Editors’ Note They tell you starting a literary magazine is hard. The actual process of starting the magazine is hard, and so is the production and the maintaining of it. We knew all of these things, but we didn’t know exactly how hard it would be. We decided to start this magazine for several reasons. We saw a need for a magazine that welcomes all writing. We wanted to create a space where writers could behold art as it is communicated in many genres, forms and styles. But Above all, we started Black Fox Literary Magazine because of our love for literature. We are writers ourselves and everyday our passion for words burns stronger. We cannot function without reading and we cannot function without writing. The production of this issue has been a struggle. However, the satisfaction we get out of publishing writers, out of seeing the words on the page, out of really producing something people might pick up and read, is much greater than any of the hardships that came along with putting the issue together. If you’re reading this, we want to thank you for taking the time to do so. We’d also like to thank you for your support as we move into the future and as we begin our quest to make our mark in the literary world. We hope you’ll be right there beside us, every step of the way. This is the beginning of Black Fox Literary Magazine. The Editors Racquel, Pam, and Marquita
2
Meet the Editors Racquel Henry is first and foremost a writer. In order to pay the bills, she is also a part time Administrative Assistant at a law firm in Tampa, FL., where she currently resides. Much to her own surprise, she actually enjoys the job that helps put food on the table. Racquel writes literary fiction in hopes of being published sometime in the near future. She also enjoys reading a variety of genres, and is currently obsessed with flash fiction. Some of her favorite authors include, Lorrie Moore, Joyce Carol Oates, John Updike, Sophie Kinsella, and Toni Morrison. She is currently an MFA student at Fairleigh Dickinson University, where she is preparing to graduate in the Fall of 2011. At the moment she is searching for a new school to call home, and to pursue a Ph.D. degree. Her story, The Truth About Lipstick, is forthcoming in The Scarlet Sound. You can follow her writing journey on her very own blog titled, “Racquel Writes.� She is looking forward to the growth of Black Fox Literary Magazine.
Pam Harris lives in Chesapeake, VA and works as a middle school counselor. When she isn't wiping tears and helping kids study for tests, she's writing contemporary YA fiction. Some of her favorite authors are Ellen Hopkins, Courtney Summers, Jodi Picoult, and Stephen King. You can also find her at the movie theaters every weekend or pretending to enjoy exercising. She will receive her MFA in creative writing in 2011, and plans to use this degree to help edit this magazine as well as possibly teach others the joys of make believe. 3
Marquita "Quita" Hockaday also lives in Chesapeake, Virginia. She is a high school history teacher who has never been able to shake her love of writing and reading. There is always, always a book near her. Marquita is currently enjoying writing Young Adult (historical and contemporary). Some of her favorite authors are Laurie Halse Anderson, Blake Nelson, Cormac McCarthy and Joyce Carol Oates. She loves watching movies (one day she WILL watch every scary movie ever created) and TV. Like, seriously her cousin Pam and her schedule everything around their TV shows. Marquita is expected to graduate with an MFA in Creative Writing in 2011, and can't wait to use that knowledge to teach writing and co-edit this magazine.
4
Contents Fiction Stolen by Alex Mullarky………………………6 Encased by Jen Knox………………………….9 Twenty-Three by Caroline Bailey Lewis……..16 Poetry Culture Fiction Poems by Angela Brown…….19 Being by Mike Maher…………………………24 Amplified Melancholy by Diana Raab……......26 paradigm shift by Joanna Lee…………………27 Cold Stones by Pamela Jessen……….............. 28 The Invisible Man A Photo Essay by Dwayne John………………29 Contributor Corner An Interview with Jen Knox…………………..39 Author Interview An Interview with Lisa and Laura Roecker Authors of The Liar Society…………………...45 Contributors…………………………………...51
5
Stolen By Alex Mullarky I look down at you and think, I could curl your fist into my palm, but your hands are soft and silken like the fresh cotton blankets you’re wrapped in and I’m afraid that mine, coarse and calloused with years of trying and failing, might catch and tear that tissue-paper skin. Do you know me? Am I to you what you are to me, the strongest tie, the feather-light, unbreakable chains binding us ankle and wrist – or am I merely a kind face, a pleasant sound in a world of blurred edges and vibrant colours, soothing and reassuring, but foreign? You are everything, and I know it, but you don’t. You are my trapdoor at the bottom of the sea, the glisten and bustle of stars in the dark.
6
Everything I own, everything I am is yours – the ruffled creases in the pillow where his head lay (he fades now, your sun to his eclipse). The memory of a cobweb hanging between gate and frame, sparkling, weighed down with dew, immaculate, imbued with mortality. The evening I stood on the doorstep and the night air washed over me, and I looked out – past the garden, over darkened fields, to where the moon hung full and honey gold above the gentle outline of the fells, throwing a soft glow over the clouds. No one but me will ever know that moment the way I know it. Maybe now, every moment for you is a moment like that. But you’ll forget. Moments like that aren’t meant to be remembered. God reaches down and steals them from you, baby. Moments like that are reserved for heaven alone, and God is a jealous man. 7
They tell me you’re slipping away, baby. That you’re too fragile, too delicate, that you came too soon. Don’t you listen to them. Your timing was perfect. Don’t worry about the little splashes against your skin. Mummy’s not sad, baby. Only the rain. Tears from heaven. And when God stops crying, and the world is fresh and new and clean and sparkling, and the air smells like the step towards the brink of a cliff in October, the sun smiles. Don’t worry if you need to close your eyes, baby. The world is harsh and vivid and garish. If you need to retreat behind your eyelids, I will too. We can wait together in the dark, and point at the stars. Don’t wait for me, baby. I’ll find you again soon. God is a jealous man.
8
Encased By Jen Knox The odd thing is that she’s here at all. Madeline, who now insists Rachel and I call her Maddy, has been a co-worker of Rachel’s and a distant neighbor of ours for almost two years. In all this time, she has never set foot in our home. But here she is now, like an old friend or an elder family member, complete with a stern smile and a plate of banana bread. The banana bread is dense but sweet. Because I can’t sleep next to Rachel—I might hurt her—I pick at the bread as I watch my wife drift in and out of consciousness. I am sitting in an unsightly plaid chair that we had hauled from the dumpster when we moved in, that I had promised to replace a year ago. I’m such an ass. I watch Rachel breathe in and out too slowly, thinking about how
9
much she has always hated this chair. Maddy is watching me, humming. Rachel had a hysterectomy. It’s been almost a week, and still she has no stomach strength. Dr. Jennings tells us that Rachel will be bed-ridden for six weeks, longer than we had originally expected. The plan had been a partial hysterectomy, which had been scheduled to remove a small tumor; but after the initial incision, an egg-sized, dangerouslooking something was found tucked far enough inside her that no X-ray had revealed it. It must have been there for some time, threatening her fertility, Dr. Jennings had explained after explaining why she’d been under for so long. A simple surgery that was supposed to take an hour ended up taking nearly six. A few of our friends, Ross and Julie, were with me for a time. But after a few hours, Julie began speaking of work and dogs that needed walking and Ross became fidgety and quiet. So, I 10
was left alone to pace my way through the murkiness of waiting room time until the surgeon arrived with a tired smile to say that Rachel was okay but barren (not in so many words, mind you). Maddy had been working, but had dropped by when Rachel was wheeled up. She’d come into the room that evening like a ghost, kissing my wife’s forehead and promising me that everything happens for a reason. She left, promising she’d be there for us when everyone else disappeared. There was no family around, so this wouldn’t take long. Rachel’s mother called on the day I brought Rachel home. She mourned her daughter’s fertility —her first two words being to herself: “No grandchildren”—before she thought to inquire about Rachel’s well-being. I hung up on her. She was too much like my mother at a time like this, when anyone else’s mother would be desired. Our scattershot families came up a lot, back when 11
Rachel and I were at that tell-all dating stage; unsure if we’d stay in touch, we were both eager to disclose everything just to cash in on the free therapy that goes with casual dating. We did, we felt less alone. Maddy sighs. She is a big-boned woman, a brunette with ill-placed blonde highlights who is dressed in pink, and she reminds me of a big bottle of Pepto-Bismol, right down to the unenjoyable comfort she’s providing. I don’t understand why she’s here. But I’m tired.
My new third-shift
schedule at the warehouse has twisted up my personal time clock. I welcome any help, even the misguided sort, is my last conscious thought. I think “Oh shit” when I feel Maddy’s thin fingers under my chin, lifting my head gently. I wipe the banana bread crumbs from my jeans and pull slowly away.
12
“You two are on an island,” Maddy says. I know what she means but pretend I do not. “You really didn’t have to stay here this long. We’re fine. The bread, the books you brought: all of it, um, thank you. Please tell everyone at the restaurant she’s okay.” “My pleasure, Charlie. We’ll get that lovely wife of yours back on her feet. She’s the best, you know.” I look at my wife, who is perfectly beautiful and, for the first time since I’ve known her, heartbreakingly
fragile.
She
breathes
slowly,
through a little oval at the center of her lips. It must be the medication slowing her breath like this. Maddy says, “Are you okay? Do you want me to stay?” “You think she’s breathing too slowly?” I ask.
13
“She’s fine. She’s just fine. I can stay. I will stay.
You just rest. I don’t go in until late
tomorrow.” “I think you’ve done enough, Madeline. Thank you.” “Maddy.” She stands there, arms akimbo, staring a moment, then says, “You sleep.” “Why?” I ask. “I mean, we haven’t even hung out.” She covers me with a cotton blanket that has the cool feel of whipped cream, and she strokes my face. I close my eyes only briefly before pulling away from her touch. She looks at me as though I weren’t tired, dirty, covered in banana bread crumbs. Before I can tell her that she needs to leave, Maddy turns, takes her seat. My breathing slows, and as a close my eyes, I imagine I can enter my wife’s dream. I am following her to the steakhouse, where Maddy yells 14
about illegible meal tickets, then embraces her. The walls are pink; the air is fuzzy. Rachel, before going under, wondered aloud at Maddy’s sudden interest. The cards and flowers had been unexpected from a co-worker she didn’t like. The prep cook is sitting in our rocking chair, on our island, reading; she glances at Rachel from time to time. And I think that maybe, likely, this woman we barely know lives on an island of her own. Sleep pulls me in, and I begin to dream, a safe distance away, and there’s my wife. I imagine that Rachel and I are both swathed in whipped cotton, tucked away.
15
Twenty-Three by Caroline Bailey Lewis Here are some reasons why I love you: You have never made me cry. You are never far away. You are not ashamed of me like my father. You do not avoid me like my mother. You do not talk about my situation behind my back. I have never caught you muttering about me over the phone. You do not refuse me forgiveness. My father does. You do not remind me I am a sinner. Every day, my mother does. Your house is peaceful and accepting. As are the people who stay there. The man in his black robe. The elderly woman who kneels quietly in a pew every evening. Margaret, who runs Outreach 23, the support group, on Mondays at 7:00 in the basement. You did not leave me alone when my father followed me around the house, yelling verses to my back, each one stinging like a vaccination: “Ezekiel 23:44--They had sex with her as one does with a prostitute.” “Deuteronomy 23:2-- No one of illegitimate birth may enter the Lord’s assembly. None of his descendants, even to the tenth generation, may enter the Lord's assembly.” 16
You did not leave my side, but gave me strength to tell my parents, even as my father’s lips jumped like they do in anger. You do not think I should “throw myself down the stairs.” My mother’s suggestion. You do not think I should “pay $300 to the special doctor.” My father’s suggestion. You don’t say it serves me right when I’m leaning into the toilet. You do not withhold your love. You did not cry and faint. You have never, in all my twenty-three years, treated me like an outsider. You are not against me. Or the idea of me. You don’t take advantage that I’m grateful for your love. You do not think I did it to hurt you. You do not think I was a mistake. You have never refused to meet my eyes. You are not vengeful, though people say you are. You do not think I’m a slut, though people say I am. I’ve heard the names at the grocery store, on the street as I walk by: skank, slut, whore. You did not lecture me. Did not ask questions.
17
You did not let me drink the bleach from under the bathroom sink. You did not let me miscarry, even though I begged it of You. You never forget that you have other children to take care of--some starving, some sick, some lost. I stand in front of the sign that says Crying Room and Margaret hands me a screaming infant. His eyes are smooshed into his forehead. His tongue flattens to fill his mouth with every wail. Then she leaves me alone. You can’t help but be busy. And yet you hear the plea I make into the baby’s fuzzy head: “Hush. Please, Lord. Ssssh. Just ssssh.”
18
Culture Fiction Poems by Angela Brown Reunited The etching of Caterpillar steps Paint images of the patience it took to teach grace The artistic spindling of a spiders web Resends a creation of motivation of inspired concepts The beauty of the sun settling beneath the sea And of night parching the end of day Enchants memories emulating peace The gift to breath life, there is love The ability to smile, there is love The spirit of hope, there is love Reflection I vaguely trace your appearance A distorted figurine from the past Blotches of ink splotches across the canvass Splotches of oil dances life to an unknown postulant Imagery emerges a distant path of discovery Fading fast
19
Don’t Ask A haze and a junkie Jiving high Living on the street Inhaling a lie of addiction Saving for a raining day To get my stuff together A weefer over college A choice jiving high A cigarette stick and a pregnancy Hustling pool on welfare Meet you at one Meet you at three One day immoral embarrassment A smile be your umbrella Don't ask The games we choose to play Eyes of a Child White orchards hallowing In the wind Bopping heads bounce 20
In laughter Prayers of serenity dance In harmonic prayer Rage State of mind Contrary to what is said A delusional hatred To be mistaken for love Voices. Voices that welcome madness Immoral words that imitate denial and bigotry Words used to break you down Rob you; make you a criminal of self thought Was that what I thought you said? A blind man realize on touch A sane man on logic Delusional voices that make me mad That make me sad, that make me want to fight back To defend my youth, defend my cultural heritage Where prejudice has no warrant Spoken words, only justifies reasons to be misunderstood I will not be judged or profiled or prejudged by fault only credibility 21
For I too am America Color If a color pertains to a hue, How much depth of the hue pertains to light? While a mixture of hues define a contour. How much contour is needed to define beauty? If I were black, brown, yellow, white or purple, It would make solid black no matter how you define it. The beauty is if opal were in fashion Black goes along with everything. My Favorite Poem The world is a quilt and each patch is a nation Bound by a thread since the days of creation Adorned with great color and radiant splendor Though divided by race and religion and gender In some eyes, it is handsome, in others contorted The patches are different, unmatched and unsorted Incongruous in pattern, in shape and in color Not one is much similar to any other So some try to imagine one great design 22
But in truth our uniqueness is really just fine Nations and patches of all kinds and all sorts Customs, religions, languages, sports This is okay if each patch has its space And on the quilt of the world, each nation has its place But the stitches that bind us are easily shed By the wars that are fought and the words that are said We must realize the appearance of no patch is inferior And the ways of no nation can make it superior Divided by oceans, united by a dream The world is a quilt and our love is its seam
23
Being By Mike Maher. I am iron. I am iron but I don’t want to become steel. I just want to be iron - no hot air for me, please the way kids don’t want to grow up, the way the Lost Boys want to stay lost. I envy you because you’re a plant and you can eat the sun. Okay, I’m not iron. I’m a man in an iron suit. I even conquered the world once, but it was only a board game, the mighty Ukraine was the last to fall, reminding me of my Russian Dwarf hamster, Sven, and his hardened determination to spin that wheel longer than he should have, and not so much of his sister, Anastasia, who ate all of her babies, thirteen mini hamster heads found after breakfast. And that’s how you feel in front of the classroom because you’re not actually a plant, you’re just frozen almost still during your presentation, hands shaking, voice trembling, a thundercloud forming around your brain, wishing you could be a plant and eat the sun alone somewhere as you try desperately to make the Liberty Bell interesting for almost fifteen minutes, very aware that you might vomit at any second. Years later 24
there's a skyscraper with over 3,000 windows. Only one light is on in the whole place and there you are, a CEO surrounded by reinforced steel, sitting on your desk and sharing a joint with the night shift janitor.
25
Amplified Melancholy By Diana Raab You might ask me to explain this season’s melancholy slipping through my veins and all I can tell you is that on the tenth anniversary of dad’s passing, the doctors removed my right breast and five years later stabbed by a second diagnosis, bone marrow malignancy, no cure just treatment— the holiday lights sharpened. Past dripping menorah candles, I step onto African soil with dreams of leaving my own cells buried there merging with a history of African fights for survival, even as I know there’s no way except through magical dreams, to leave behind what haunts me: the healthy bones dad had once bestowed.
26
paradigm shift by Joanna Lee slipping on syllables i would lap at the honey that ran down your tongue, taste the sweetness of your soul behind it, open to the sea. now your words hold a world of bitterness cupped between them though their echoes sound still the same: one has to squeeze one's heart just a little to hear the life deafened in the background, an ocean of fear called forth by your name and a hand that no longer writes of love.
27
Cold Stones by Pamela J. Jessen Wind gusts a hollow tune through bare-boned branches where a murder of crows clusters, patient as death. I brush aside the snow, hands burning, breath ghosting the frigid air like haunted tatters of dreamdrift, ignoring the crows’ obsidian stares, their raucous judgment, straining for any memory-shred of you. But there is only me, only the crows, transient as snow in summer while you lie stiff as winter grass beneath the frozen ground.
28
Or Down You Fall by Dwayne John
29
Invisible Man (Cover) by Dwayne John
30
Obscene by Dwayne John
31
Reflecting on Milton by Dwayne John
32
West 4 by Dwayne John
33
California by Dwayne John
34
The Invisible Man by Dwayne John There are approximately 114,000 homeless individuals living in New York City, including nearly 3,300 people living in the subway system. For the most part, we the riding public are apathetic towards these indigent people and show little interest or concern for their plight. We've heard their sob stories hundreds of times, indulged their singing and dancing routines, and treated their panhandling as minor nuisances that are part and parcel of the subway riding experience. I, for one, simply cranked up the volume on my iPod or buried my face in my newspaper, trying my best to tune out. But that cold indifference changed for me earlier this winter when I noticed a barefooted, semi-nude older man, squatting below an empty station agent 35
booth at the subway stop below Bank of America Tower at 42nd Street and 6th Ave. It was quite obvious from the way he looked that the man was mentally
unstable,
but
what
was
absolutely
astounding to me was that in the 10 minutes or so that I stood there waiting for my train, no one offered a helping hand towards this man. Not one single person, including myself. The hundreds of bank workers that streamed off the arriving trains during that time, all walked pass him as if he was totally invisible. They may have glanced in his direction, or even temporarily broken their strides, but not one single individual stopped to inquire if this man needed help. Eventually my train arrived and I also left without doing anything. But the thought that we live in a society where cold, half naked, barefooted elderly men are tolerated was
36
too much to concede. Are we really that bereft of feeling towards each other? Honestly, the thought of being an advocate for the homeless never once crossed my mind. Like everyone else, I simply just did not care and blamed the unfortunate conditions the homeless found themselves in, on them. Once, I even wrote a farcical essay about the positive economic impact of public immolation of the homeless. Admittedly, that essay
was
vile,
contemptible,
juvenile
and
ultimately utter nonsense. But as I ruminated over what I observed that morning on the subway platform, I decided in my own small way, to use my images to try to bring these Invisible Men to the forefront and possibly highlight this growing problem of homelessness in the New York City subway system.
37
To that end, this project will be an ongoing effort and will be updated frequently. In the interim, I
implore
you
to
look
up
local
outreach
organizations that help the homeless leave the streets and transition towards a better life. Na誰ve? Maybe, but I think it is worthy if through our efforts we can positively change the life of one of our fellow human beings.
38
Contributor Corner: An Interview with Jen Knox BF: Welcome Jen! Your short story collection, TO BEGIN AGAIN, won the 2011 Next Generation Indie Book Award for Short Stories. Congratulations! First, where were you when you heard this incredible news? Also, what was you inspiration behind this collection? JK: To Begin Again has consistently surprised me. Even the way it came together was surprising. In early 2010, I set out to organize my work, and as I reread the stories I had written over the last three years, I realized that there was a recurring theme. Although each story is very different, they all share a similar focus in that the protagonist (usually the narrator) makes one small decision, usually something that he or she has been contemplating or putting off, and with this decision comes a perspective shift that alters the character’s reality. I put all of the pieces that fit with this theme together, wrote two new stories, and I sent the collection to my publisher without much expectation. To my delight, Deb and Phil Harris, who run All Things That Matter Press, said they loved it and offered me a contract. I was really pleased with the final collection when it came out in February, 2011, so I entered it in the Next Generation Indie Book Awards, a contest that I read about in the acknowledgements section of Lisa Genova’s Still Alice (a wonderful book). I entered on a whim and then pushed the contest to the back of my mind. A few months after the book’s 39
release, I was home alone, drinking my morning coffee and going through my emails. When I saw the notification, my first thought was, “Oh yeah, I remember entering that contest. That’s the Still Alice contest. I wonder who won.” Again, I hadn’t been expecting much. When I saw the congratulations, I’m pretty sure I got up and danced around the room. BF: When did you know you wanted to be a writer? JK: As a child, I loved to read, but I rarely picked up a pen. Writing wasn’t really on my radar until I decided to go back to school. I was a high school drop-out with the typical drop-out prospects, which weren’t great, and I wanted things to change. So, I began studying for my GED and shortly after getting it, I enrolled at Columbus State Community College. At the time, my only ambition was to get a degree in order to find the type of job that paid the bills and required me to wear a suit. Little did I know that the college essays I initially struggled to write would become a sort of tonic to me; they allowed me a voice. I owe a lot to the professors who encouraged me during this time. With their guidance, I slowly became more confident as a writer. I began tinkering with fiction and keeping a regular journal. Before I knew it, I was addicted to writing, and there was no looking back.
BF: Which books would you say influenced you the most--both as a child, and as an adult?
40
JK: As a child, Flowers for Algernon was a game changer. It was the first book that really made me consider my own capacity for empathy; it made me question and examine my own outlook and it scared the hell out of me. This is when I first recognized that good storytelling makes the reader really feel something without having to explain why. As an adult and a writer, my favorite books are Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita, for mastery of language; Updike’s Rabbit at Rest for tackling an unapproachably large subject from a remarkably clear and original perspective; any of Joan Didion’s essay collections, for her unique way of mixing the intimacy of creative nonfiction with the coolness of a contemplative narrator; the collected works of John Cheever, Amy Bloom, Amy Hempl, Alice Munro and so many more. BF: Is there a certain author that you consider to be your inspiration? If so, who and why? JK: I draw inspiration from many authors, but the one person who consistently inspires me is my mother. She is not an author, but she is the greatest storyteller I know. She tells a story with such animation and passion that almost anything she says sounds interesting. I try to emulate her delivery and energy in everything that I write. BF: How would you describe your typical writing process? JK: I do most of my writing in the mornings, around 4:30a.m., when I first wake up. I write a 41
single scene, or a draft of a story in one sitting. It usually begins with conflict. This draft is then put aside. I reread it after a few days (sometimes longer) and tinker with it, but more importantly, I keep the characters and situation in my mind as I go about the day to day of life. The characters are there as I make the trip to work or consider the way dinner tastes, walk my dog or engage in an awkward conversation at the grocery store. I try to think about how each character would experience the hum drum. In this way, my characters become two-dimensional; they come to life. Once I ‘live’ with my characters for a while, I am able to revisit the story with more energy. Usually I have a few stories (or scenes) in mind at one time. BF: Did you learn anything from writing your book and what was it? JK: That writing never fails to surprise me. BF: What is the most difficult part of the writing process? What is your favorite part of the writing process? JK: My favorite part is the first draft, getting something new and fresh on paper. The most difficult part for me is the patience that writing requires. With both short form and longer work, any story that I tell evolves over time. I used to think that stories required a set number drafts, but I now realize that what really makes or breaks my writing is my willingness to let each piece cool off for a while, so that I can revisit it with more perspective. I've never been a patient person, but I’m learning. 42
BF: Do you have any advice for other writers? JK: Two pieces of advice: 1. Read everything you can get your hands on, learn from what you like and what you do not. If you fall in love with a work, read it again and try to tease out what it is, exactly, you love about it. If you find a work tedious or contrived, pay attention to that, too, and then revisit your own work. Are there any similarities? If so, revise. 2. Try new things. If you’re a fiction writer, try to write a poem or two. If you’re a poet, write a narrative essay. This experiment doesn’t always result in great work, but going outside of your comfort zone will only enrich your work in the long run. BF: Can you share anything about your current writing projects? JK: In To Begin Again, there is a piece entitled “Absurd Hunger” that follows a character named Wallace who is struggling to maintain his sanity as he copes with the loss of his wife and tries to reconcile with his rebellious son. Wallace is an oddly endearing character because he's sarcastic and short-tempered but also incredibly sensitive and fundamentally kind. When, on the recommendation of a therapist, he begins to write letters to his deceased wife, he finds a sort of peace that his life had been missing. But, the letters begin to take on a life of their own. Wallace's story is far too big to only represent in a single short story, so I isolated a scene for the collection, but I feel that I have to keep going with him. I hope to release a novel by the same name, Absurd Hunger, by 2013. 43
BF: Finally, you teach creative writing at San Antonio College. How has teaching the craft improved your own writing? JK: I have learned that when I teach creative writing, it is best to put aside the fact that I'm a writer. Instead, I approach the students’ stories as a reader. Evaluating writing as a writer can be limiting because it’s easy to get caught up in comparison or to impose a particular style. So instead, I provide students with prompts to get the writing started and encourage them to create from the gut. I am always amazed and impressed by the stories my students come up with. There is a certain passion that beginning writers have that seems to fade a bit as years and pages of work accumulate. My students reawaken this passion in me, and there is nothing more rewarding than recalling that first spark so many years later.
44
An Interview with Lisa and Laura Roecker: Authors of The Liar Society BF: What inspired you to write Liar Society? L&L: Lisa lost someone very special a few years ago and would send him emails from time to time keeping him updated on life. When she considered what might happen if he ever wrote back, The Liar Society was born! BF: How did you come up with the title, The Liar Society? L&L: Ahh, titles. We. Suck. At. Titles. As we were writing, the manuscript was called GMAIL. We found our agent with the title FINDING GRACE and submitted to editors under THE HAUNTING OF PEMBERLY BROWN. Our editor forced us to go back to the drawing board (he almost didn't read the manuscript because of the title!) and we emailed him tons of options. Almost ready to give up, we 45
sent a couple more titles we had brainstormed. The Liar Society was one of them. He wrote back with one word: genius. Success! BF: What's your writing process like? L&L: It's kind of like hot potato. Lisa writes the first chapter and Laura edits her work and adds another chapter, which Lisa edits and adds the next. We do this until we have a finished book! Oh, and then we edit like mad. BF: You both are obviously very close. What's it like being able to write together? Do you always agree or disagree? L&L: Writing has brought us even closer together, if that's even possible. We talk multiple times a day and see one another at least once a week. It's honestly the best case scenario writing with your sister. We don't always agree, but we never have knock-down, drag-out fights either. We basically back off for a little while (usually like an hour) and 46
come back with a fresh perspective. If something is bothering one of us, we won't move forward until it's fixed. We're smart enough to know that if we ignore whatever it is that's bothering us, it will come back to bite us in the end! BF: When did you first consider yourselves writers? L&L: I think we've always been writers, whether we were officially writing together or not. Before getting published, we wrote kick-ass maids of honor speeches together! Now it just feels slightly more official. BF: Do either of you ever suffer from writer's block? If so, what's your cure for it? L&L: Yes, all the time. But the best part about true writer's block (where you can't possibly write another sentence) is you can just ship the document back to the other person with explicit instructions: here, fix this. It works every time. 47
BF: Is there anything you find particularly challenging in your writing? L&L: I think our plot challenges us the most. Because we write mysteries, we're constantly thinking of ways to keep the mystery fresh, which clues to leave where and who the reader should suspect and when. It kind of gives us a collective headache.
BF: On average, how long does it take you to complete a book? L&L: If we really buckle down and write everyday, a few months. But lately, promotion of LS and life in general has been getting in the way! BF: What do you think makes a good YA story? L&L: Our favorite YA stories have to have a little bit of everything--a hooky premise, well-developed characters,
engaging
and
well-paced
plot,
tension/conflict and a bit of romance (and probably 48
so much more that we're forgetting!). We read pretty much all YA now and don't have a ton of patience for adult books that typically take a little while to get into.
BF: What was the publishing process like for Liar Society? L&L: It was kind of a rollercoaster ride! We lost our acquiring editor to Harper Collins, which is never easy, but luckily we were assigned to two new and incredible editors. And, of course, we had a bit of cover drama along the way, but that all worked out in the end as well! I guess publishing is the kind of business that requires a seatbelt. Or some sort of harness. BF: What book or books are you reading now? L&L: Laura's reading POSSESSION by Elana Johnson and Lisa's reading HOURGLASS by Myra McEntire. 49
BF: When you're not writing, what do you like to do for fun? L&L: We love to watch mindless TV. Bravo is a regular in our houses. BF: Can you tell us about your current projects? L&L: We're currently working on LS2 as well as another mystery series about a girl who is forced to uncover some pretty hefty family secrets in one night.
BF: Do you have any advice for aspiring writers? L&L: Never be afraid to start over. As hard as it is to part with the thousands of words you had written, it's even harder if you get stuck again in another thousand words! We don't consider thrown away words a loss anymore. They helped us get to where we needed to be in the end.
50
Cover Artist: Dwayne John is an aspiring photo journalist working out of Brooklyn, NY. When not shooting HOT chicks or fighting his Samurai Nemesis, he can be found playing with his dog. Caroline Bailey Lewis is from Iowa, where it gets hotter than two rats and then colder than a well digger's. She is currently pursuing her MFA at the University of South Carolina, where it's just hotter than two rats. Her work has appeared in Our Stories and Dr. Hurley's Snake-Oil Cure. Angela Brown is a great American poet. Angela uses symbolic words to captivate her audience through her poems. Angela has the passion to write poetry. Her compassion for writing affects universal for all audiences to relate to. Angela creates realism to her audience on cultural issues faced in society today. Angela introduces revelations of human spirituality not often thought of, that words are impressive and powerfully imagined. Pamela Jessen lives in Colorado and has been writing poetry and short fiction for quite a few years. Poetry has appeared most recently in The Absent Willow Review and Snakeskin Poetry Webzine. Short fiction has appeared in the anthologies, Women Who Run with the Werewolves, The Best of The Horror Show, as well as in Writer's Journal, Cemetery Dance, The Horror Show and Twilight Zone Magazine. Jen Knox is a creative writing professor and freelance writer. She is the author of Musical Chairs and To Begin Again (2011 Next Generation Indie Book Awards Winner). Her short publications 51
have appeared or are forthcoming in Annalemma, Eclectic Flash, Gargoyle, Narrative Magazine, Short Story America, Superstition Review and elsewhere. For updates about Jen's work, visit her website at http://www.jenknox.com. Joanna S. Lee lives in Richmond, Virginia where she spends her free time searching the riverbanks for unborn poetry. Her first book, the somersaults I did as I fell (iColor, Richmond), was released in 2009. Her work has been recently featured in Catapult to Mars, Bolts of Silk, and vox poetica. She writes (semi-) regularly at the Tenth Muse (http://the-tenth-muse.com). Mike Maher is the founder and editor of Sea Giraffe Magazine. He currently reads, writes, edits, and walks his dog in Pennsylvania’s Pocono mountains. His poetry, fiction, and personal essays can be seen in several publications, includingContemporary American Voices, The Smoking Poet, Paper Darts, Hippocampus Magazine, The Subterranean Literary Journal, The Copperfield Review, Ham Lit, Calliope, The Ofi Press Magazine, Vox Poetica and Dr. Hurley's Snake-Oil Cure. While earning his BA in English from East Stroudsburg University of Pennsylvania, he served as the Vice President and Forum Editor of The Stroud Courier, winning the Jim Barniak Award for journalism twice during his time there. He is also the recipient of the Martha E. Martin Award for poetry. Alex Mullarky is currently studying English at the University of St Andrews. She lives in the English
52
countryside in a tiny room stacked to the ceiling with books. Diana M. Raab is a poet and memoirist who teaches writing at the UCLA Writers’ Program and at conferences around the country. Her writings have appeared widely in anthologies, literary journals and magazines. She has three poetry collections. Dear Anais: My Life in Poems for You (2008) won the 2009 Next Generation Indie Award and Reader Views Annual Award for Poetry, as well as received other high honors. My Muse Undresses Me (2007) is her chapbook and her latest collection is The Guilt Gene (2009). Her most recent book Healing With Words: A Writer’s Cancer Journey (2010) is a self- help memoir, which includes narrative and poetry.
53