedback. 

JW: What are you currently working on writing? 

CD:    I have been writing poems related to the show BoJack Horseman since 2021. I don’t see an end in sight—I’m a writer who focuses on her obsessions until they’re exhausted. I have a chapbook manuscript I’m sending out now related to alcoholism, which is a major topic of the show. 

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CD: Let’s talk about your second collection! Laughing in Yiddish is a powerhouse of strong women, unbreakable roots, and courageous journeys. How do you hope readers will connect with or respond to the themes of family, immigration, and community in your book? Additionally, what motivated you to begin this project? 

JW: While Laughing in Yiddish is about the Jewish community in Russia’s Pale of Settlement who emigrated to Chicago during the first half of the twentieth century, I believe readers from all backgrounds and migration stories will be able to connect to the longing for home and for peace and safety. The poet James Joyce said, “In the particular is contained the universal,” and my hope is that any reader – no matter their background – will find commonalities with the “powerhouse of strong women” in my community whom are represented in my book, often through persona and ekphrastic poems that give voice to my family members and ancestors. 

I was motivated to write this book by wanting to better understand my ancestors’ lives. Through research, I learned a lot about Jewish enlightenment in the Pale of Settlement, specifically from S. An-Sky’s ethnographic study of Russian Jews from 1912-1914. Much of my book was inspired by his work alongside the photographs of his nephew, Solomon Iudovin. These photos allowed me to imagine what my family’s life might have been like in the Pale before they emigrated in the 1880s.

CD:  You effectively immerse the reader in a nuanced historical and cultural landscape using terms and phrases that may require further exploration for some readers. Are there particular idioms or expressions that resonate deeply with you and/or hold personal significance within your family’s history?

JW: While I use some Hebrew words here and there and reference specific Jewish holidays and imagery, I believe the inclusion of culturally specific words like this is similar to other writers from minority cultures who are writing about their unique experiences. As for idioms or expressions, my family did not have any specific sayings that they used often. But over the past few months, I have started to learn some Yiddish, and one of my favorite expressions, which is actually a curse, is the saying, “Zolst vaksen vi a tsiba’le, mit kop in d’rerd!” which translates as, “You should grow like an onion, with your head in the ground!” It’s mean but also funny; I can’t imagine someone saying that in seriousness, but the imagery is humorous.  

CD: One of the most challenging aspects of the writing process for me is the organization of a manuscript. I felt you wove a compelling and touching tapestry with different forms and voices. What criteria guided your decisions regarding inclusion, structure, order, and the subsequent editing process of retention or exclusion? 

JW: My manuscript took many different shapes over the course of about two years as I was finalizing and submitting it to publishers. At first, I organized the poems chronologically but in a later version, which is also its current version, I decided to jumble up the chronology and organize the poems by emotion, topic, and motif. I divided the book into four sections that have similarities and a narrative arc. There are also some characters, dates, locations, and events that recur across multiple sections. I think it’s more interesting to read the manuscript this way as it makes time more elusive and lingering. I interspersed a handful of poems titled “Interview with Papa” throughout the manuscript to allow his voice to reverberate again and again; Papa (my grandpa) is the connection between the past and the present, and I think his stories work to ground the rest of the narratives into one family’s Jewish immigration story. 

CD: I love the inclusion of your grandfather’s interviews. Those poems offer the reader an insight into such an important period. Can you discuss the support you received from your family and community while working on this collection? Can you describe the process of transforming his words into poetry? 

JW: Papa was the storyteller of my family, and I loved listening to him talk about his childhood and the past. The summer before he died, he drove my mom and I through his old neighborhood of Rogers Park on the Northside of Chicago and pointed out where all of our family members used to live, and he showed us his elementary school, the warming house by the ice rink, where the kosher butcher used to be, and his synagogue. He had such a vivid memory, and as we drove, he would remember stories that happened there. I had lots of notes from my conversations and interviews with him across several years as well, and I ended up picking sentences and words here and there, or simply ideas we discussed, and turning them into poems. Sometimes I relied on a form, such as a ghazal in the poem “Interview Papa: Freeman”, and other times, I wrote in free verse. 

My family likes that I am taking his stories and the stories of our ancestors and turning them into poems. It’s a way to give voice to family members whose stories were lost in translation; my great-great-grandparents who arrived in America from Russia did not teach Yiddish to their children; therefore, most of their stories and lives have been reduced to photographs and distant memory. 

CD: What are you working on now? Is it related to this book or something new? 

JW: I always find myself writing about Chicago, my family, and my Jewish ancestors. Recently, I have been writing many poems about the Great Chicago Fire in 1871, which occurred on the Jewish holiday Simchas Torah. I enjoy researching Chicago history and determining how the events happening here impacted the Jewish community and, therefore, my family. I’ve been spending time at the Chicago History Museum and the Newberry Library to research and learn more about this time period. 

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Dixon’s book Dispatches from the Unfillable Sinkhole is available from Alien Buddha Press on Amazon. And Wendt’s collection, Laughing in Yiddish, is available from Broadstone Books.

Thank you both, for taking the time to chat and share your insights about these wonderful collections and more!!

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!