JANE EYRE in korean queens by Revital Aranbaev
“Bridges and Tunnels” is the third chapter of Patricia Park’s novel, Re Jane published in 2015. There have been dozens of adaptations of Jane Eyre since its publication in 1847, but in Patricia Park’s novel--Re Jane—the author intentionally set out to change one pivotal line from the classic story: “Reader, I married him.” Park states that today we demand more from our heroines. Since women are no longer “confined to the same handful of choices that Victorian women had to face,” Park offers us a fresh and modern take on the classic narrative. In the novel, Park also stresses the significance of home—it is such an important theme that the book begins and ends on that word. For Jane, home is Queens, New York, where the author grew up. Park states that there aren’t many Queens narratives, which is what sparked her to feature sections of Re Jane in “Korean Queens.” In the interview, Park emphasizes that “Queens pride” doesn’t necessarily exist and that Queens, as well as the other outer boroughs, literally and figuratively lie in the shadows of “the city.” The chapter featured in the anthology specifically highlights that.
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 By Josh Harms
“I have to admit that something isn’t right,” confesses professional organizer Sasha Goldstein at the start of Lynn Kanter’s novel excerpt “The Closet.” “It has all begun to feel a little, well, hollow.” A sixty-three-year-old insomniac, Sasha stays up night after night in front of the TV, spiraling and wondering whether her wealth and prestige and fine furnishings amount to anything. “What does it all mean? What is any of it worth?” She sarcastically consoles herself that at least she’s sure her anxiety isn’t just a midlife crisis: “For that, you need a life. And I can look back and pinpoint exactly where mine went wrong.” Kanter’s “Closet,” published in the upcoming Grace in Darkness anthology of D.C. women writers, is a story that hinges upon retrospection. From her sleepless and world-weary vantage point in the present, Sasha jumps back forty years to reveal how the meaninglessness of her life’s story can all be traced back to a botched kidnapping-and-ransom plot. This move — commenting on the past to explain the present — is a hallmark of memoir and confessional writing. Retrospection is the key. Such texts use the wisdom accumulated over time to make meaning out of the past. A Conversation with Sarah Trembath by Brooke Olson
If Grace in Darkness is an anthology about keeping your head up, even in the darkest of times, then Sarah Trembath’s “Swaying with Wicked Grace” articulates the difficulty of doing so poignantly and personally. Her short creative nonfiction piece explores the history and legacy of racial inequality and its pervasive influence in the present day, and while the experience she describes is deeply personal, it is also transcendent and universal. The narrative refuses to gloss over the difficult experiences and persecution that the main character experiences, and gives voice to the desperation she feels. The narrator moves from childhood to adulthood through the words of others, including literary and political voices of her heritage, but not without difficulty. At every turn, the reader sees the main character struggle with another moment of pain and sorrow from the world, leading to desperation and anger that we experience as if it were our own: “The disembodied grins you drew everywhere—in jealous reverence for Lewis’ Carroll’s Cheshire Cat—became actual wishes.” The words of past writers punctuate Trembath’s narrative, with references to James Baldwin, Toni Morrison, Pablo Neruda, Audre Lorde, and more peppered throughout the story. In the following interview, we discussed the influence of these writers as well as her research and writing process. Contributor Spotlight: Chelsea Leigh Horne and the Art of the Lovable Jerk by Angela Pupino
From Severus Snape to Walter White to The Hunger Games’ Haymitch, literature and pop culture are full of jerks. Despite, and sometimes because of, their misdeeds these jerks often become memorable and beloved characters. In Chelsea Leigh Horne’s short story “The Heartbreaking Misfortunes of a Nearly Genuine Almost Casanova,” readers are introduced to a more common kind of jerk— the twentysomething man desperately in search of love. Daniel does some some pretty jerkish things throughout the story: inviting a girl over in hopes of seducing her, calling Chloe a slut, and modelling his “Casanova” behavior after men like Humphrey Bogart. But by the end of the story, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit bad for Daniel. There is something charming about his oblivious attempts at developing a formula to attract women and failure to understand when and where he went wrong. I recently sat down with Chelsea Leigh Horne in her office at American University to discuss getting inside the head a male character, balancing humor and realism, and the art of making a familiar jerk lovable.  by Angelica Escalante
“Corazón,” a dark and generational telling, appears in our new Spring issue of Grace in Darkness. Author Caron Garcia Martinez agreed to share more about the story and her writing with readers. Let’s charm the reader for a bit. When did you start writing and why? I wrote my first poem when I was eight. It was about my cat, Calico Jane. I've also always kept journals ever since I was young, I think in an effort to make sense of my experiences as I lived them. So I just found that writing was a very natural way to express myself. And I think I’ve spent a lifetime wondering if I deserved to call myself a writer. I think that’s a topic for a lot of writers. I’ve now gotten to the point where it’s just as natural to me as the way that I breathe or work. It’s just a part of my life.  by Melody Tootoonchi
If you want to catch Tyrese Coleman, you’d better already be running. In addition to being a writer of both fiction and nonfiction, she keeps busy as a wife, a mother, an attorney, a writing instructor at the Writer’s Center in Bethesda, and an associate editor at Smokelong Quarterly. But once you get a hold of her, as I was fortunate enough to do, she will captivate you in conversation just as she does in her writing. Tyrese is a mix of honesty and edge, conveying the hard truths of life in her writing while still maintaining a level of lightheartedness. Her work features topics such as motherhood, familial relationships and their strains, voices from the not-so-heard, and the navigation of different stages of life. Her fiction can be found in [PANK], Queen Mob’s Tea House, the Tahoma Literary Review, and Hobart, while her nonfiction can be found in Buzzfeed, mater mea, Literary Hub, Washingtonian Magazine, and The Rumpus. Her contribution to Grace in Darkness, a flash piece entitled “Uncle Pug,” first appeared in the journal 1:1000 and gives a glimpse into the life of Pug, an old man with one leg who makes his way to the family house with a resounding “huff-plat, huff-plat,” and it raises the question of how much we should believe tall tales we may hear from our elders. “Uncle Pug” shows Tyrese’s affinity for character voice, inspiration from real life moments or people, and the parallels that can be drawn between life and art—all of which (and more) I had the opportunity to discuss with her. First, I’m interested in where you draw the line between fiction and nonfiction. I’ve seen that a lot of your stories are inspired by real life people or events (like “Uncle Pug” being inspired by your real Uncle Pug, for instance). Since some of your fiction is so heavily influenced by real aspects of your life, how do you decide what should be presented to the public as a fictional story or as a nonfiction piece? Is it a matter of how you process the real-life aspects as you write? I don't really make conscious decisions about where to draw the line. Some stories may be entirely based on real life occurrences (like “How to Sit”) and others may only contain a few facts that I always thought were funny or interesting, such as how my Uncle Pug loved The Golden Girls. It depends on the piece and how it unfolds during the writing process. An Interview with the author of "On the line" by Danielle Dyal
It would be easier to list the things Leslie Hsu Oh does not do than the things she does. She doesn’t watch the world go by as a bystander without taking an active part in it. She doesn’t take nature’s beauty for granted, and instead documents and pays homage to it with her writing and photography. She doesn’t treat the Alps as a landscape with the purpose only to grace her computer monitor, and instead glacier hikes them when she isn’t teaching her four children to rock climb, snow board, ride snowmachines, and hike before the age most kids start kindergarten. Her dreams are not just dreams but future endeavors that Leslie does not hesitate to make happen. Last year, her family took a trip to Iceland to see three national parks outside the US, and this year her goal – that will no doubt reach fruition, unlike the intangible and persistently unfulfilled goals that most people make in their lifetimes – is to begin showing her children the seven wonders of the world. Leslie doesn’t hoard her and her family’s outdoor adventures to herself either but shares them in her writing and photography that has been featured in or is forthcoming in Alpinist, Alaska Magazine, Backpacker Magazine, Conde Nast Traveler, First Alaskans Magazine, Fourth Genre, MIC, Outside Magazine, Parenting Magazine, Real Simple, Smithsonian Magazine, Sierra Magazine, Travel + Leisure, Washington Post and more. She is also the Outdoor Editorof Panorama Journal of Intelligent Travel. Leslie’s writing and photography is centered on her interactions with the outdoors through extreme sports and expeditions to the extraordinary corners of the world most of us will only see through the photographs taken by and stories told by others – others like Leslie, whose passion for nature is rooted in her childhood. She was raised by an outdoor photographer herself, adopted by the Navajo Táchii’nii (Red Running into Water Clan) and the Tlingit Yéil Naa (Raven Moeity), K’ineix Kwáan (Copper River Clan) from the Tsisk’w Hit (Owl House). Her life has been spent in intimate connection with her surroundings, fostered by a give and take exchange with nature. While she takes in her surroundings, she gives back tributes that include “On the Line,” her short story that is published in Grace in Darkness. “On the Line” takes place on the shoreline of the Russian River in Alaska, where Leslie herself has combat fished beside black bears like those that appear in her story. This story is a work of fiction, however, featuring not Leslie, but Sean, a father-to-be who readers find on a late June night combat fishing and thinking, among other things, about how “his wife and he would make terrible salmon.” While fish dodge his line, Sean doesn’t quite manage to likewise dodge thoughts of his Chinese relatives’ admonishments against his and his wife’s unconventional and capricious outdoor lifestyle, or memories of his older sister’s disapproving and berating email – the last instance of communication between the siblings. But the tensions from the periphery of Sean’s chosen lifestyle as a mountaineer guide have turned inward, as Sean has found himself now in discord with his wife, with whom he had, until recently, seen eye-to-eye with in terms of how they lived their lives with a deep-set relationship with nature above all else. In my following interview with Leslie, we discuss her own thoughts and decisions in regard to writing “On the Line.” With your background so centered on traveling, backcountry expeditions, and adventures in the outdoors, do you find that you begin writing fiction more often with an idea of place in mind even before you have envisioned your characters or their conflicts? I begin all my stories, whether nonfiction or fiction, with an idea of place. Something speaks to me about the landscape, whether it’s an incident that occurred such as two bears causing a hook to lodge itself in someone’s ear or a feeling. My Elders often lament that what’s missing today is an intuitive understanding of our relationship to all of creation. In Navajo, we call it K’é yił yał tx’I’, which means “it’s saying something with a kinship feeling.” Nick Carltikoff, Sr. explains in Dena’ina Ełnena: A Celebration, “Everything on earth has a spirit. They call it ‘K’etniyi,’ means ‘it’s saying something’ that’s how we believed long ago. We believed that everything had a spirit and should be treated with respect. From a rock, water, mountains, animals everything. This is what’s missing today.” That is what drives my narrative. An interview with "Great white" Author, Jen Michalski by Karla Daly
“It’s intrinsic to a lot of people to fill the gaps in broken families, and the texture of that is always seductive for a fiction writer.” —Jen Michalski I could tell you about Jen Michalski’s five fiction collections and novels, her 100-plus journal publications, her place as one of the best authors in Maryland according to CBS News. I could mention that The Baltimore Sun named her one of “50 Women to Watch” and that Baltimore Magazine voted her “Best Writer” in 2013. That her debut novel, The Tide King, won the Big Moose Prize and was named “Best Fiction” by the Baltimore City Paper, and more. But what is harder to convey, in my view, is the sensitivity with which she portrays relationships in fiction, her steady narrative voice, and her artistic restraint. For that, you need to read her work. As part of my MFA Creative Writing program at American University, I’ve had the opportunity to assist with the production of Grace in Darkness, the latest volume in the "Grace and Gravity" series—a collection of fiction from women writers in Washington, DC and surrounding areas. Michalski’s story, “Great White,” follows two friends who are trying to navigate their roles as parents of a young girl after the loss of their respective partners. As a writer and a parent, I was moved by the vulnerability of Michalski’s characters and was curious about the thinking and process that goes behind such a carefully rendered story. In a recent email interview, Michalski shared insights into her characters and inspirations: Let’s talk about the concept of “Grace in Darkness” as it relates to your story, “Great White.” I think the darkness here is grief: Linney’s grief over the death of her partner, Marti, and Charles’s grief over the betrayal and abandonment of his partner, Jude. For me, there was grace in the complicated relationships in the little family: Charles and Linney, Linney and Rachel, Charles and Rachel, and the family as a unit. What was your thinking about the concepts of grace and darkness in this story? I tend to agree with your assessment, although obviously I wasn’t thinking of these particular themes in this way, writing the story. I’ve always been fascinated by the way the idea of family evolves and molds itself to the needs of a situation. It’s intrinsic to a lot of people to fill the gaps in broken families, and the texture of that is always seductive for a fiction writer. And personally, when my own father left, my grandfather and uncle stepped in and took over his role. But in “Great White,” Charles isn’t even sure what his role is—he’s filling the gap of a lost mother for Rachel, a child with two mothers. Should he be the mother Rachel’s used to, or the traditional father she never had? And what about what he thinks is his own lack of parenting instincts? I think a lot of parenthood is making it up as you go along, with love, honesty, and integrity. At least, as a nonparent myself, that’s how I hope I would approach it. An interview with the author of "The wendy" by Shannon McDermott
I would love to hear about your background and you. Where are you from? Where did you go to school? Where do you teach now? So I’ll just give you my life story in a couple of sentences. I’m from outside of Philadelphia… It’s a place where you grow up and you think every place is like this. But then you leave and realize not everyone’s local mall is the second largest in America. Went to college in Boston at Brandeis University… I did not study creative writing or English, I studied Theoretical Linguistics which is a branch of computer science because I wanted to be a double major in biochemistry and English. At Brandeis, where pre-med is a really important thing, they basically said I couldn’t be a double major with a science and not a science. So I basically said to “heck with that” and put them together and was a theoretical linguistics major, which is about as useful as it sounds now… I got my MFA at Mason. I actually received that in May and I transitioned right from my MFA to my current position which is as assistant professor of English Composition – I am a full time required English class teacher now.  Author Wendy Besel Hahn by Tessa Ann Stewart
I grew up joking about my four mothers. Teachers would tilt their heads and I’d have to explain my family structure: I had my mom, my nana, my two older sisters, my dad, and Abby the dog. “Even the dog is a girl!” they’d laugh and lament for my poor father. That reaction always confused me, and later angered me as I grew older. Why my poor father? Surrounded by five strong women? I couldn’t think of a place I’d rather call home. It is through this female-centric and empowering family that I first learned to walk. Years later, it was these same hands that pushed my wheelchair, and taught me how to walk once more. This is the identity through which I carry myself in this world. So when I encountered “Receptacle” and the writing of Wendy Besel Hahn, I took a deep breath and let it whoosh out. I had found words I didn’t realize I was missing: I found a voice that spoke of sisterhood, motherhood, and sickness in an honest and multidimensional way. The vast anxieties of death and complexities of motherhood meet the mundane Arby’s fast food setting in “Receptacle.” This captivating piece in the Grace in Darkness anthology captures a small moment in time between Hahn, her sister, and their mother who is sick and helping them plan her funeral arrangements. “Receptacle” is actually an excerpt from Hahn’s memoir manuscript, Mom v. the Mormons, which uses humor to further explores these themes of familial tension, love, and faith. I had the privilege to meet Hahn in-person and ask more about her intersecting identities, the courage it takes to tell these personal truths, and her art as advocacy. Our interview was certainly full of laughs, truths, and trade tips. At the end, she allowed me to share my own story and speak of my personal connections to her thematic works. Still in awe of her courageousness to write and publish a memoir, I asked her simply what advice she may have for a student still struggling to find the words to her own story. Her parting advice? “You really have to tell your truth the way you know how to best.” These words have played on-repeat in my head ever since, and I hope you find her wisdom and experiences as useful as I have in my own work. Read the full interview below. Tessa Ann Stewart: “Receptacle” ends reflecting on the role of motherhood. Was this contemplation realized after the moment or did this feel “writeable” as it happened in Arby’s? Wendy Besel Hahn: Both. As a writer there are weird moments where you know something bizarre is happening on a gut-level. You’re thinking, “oh my god, my mother is talking about her funeral plan,” but it also is the ability to have distance later. [By the way, my mother is alive and well, she was able to recover.] But to go back and revisit that situation allows you to understand all the different layers and appreciate how poignant it was. When I interviewed fellow memoirist Mike Scalise, author of The Brand New Catastrophe, we spoke about having a foot in both worlds during these moments. It’s like being in two different bodies at the same time. |
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