No Matter Where We May Be

It’s no surprise that I returned to this safe space with a fervor, only after sharing my thoughts in a tweet.

In case you’ve somehow missed it, or are not on Twitter, my feed is full of those terrified about the downfall of a once comforting site. Namely, for writers. I know this is true for myself.

I currently have Instagram, Tik Tok, Pinterest, Goodreads, Youtube, and Facebook. However, Twitter has always been my preferred social media platform when it comes to an uplifting community.

Many would think Facebook would be able to do just that. Especially since my personal account has strict privacy settings. The thing about having a carefully curated group of “friends” on Facebook is that it mostly relies on people I already know. I will not accept friend requests from people I’ve never met. This is how I feel safe. I’ve seen more hacked Facebook accounts and that’s just on the personal end. When you get into the nitty gritty of trying to run a professional platform on Facebook, you encounter ever changing pages and a distinct lack of customer support.

But what’s most important: I have seen and experienced more kindness from strangers on Twitter than most of the “friends” on my Facebook feed. And maybe you’re saying, get new Facebook friends. It’s tough when you’re only keeping Facebook alive for your family members and high school teachers to maybe find the link to a poem you published. I guess that’s what it comes down to for me.

But interacting with strangers and making new writerly friends has only ever happened for me on Twitter.

Sure Instagram is lovely to look at most days. I follow a variety of authors and other bookstagram accounts and even one page where pies are designed to resemble book covers. But I don’t feel like I can personally interact with the people I follow aside from those I already know. And I don’t think this is due to user error. It’s simply the way Instagram is meant to function:

• Heart the aesthetically pleasing photo and move on with your day.

• Don’t try to include an outside link in your caption to let anyone actually go to the thing you’re mentioning.

• Create a reel.

• Share to your story.

• Etc.

It’s all pretty basic, but really only translates well for those who have made Instagram a full time career.

For those of us writers working tirelessly on a WIP, to those of us editors building a platform for a small publication, Instagram works well enough, but it doesn’t give us everything we need.

Maybe it’s because we deal in words. Twitter gives us the space to only share words if we want. Feel free to tack on a photo or include a link. Stick to your character limit, breathe some brevity into that thought, or make it a thread. But at the end of the day, you might just find your people.

I know I’ve been able to do just that over the last eight years.

My journey on Twitter started out by talking about books and writing. Not much has changed, though now I do speak up more about the causes that matter most to me.

During those early days on Twitter, an online literary magazine, One For One Thousand, replied to my tweet, suggesting I submit to them. They published flash fiction of 1,000 words inspired by photos. After all, a picture says a thousand words. I wrote a new story and submitted. They accepted. This story, “Three of Swords,” was my first fiction publication.

Following publication, I was invited to submit again. And I did. “Hanged Man” was published not long after. Again, I was invited to submit more. By my third publication, “Exulansis,” I was invited to become a contributing editor with One For One Thousand. It was a wonderful experience before we all parted ways.

As an editor and social media manager for One For One Thousand, I started to find other magazines through Twitter. I’ve always been and am still on Submittable and I use their discovery tabs. But there is something much more akin to kismet about finding that perfect call for submissions.

Nearly every publication credit I have, I owe to the literary community on Twitter.

Once I received a truly heinous rejection. Instead of subtweeting, I wrote them into a poem, and did the exact thing they rejected me for in the poem. A different literary magazine, Another New Calligraphy tweeted and asked if I would ever like to submit. I did so, and was published in their debut issue of Impossible Task. That poem, “Something You Called Sleight of Hand,” is still one of my favorite poems published.

And when Taco Bell Quarterly tweeted that they were asking for the worst rejection letters in exchange for a Taco Bell gift card, I happily sent that monstrosity. I had confirmation that the rejection letter was awful, and got a free taco out of it.

In a different scenario, a poet was offering to make playlists for people by liking the tweet. I did. This is how I met Preston Smith. He’s still one of my favorite poets and friends I’ve made on Twitter.

When the time came and I started a blog series called “Pages Penned in Pandemic,” Preston was one of the first writers I reached out to for an interview. Then when this transformed from an interview series on my blog to a collective featuring pieces written during 2020, Preston submitted some poetry. He now has quite a few pieces in that published book, though my favorite will always be “To the Boy in California.”

During the course of those submissions, I created a new Twitter profile, and I reached out to writers to invite them to submit. Others found us through retweets or by writers happily tweeting their acceptances. By the end, we received 300+ international submissions, and collected Pages Penned in Pandemic into a print book that still makes me so proud every time I read back through.

Just before we opened submissions, I saw a tweet from Benjamin Brindise asking if anyone living in Buffalo wanted homemade soup. I live in Buffalo. I love soup. He made me homemade minestrone to celebrate submissions opening for my small publication. He is also the Flash Fiction editor for Variety Pack. Through Twitter, I found their call for submissions, sent a few poems, and was featured in their Mini Pack where one author from each genre gets published. My poem, “This Will Only Hurt Until It’s Time For Dinner Again,” is another favorite among those I’ve had published.

Are you starting to see a trend? So many connections and strangers eventually became friends and peers.

When my second collective, The Elpis Pages, opened for submissions, I created another Twitter. Through this, some of the authors published in my first collective retweeted and shared the call. I received staggering amounts of submissions, and again, have a book that I am so proud to keep on my shelf.

This account is still growing, as I am working on my third collective, The Elpis Letters. I love when writers tweet their acceptances. It allows me to feel closer to their celebrations, no matter where we may be in the world.

Throughout every experience, I have had the chance to network with other editors and publications. We take care of one another. On no other social media platform have I seen warnings about violent or hateful content coming from writers, about the kind of harassment that is worrisome, and the guidance on how to handle such persons in your submission inbox. I’ve always called it the “whisper network” on Twitter, but it’s helped me navigate tough situations where editors or authors may have otherwise been harmed or taken advantage of during a routine call for submissions.

For those of us getting ready to query, I think about all the books that have been published because of pitch contests on Twitter. For those who may not be familiar with the process, you tweet the pitch for your book. If an agent likes it during the hours of the contest, you are free to query them, and mention they liked your tweet. This gets you out of the main slush pile, though it may not guarantee representation or a book deal. Similarly, editors may like your tweet. This is something you can share with an agent before entering submissions. It’s all possible because of the vast reach and engagement on Twitter.

I have found critique partners on Twitter. I have found solace mourning the loss of a character on a show because of this site. And when I have new work published, I have actual human readers engaging and reading the work because of links or snippets shared by myself and the literary magazine on Twitter.

Without this site, I am not sure what will happen to the literary community. Of course, it survived the dark ages of Writer’s Digest. But from my understanding, that world was much more about prestige of publication than giving people equal access and platforms to share their words.

If history has taught us anything, it’s that speaking up is important. Using your voice and your words and your knowledge to change the world one Tweet or essay or novel at a time gives us a chance to make this world better. It’s been a bit of a dumpster fire for too long with only brief glimmers of hope.

Twitter, more than anything, has given people a free platform with equal access to share and receive information. There is value in such a thing. Take that away? I’m sure you know about the Ukraine atrocities, how Russia has attempted to keep their citizens docile and ignorant to the horrors being committed by taking away equal access to information. Look at every historical trauma and you will see what a lack of knowledge has done.

And I’m not talking about the fake news that runs rampant on Facebook. Before Twitter changed hands, there were alerts that mentioned whether a news article should be considered with caution. It is my understanding that this is going away, along with an unprecedented increase in the use of the “N” word since Musk loosened certain strictures. From where I exist, that seems like “freedom of hate speech” not the “freedom of speech” we should be fighting for in the United States and countries beyond our borders.

People are still being silenced. Books are still being banned. Where can we go to feel safe? To stay up to date with the most important news? You can think what you want about traditional news sources, but I have always preferred to get my news from Twitter. Get in and get out. Life is filled with too much darkness to tune into the nightly news and be bombarded with so much carnage.

Alas, I’m not sure there is any answer to the possible decimation of Twitter. There is only sadness and fear for those of us who rely on this site to stay connected and share our words with the world.

Many thanks for the literary magazines and authors and dreamers who’ve made Twitter such an inviting space for the last 8 years. I hope we’re not going anywhere. I hope I get the chance to tweet my announcement of an agent when I get one, to share my book news for all my Twitter friends, to stay engaged and in contact with the community I have worked so hard to build in this time.

Something True: An Author Interview

Upon compiling advice to young writers, I wondered what wisdom those youthful storytellers might be able to share. The search for such a person was not difficult, as one of the most dedicated writers I know happens to be younger than most.

Meeting at Lock Keeper, the namesake for our writing group, proved to be the perfect place for this interview. Keep reading for a behind-the-scenes look at the writing life of Uriah Allis!

When did you know you wanted to be a storyteller?

Prior to telling stories on paper, I told them in my head. This mostly involved me being Peter Pan or Spider-Man. There are pictures of kindergarten-era Uriah in a Spider-Man costume poised on our roof in that iconic pose like Tobey Maguire, who was my Spider-Man growing up.

One day, when I was about five, my mom was upstairs and heard this huge bang. Downstairs, she found an enormous circular crack in our drywall. Of course she asked me what happened. In complete seriousness, I explained: “Mom, an elephant walked through the living room, kicked the wall, and then walked out.” She started laughing. That might be the earliest moment when looking back, I can say, oh, I’ve been a storyteller for a long time. (Just to clarify, no elephant came through the house. I was likely Spider-Man climbing the wall and finding the task beyond my human abilities.)

It’s interesting you say “storyteller.” I didn’t have a television in my house until I was fourteen. I read books, listened to audiobooks, and told my own stories. It was my way of processing my role in the world.

Perhaps I’m giving human beings too much credit, but it seems our way of interfacing with reality encourages telling ourselves stories about the world as it exists, about how it could be, and how it should be. In that sense, we’re all storytellers. It just takes a certain kind of person and/or set of circumstances to share those stories.

Stories are a safe way to make sense of ourselves and life itself. It can be very scary in “real life” to make mistakes you might otherwise avoid by imagining those scenarios through stories. I believe there’s inherent value in doing that from a young age—of asking yourself what ifs. With age, what ifs mature as you grasp a more holistic view of the world. You meet people and garner experiences. You see human patterns of behavior repeat. At the end of the day, we have a choice to stand in the midst of it all and realize, wow, this is an extraordinary maze in which I’ve found myself—this horrifying, beautiful, extraordinary, terrifying world.

Knowing that you have a passion for stop motion stories on screen, can you share what inspires you most about this form of storytelling?

Though I didn’t have a television until age fourteen, I discovered many classic animated films by visiting my grandparents’ house. Their VCR rack was a treasure trove that included all the old Disney films and Bob the Builder, which was my introduction to stop motion.

What I value about stop motion is that you can literally see the fingerprint of the artist. In one way or another, I uncover that same human DNA in almost all mediums, apart from some CGI. There’s something magical about that. It at once reveals the artifice of the art while inviting you to see a more holistic picture of not only the art but the artist.

Another example of this motif in stop motion is called, in the industry, “chatter.” This describes the micro-movements of a puppet designed with hair or fur. You’ll notice the fibers move from frame to frame. It reminds you that an animator must reposition those puppets between every single shot.

Those examples from stop motion all add another layer of humanity to the art in question. In the same way, as a child I loved the art in Peanuts by Charles Schultz. Interestingly enough, my favorite cartoons are the ones he illustrated after having a stroke. His fine motor movements became limited, almost parkinsonian, resulting in illustrations that are “jagged.”

What I love about those jagged lines is they remind you there is no ideal “perfect”—either in art or life. I believe it’s our responsibility as humans to open our eyes to the beauty in the world. Often that can only come through accepting something as a whole. That includes the artifice and broken bits.

Art criticism is complicated; art is created by imperfect people. Nevertheless, the art itself—sometimes heightened by problematic elements—can provide a wonderful human reflection to consider and ask, what is here for me?

As you were not always a self-proclaimed poet, when did you begin to immerse yourself in this world?

It was only in January of this year, 2021. That was after my first semester of nursing school, which was extraordinarily stressful on many fronts.

Over my winter break, I decided to carve out time to explore new things. In writerly terms, I chose to set wider margins for my life—spaces where I could find respite from the constant doing of life.

During that break, I visited my cousin. We intended to visit an ice rink because she adores ice-skating. Unfortunately, the ice rink was closed, so we decided to visit Barnes & Noble. With my new “wider margins” philosophy in mind, I waltzed into the poetry section and found Rupi Kaur’s poems. I devoured her first collection, milk and honey, in thirty minutes.

Until that point, I viewed the ability to read and write poetry as an ethereal gift the gods give to a select few. What struck me about Rupi Kaur’s poetry was just how accessible it is without sacrificing any of its emotional or thematic integrity.

I felt like her poems simply said, here is my soul. The vulnerability she exemplifies in milk and honey and her subsequent collections is incredibly striking.

From that moment in Barnes & Noble, I knew poetry was not only something I wanted to be part of, but realized, I’m already a part of this. I just need to write down my experiences.

Shortly thereafter, I discovered Sharon Olds’s poetry. I was inspired by how she discussed complicated relationships and traumas she survived in such a frank yet tender manner.

Both Rupi Kaur and Sharon Olds showed me the potential poetry has to create what may be likened to taking a Polaroid of an emotional landscape. More than any other medium, poetry can capture the subjective experience of being human in relatable snapshots that would be diminished by recounting objective facts. Poetry can lift you up in a way that goes beyond words.

While discovering this fresh world of poetry, I began to write my own poems. Early on, I was insecure about the quality of my work. I shared my poetry with two people: you and Amanda, a mutual friend of ours. The feedback and encouragement you both provided was very heartening.

My only goal in writing poetry was to be as honest and vulnerable as possible. Frankly, my standard for poetry has not changed. There is no mathematical equation—in terms of rhyme and meter—that equates to a “good poem.” My only parameter is that everything I write must be honest, visceral, emotional, and true.

Poets have to bring themselves to the page. That can be painful. You must strip away your defense mechanisms. Only then can you see yourself as you are.

I imagine that’s why my poems often come to me when I am meditating. I am as vulnerable to myself as I can be at that time. Poetry has the power to capture those moments, giving it a magnetism that draws me as no other medium does.

Kayla King: What I love about modern poetry is the approachability, which I hear when you speak about your first reading experience with Rupi Kaur’s work. This kind of poetry presents an invitation, calling you in, and then breaking your heart. As humans, we find ourselves addicted to tragedy and heartbreak, in part because those emotions are so deeply ingrained in us. Seeing that another person has experienced something similar and found a way to work through, allows us to move forward in a way we might not have without those words. This is something I continue to admire in your poetry, so raw and honest. 

If the modern age of Instagram poets and social media taught us anything, it’s that we can very quickly put something out in the world. It might seem less intimate than a relationship with another person, but sharing words without knowing what’s going to come back, saying, this is who I am at the deepest roots of self, there’s power in that. 

Uriah Allis: I agree. There is something that creates a sense of triumph when you read a resonate poem. Poetry can grapple with profound realities we face in our everyday lives, yet rarely confront—life, death, and love. Poetry gives us a safe space to process and talk about these concepts not only in broad terms, but in their minutia.

The mere fact that a poet made it through the experiences they’re writing about, that someone else saw it, published their work, and somehow it reached us—the readers—is powerful. Although the lives of many poets ended in tragedy, that doesn’t mean their poetry will catalyze tragedy for others. It can mean quite the opposite. Poetry can allow us to recognize our own tragedy, and reconcile with it.

KK:  In a sense, poetry is the most human form of writing. Poems don’t have to be any one thing. Unlike typical novels where we can pinpoint a beginning, middle, and end, there is no need to be linear. The poems that strike me most are often a random collection of images from points in the author’s life that add up to something magical. Similarly, life is a random collection of moments that make us who we are. This stuns me time and again, and I’ve found those points in your poetry as well. 

UA: I appreciate that, thank you. To add on, we may not only be inherent storytellers, but also the inherent story. 

I’m not a believer in a finitely tuned timeline to humanity in which we are cogs in a system and there is a fate we are all headed for. Rather, as you say, I believe we are like pinballs in a pinball machine. Stories are a wonderful way to conceptualize the many random—or seemingly random—events in our lives. Stories allow us to see the gradations of beauty along the way.

I’m not even sure it’s about searching for some conclusive meaning at the roots of our lives. We seem to designate those meanings as we try to make sense of life. That’s what I mean by saying it’s almost a self-imposed responsibility to tell stories.

Stories also give us reason to believe the world needs to make sense. I doubt other animals are the same way. (That said, maybe I’m not giving dolphins enough credit.)

Weirdly, humans believe there needs to be a genie in the bottle. The truth may be far less tantalizing: a factory may process the glass; distillery workers might pour an alcoholic spirit into the finished container; the bottle could be lost in an ocean and wash up on shore.

Through that lens, many of our stories might try to make sense out of broken glass. But we believe there needs to be something deeper.

I think that says more about us than anything else.

While you touched on utilizing meditation while writing poetry, does your process for writing differ for fiction?

With fiction, I feel it’s necessary to just get words on the page. Whether or not those words become anything is what revision is for.

Regarding poetry, I don’t put that same pressure on myself. I don’t plan to write poetry. Rather, poetry really does come to me out of the ether. Sometimes it goes somewhere. Sometimes it doesn’t. 

However, I see false starts in poetry as valuable. I often find there’s something deeper I’m trying to get at. After writing one or two false starts, I usually stumble upon what I’ve been searching for the whole time.

As far as my process goes, I write freehand in my hardback Minimalism Art notebook.

Before I wrote poetry, I decided to try my best to keep from compartmentalizing my life. I reflect this in my notebook—you’ll find writing in it for nursing, journaling, writer’s group, fiction, and poetry. When it comes to creativity, I find it valuable to take in the whole of your life to create inclusive and honest art.

I write in several different colors, usually with G2 gel pens. In my first drafts, you’ll notice a lot of scribbling, illegible lines, strike-throughs, and so on. I’m a messy writer.

For instance, in my poem “fireflies” —which won first place in a poetry competition my college put on—I circled the second line and drew an arrow to denote it should be the last line.

One rule for myself comes from something I first heard Billy Collins talk about. He purely revises his poetry for what he calls “sound pleasures.” I only revise my poetry for phonetic readability. I don’t alter the original intent or theme of the poem.

If you were to Candid Camera my process for drafting a poem, you would probably find me doing a menial task like washing dishes or folding laundry. By doing something that doesn’t involve a lot of thought, I can allow my mind to wander. Then poems come to me. You might call it the “Bugs Bunny effect”: my ears perk up, I dash to my room, pull out my notebook, and write down my ideas.

Have there been any recent books or poems you’ve read that have stood out?

Over this summer, I went on a Civil War history tour of battlefields on the East Coast. During my trip, I visited a bookstore in Fredericksburg, VA, called Riverby Books. There I found a beautiful poetry collection called Conversations During Sleep by Michele Wolf.

There’s a handwritten message on the front cover from the poet encouraging the reader to “keep writing those beautiful poems.” It felt like inheriting my responsibility as a poet: to tell the truth.

I know you have a book with important postcards left by the original owner. Those details in secondhand books add a history to the paper and ink in our hands.

In Conversations During Sleep, there’s a poem called, “Response to a Reading.” In it, Michele Wolf critiques two poems that quite unsettlingly portray sex with the undertones of sexual assault.

What struck me about Michele Wolf’s poem was her approach to critiquing this very disconcerting language. She uses such gentle rhetoric to draw a line and say, this is very fucked up.

That poem reminds me poetry has the power to take issues that can become so emotionally charged that no productive conversation is able to develop around them. Poetry finds a way to cut straight to the human heart. I believe it is the perfect vessel to circumnavigate the political divides we face. It allows us to discuss timeworn, problematic, patriarchal ideals especially prevalent in this country.

Michele Wolf reminds me that poetry is a brilliant mode of self-reflection—not only on one’s own beliefs and perspective, but on how one’s beliefs and perspective are born out of the culture we grow up in. It can make something that is otherwise inaccessible quite accessible, something that is otherwise taboo no longer so.

One thing I love most about poetry is the ability to access things that are understandably uncomfortable, personal, intimate, and often hard to talk about. Yet, it can do this in a way that opens up the heart as well as the mind.

What is your favorite thing you've written within the last year? It doesn’t have to be a fully finished piece. It can be a sentence or paragraph from your work-in-progress.

My favorite thing I’ve written in the past year is undoubtedly the ending to a poem called “the butterfly affect.” It was recently accepted by Eclipse Magazine. Very rarely do I write a line I repeat to myself every so often afterwards. This was the exception.

To set up the poem, “the butterfly affect” portrays the metaphor of metamorphosis—the transformation of a chrysalis into a butterfly—as possessing more than superficial beauty.

The last line is:

            in the butterfly,

i find my delivery:

     the violence of many things

            broken together,

sprouting wings

When I wrote that line, it took my breath away.

Those words, after I wrote them, suddenly encapsulated my adult experience of interfacing with myself. They claimed the importance of accepting all the broken and hurting bits of my personhood—not as an ending point but as a diving board into a new and more glorious existence which is the present tense.

Editor’s Note: I will convince Uriah to put this quote on stickers, tote bags, etc. so everyone can be reminded of this daily.

If you could give advice to your younger self, what would you say? 

I look back on my younger years and realize I put so much pressure on myself to be “something.” I wish I had just taken a moment to look at myself in the mirror and say, you already are something.

Rather than striving for some sort of abstract ideal called “success,” I would tell myself, if you can’t accept who you are as a whole—the good, the bad, and the in-between—you’ll never grow.

I would say: be kind to yourself on many fronts, and give yourself time to figure things out. Don’t fall into the trap of thinking you need to know the answers because, more often than not, the questions are far more enlightening than the answers.

If you could provide any advice to fellow young writers, what would you say?

The advice I heard growing up was, “Read a lot. Write a lot.”

At fourteen, I heard Brad Bird who directed The Incredibles and Ratatouille say, “Make me care. Take me on a journey.”

As for my advice, I would say give yourself time to shear away the dark matter around yourself to reveal the diamond that is your soul. It takes time to carve a diamond from a mountain.

Do you have a specific playlist for writing? 

I do! Curiously, music occupies a different emotional space for me depending on whether I’m writing fiction or poetry.

For fiction, I usually listen to an instrumental soundtrack in its entirety. I love the composer 

Max Richter, who composed the soundtracks for My Brilliant Friend and The Leftovers (not to mention his extraordinary work in the neoclassical genre). Other favorites include: Rupert Gregson-Williams, Ramin Djawadi, and Nicholas Britell.

When it comes to poetry, I listen to one song—usually with lyrics—on repeat. If a song resonates deeply in my soul and I can feel it there, almost palpably, that’s what I’ll play.

I really like Radiohead. My earlier poems especially featured a Radiohead-themed soundscape. One song of theirs that made appearances in poetry writing sessions is called “Give Up the Ghost.” It has a repeated refrain: “Don’t hurt me / Don’t haunt me.” What resonated with me in that song was the idea that the singer is haunted by the narrative of someone hurting them—and gives that narrative the power to hurt them—rather than actively being afflicted by a person or situation. 

Another song I found very moving is “The Rip” by Portishead. I remember sharing it with you shortly after discovering it. That one resonates largely because the lyrics are so poetic and the vocalist, Beth Gibbons, sings every note as if her heart is breaking.

If you were to sneak a look at my Spotify selections, you’d know I’m a fan of jazz, classical music, Broadway musicals, ‘90s rock, and “prog rock,” although that word sounds so pretentious. In the end, what matters most is the emotional resonance of my music preferences. I believe some of my best work is born from emotion roused in me by songs.

As someone who has found a writing group, can you share why you sought one out in the first place?

At age eighteen, in early 2019, I watched the movie Taxi Driver. It disturbed me, as it should. One thing it does well is show us who we can be at the darkest moments in our lives.

The story of Travis Bickel is of an individual who has fallen about as low as he possibly can. He’s someone who had many struggles and could have sought help, but never did. Thus, he became increasingly isolated from others and increasingly taken with his own mental illness.

I lost sleep over that story because I realized, at that moment in my life, I had no friends. However, I had not taken the initiative to meet new people.

After that, I decided to seek people who I could connect with and trust, understand and care about. I wanted to find creative people who I could share a sense of mutual reciprocity with and cultivate genuine respect for.

That led me to discovering the site Meetup, which is how I found local writer’s groups. Through that, I met you and several of the individuals in our current group. 

It took you being there and the universe, so to speak, arranging our meeting to find everything I was looking for.

I look back and am tremendously grateful. I can share the deepest, most vulnerable parts of myself through art and conversation—even beyond critiquing each other’s work. Together, we can find companionship and a sense of belonging in this world.

That’s why I like stories that are uncomfortable: because they force you to think deeply about yourself. If it hadn’t been for a movie as fucked up as Taxi Driver, I doubt I would have sought out you lovely individuals who have become very, very dear to me.

KK: The feeling is entirely mutual. It’s interesting to note that I think we were both in darker points of life before we met one another. I’ve mentioned February 2019 being the darkest point in my life and not actively doing anything to remedy the situation. I realized I had incredible people in my life as far as family and best friends, but nobody who was actively writing. After being in the Mountainview MFA program, I missed the support and growth I’d found with other writers. I wanted to feel understood. This is why I downloaded the Meetup app, only to find our writing group. It wasn’t until the second meeting that I met you, but from then on, I felt understood. To make a long and lovely story short, thank you for existing, Uriah.

UA: Aww! Thank you! The feeling is mutual. The first time I read something you wrote, I was just like, oh my god! It wasn’t even Dream Catchers, your work-in-progress. It was “the feather story.” What is the title of that piece?

KK: “How to Bind a Lover, or the Lingering Aubade of Lear Aldrich.” 

UA: I went to our first meeting not knowing what to expect. I was so impressed by your work. I deeply wanted to impress you and everyone else by “bringing it” in terms of my ability to critique.

KK: You brought it.

UA: I tried. There was nothing I could say about that piece—or much of your writing, honestly—that felt particularly constructive. Mostly I was just like, this is amazing.

KK: Reader, the first piece Uriah brought was a story about a daughter, so lovely and heartbreaking and complicated, which encompassed reincarnation if I’m remembering correctly. It seemed to be written by somebody who’d lived 200 years. I assumed Uriah was much closer in age to myself at the time, 26 or so. He was 19, but possessed so much eloquence and passion for writing. It was an infectious energy loved by everyone, myself included, and that hasn’t faded. Uriah, thank you for caring so deeply about life and language and myth and stories. You inspire me everyday. 

Can you share the benefits to being part of a writing group?

Being in a writer’s group gives me the sense I’m not doing this alone. Writing is a solitary profession—you’re usually by yourself with a blank page or laptop. But being in our writer’s group reminds me of the grand tradition of storytelling and storytellers.

I believe there is inherent value in that tradition. It recalls images of the lore master sitting around the community fire long ago. The villagers gathered near the flames to stay warm, but also to hear stories of places that are far away and to empathize with strangers who may only exist in fiction. These tales give us all something to think about as we go to sleep, and, when we’re asleep, they give us dreams to dream.

In short, our writer’s group gives me a sense of community, belonging, and purpose.

KK: This brings to mind the quote from Gene Wilder’s portrayal of Willy Wonka. He says “we are the dreamers of dreams,” which comes from Arthur O'Shaughnessy’s poem “Ode.” The stories I gravitate toward possess this notion of collective dreaming and storytelling, where ideas continue to be reimagined.  It’s easy to trace this lineage from Orpheus and Eurydice to Laura Ruby’s Bone Gap, effused with elements of lyricism, myth, and going through darkness to bring someone home. Neil Gaiman has often said Orpheus plays a role in his storytelling. This is most clear in a line from “Sonnet.” Then there is The Wicker King by Kayla Ancrum, a formidable unraveling of the human psyche filled with obsession, myth-making, and human resilience. We keep telling the same stories because we try to make sense of the unknowable: love and life and death. Then I see my novel, Dream Catchers, built from the embers of all these stories I’ve loved, and it’s hard to argue against their power. 

UA: And those threads not only create stories, but also weave the grand tapestry of our lives. 

When did you decide to pursue publication for your work?

It was when you inspired me to do so, Kayla.

One of the first conversations we had involved you telling me you had received about one hundred rejections that year alone. My thoughts were, firstly, oh my god, that sounds horribly painful, and, secondly, I applaud you for putting yourself out there in that way!

After writing several poems, my feeling was that if the poetry I read was speaking to me in such a deep way, I wanted to share my poetry with the hope that others might resonate with it. This is not to sound pretentious. But in the same way I can pick up Rupi Kaur’s poetry and find something that rings true, my belief is that if my poetry can connect with anybody else, I want to pay it forward.

That’s one of the best elements about the poetry community: there’s a sense of “passing the torch.” Little ego is involved. All that matters is saying something true. 

Unfortunately, I don’t think that same altruism exists in the fiction-writing community. With fiction publishing, there seem to be gatekeepers rather than individuals willing to pass the torch.

In the poetry world, there are wonderful editors who are interested in reading the work of those who decide to submit. That doesn’t mean you’ll be accepted. However, it’s not about the acceptance—it’s about the mere fact that you’re part of this community and truth-seeking tradition.

KK: While not all editors are built the same, knowing your recent publication experience, it’s heartening to know there are editors willing to say, we really love this, we think it could be just slightly better, and here are some reasons why. I want to be the best editor, but as a writer, I appreciate a community interested in publishing quality work, even if it takes a little extra finesse to get there.  

UA: I love that. I think you’re an exemplary editor in that regard. You focus on what the art needs. It’s not an ego-boosting trip.

Editing should always be about making great art. Your ability to do that is inspiring and so pure. I just wish we could clone you all across the creative industries. The world would be a better place.

What is your process for receiving a rejection? How do you move forward? How do you process this redirection?

I have been rejected many times at this point. The first rejection I received was actually heartening.

The first step is to look at a rejection and realize that somebody cares enough to read your work. It’s not about looking for the silver lining, but recognizing that all we have is silver lining! We are living in a world where people are interested in reading and writing poetry—a world where poetry is still valued.

The second step is to accept the rejection for what it is and no more: it merely means this journal or magazine isn’t the best home for the pieces you submitted at that time. A rejection isn’t a comment on you as a person, nor as an artist, nor even on the work itself.

The third step is to know that, although one door is closed, you might find another one. Regarding the current climate surrounding online publishing, there are so many avenues showcasing diverse work. Thus, to process redirection, I recommend finding a new place to submit your work so long as you still believe in it.

Rarely have I decided after a rejection that I don’t want to submit to another publication. That has only happened once or twice. Those instances are not because I felt discouraged, but because I sense the work is only half-baked. I put those pieces on the shelf and decided I might come back and revise them someday.

On the flip side, you do need (earned) confidence in your work. For instance, I wrote a poem I’m still sending out for publication called “heartbr[ache].” Several publications rejected it without any comment on the poem itself. I don’t think that’s a mark of the work’s integrity. It means it wasn’t for them.

“heartbr[ache]” emerged from a dream of mine involving a couple I know who were getting divorced. In my dream, the suits and dresses from their wedding were being sold at a yard sale outside of their house. I feel like like I capture that sentiment well in my poem.

I’m going to keep submitting “heartbr[ache]” until it'’s accepted because that dream still haunts me.

Are there any writers who inspire you to keep pursuing this passion?

I really appreciate Neil Gaiman. He’s humble, and he puts himself out there. I greatly respect how he dabbles in many mediums while remaining true to himself.

KK: Neil Gaiman was actually the first person who came to mind when I considered what my answer might be to this question. He crafts the darkest of stories, many for kids, and makes no apologies. His writing teaches us that you can beat back the darkness with light, whether it be overcoming your Other Mother or ridding yourself of an otherworldly worm intent on evil. He reminds us the world is not a perfect place. Sometimes, in fact, it is a scary place, but there are people who become heroes. They triumph over their monsters.

UA: As far as other artists go, I’ll add Rupi Kaur to the list. She’s extraordinary.

I admire how gracefully she approached a situation that became rather controversial regarding her work on Instagram. On the platform, she shared a wonderful selection of photographs of her bed after she had her period. Her photographs were such a brave exploration of vulnerability through art. They were initially banned by Instagram, only to be later uncensored. They opened a much-needed conversation surrounding censorship, especially around gender. It asked questions I consider constantly as a nursing student, poet, and fundamental human being: What does it say about our culture that we cannot reconcile with the reality of what is to be a woman in a woman’s body? How can we live in a world where women are expected to be more than human, yet are treated with standards that are subhuman?

Additionally, I adore anything by Margaret Atwood.

KK: Whether it be Atwood’s poetry or fiction, she tackles terrifying concepts. Her words scare us because they’re true. We look at The Handmaid’s Tale as a novel, published in a time when the world was stricken with arguments about the rights of women. Today, we’re still having these conversations. In much the same way that Hulu’s adaptation of the novel shows June moving season after season toward a life of freedom, so too have we seen incremental changes in our own world. 

What dystopian literature and Atwood especially do so well, is packaging trauma under the guise of fiction. We think we’re only reading a book, but the story begs us to stop and reevaluate. Those stories plead with readers to avoid making similar mistakes. Storytelling continues to be the cure all. It’s seeing the sameness from Gilead in the proposed Bounty Law in Texas and hoping we might find a better future. It’s about putting pen to the page, no longer hoping for a better world, but saying, I’m going to try to find a way to say something important with my art.

UA: I absolutely agree. Something else I appreciate about Atwood and Gaiman is their openness to discussing the art and craft of writing in a way that demystifies it and makes it accessible. They also give me hope by seeing how relatively well-adjusted and kind they are as people, in addition to being brilliant artists. Those two characteristics are not diametrically opposed.

As someone pursuing another career, what is the importance of a day job?

I genuinely love nursing. I am so grateful to care for every single one of my patients, and to work with doctors, technicians, nurses, and every other member of the multidisciplinary team. At a foundational level, in regards to the importance of a day job for a writer, we live in a capitalistic society. For those of us who are working class, we need to make ends meet.

After earning my Registered Nursing degree, I would like to take a screenshot of a text I sent you shortly after I met you. I asked what your thoughts were on nursing as a career in tandem with creative writing.

KK: I’m so happy that you included me.

UA: I saw something in you early-on I could trust.

Having a day job also takes a pressure off of your art to be financially successful, which is better for both your art and your own mental health. Further, a day job offers not only financial support but also the opportunity to meet people and have experiences you otherwise might never have. 

I’m cautious about approaching life as simply a means to an end for a writer—as an inkwell from which to pen stories. I am a huge proponent of finding beauty in the present, no matter where you are or what you’re doing. That includes my job.

As a nursing student, my career provides me with a wonderful wealth of knowledge and competence surrounding the human experience, including the mind, body, and spirit. It also gives me license to care for those who are hurting and in need, which is deeply important to me.

If you could see into the future ten years from now, what would life as a writer look like? 

Hopefully it would look like it does now, frankly. At least in terms of my quality of life as an artist, I am quite pleased with the emotional gratification and spiritual satisfaction I find in my art.

If you cannot find satisfaction in what your creative life looks like in the present, I imagine your satisfaction won’t magically appear in the future. I say this not to bring down the mood. On the contrary, my belief is that anyone can find at least some satisfaction in the here and now.

You’re always going to have time constraints and life situations that make it difficult to find the time to write. The key is to do what you can now, without sacrificing your mental health.

With that said, I would love to write and direct for television and/or film. Given the opportunity, I would be honored to adapt work for television—either my own or the work of my dear friends, such as your work, especially Dream Catchers.

KK: A Dream Catchers adaptation for Hulu or HBO would be very interesting.

UA: I already have a certain setlist in my mind: ethereal, 2000s and 2010s era indie pop with a few standout anthems from the ‘40s, ‘50s, and ‘60s, such as those by artists like Ella Fitzgerald and Chet Baker—songs such as “Dream A Little Dream of Me” and “A Kiss to Build a Dream On.” The trick would be to refrain from being too on-the-nose. 

I think in a very cinematic way, and I’d love to play with color in a Dream Catchers adaptation—shades of whites and blues, contrasting organic browns, greens, and yellows with artificial light and darkness.

Going back to your initial question, in ten years I’d love to have a few collections of poetry and perhaps a couple books of fiction published.

Recently, I’ve been pondering life as a “creative” versus a “person who created something.” I’d like to live the life of the former. For me, that looks like seeing in a way where I cannot easily separate living life through a creative fashion versus a non-creative fashion.

With that said, if no one ever knows my name as a writer, but remembers me as a good person who made a positive impact on their life, I will be more than humbled and grateful.

KK: Ten years from now I expect there will be more than one of your books on my shelf. 

And you would be the perfect person to tackle the adaptation of Dream Catchers. This fictional world is so delicate and vulnerable. But from the beginning, you’ve championed the darkness and the tough chapters because you understood how important this narrative could be to others. There are not enough thanks to adequately show my gratitude for your encouragement and understanding.

UA: Thank you, Kayla. I sincerely appreciate that.

The approach to filmmaking I want to take is one that prioritizes the working environment and mental health of everyone involved, especially the actors. For me, this is the perfect intersection of my passion for nursing and for storytelling.

I firmly believe one can both maintain their mental health and create great art. You can portray darkness without allowing it to swallow you.

Regarding Dream Catchers, which heavily deals with the subject matter of mental illness, this approach would be even more important.

What I’d would love most is to sit down with the young woman who is cast as your lead character and engage in deep conversations surrounding who this character is; what the subjective experience of having obsessive compulsive disorder can be; and how we as artists can maintain our mental health while bringing such a character to life.

Overall, I’m interested in creating a healthy environment on (and off) set while cultivating great art.

KK: This reminds me of an interview with Sarah Paulson after the second season of American Horror Story. She explained that when you go through terrible things, even as an actor, your body doesn’t know you’re just playing pretend. Often what follows is PTSD, your body going through the motions of processing trauma. The Asylum season focused on kidnapping and sexual assault for her character, and the physicality of these events left lasting impressions. We can’t trick our bodies by saying, this isn’t real, so it’s okay. 

The same can be said for Ben Platt in his portrayal of the title character in Dear Evan Hansen. He built in certain ticks to the characterization and then struggled to untangle them from his actual personality once he left the stage production.

UA: Ben Platt, from my understanding, worked with an occupational therapist for a while after that production to regain his mobility.

To fly right into the teeth of this subject, I’ve read studies that suggest there is a much higher incidence of individuals with mental illnesses employed in the creative industries than in other industries. It is imperative to tend to our mental health as artists in this industry.

In the same way that Maggie Gyllenhaal, with HBO’s The Deuce, was an early advocate for the role of an intimacy coordinator to keep actors safe and comfortable during sex scenes, I would love to help introduce an industry standard regarding the preservation of our mental health.

Is there anything else you'd like to share?

I’d like to impart the importance of giving yourself a“wide margin” in your life, regardless of whether you consider yourself a creative person. Had I not given myself time away from all the doing in my life to rest and explore try new experiences, I would have never found poetry.

Allow yourself to be open to new experiences that are safe and healthy—but experiences nonetheless that might allow you to access parts of your personality you may have not previously tapped into. Hopefully I can continue to do the same for myself.

Thank you for your time, Kayla. This was an honor.

About Uriah Allis

Uriah Howard Allis, a twenty-one-year-old poet and nursing student from rural Western New York, has found pieces of his heart, mind, and soul escaping to the blank page ever since he could hold a pencil.

When he officially reached his “twenties,” he began to gladly slip into rhyme and meter, and whatever lies beyond.

Uriah is the winner of the Alfred C. O’Connell Library’s 20th Student Poetry Contest (2021). His poetry has been published by or is forthcoming from Active Muse, Ice Lolly Review, Eclipse Magazine, Moss Puppy Magazine, and Intangible Magazine.

​You can follow his journey on his website or Instagram @uriahallis.

Thank you for sharing, Uriah!

How We Improve

For those of us for whom words mean everything, we understand how much growth, belief, and trust it takes to put forth our best writing into the world. In order to tackle such mammoth feats, we require people to help us see what’s working now, and what can be made better. 

I know I am someone who stubbornly clung to the notion that this writer’s journey is one that needed to be traversed alone. This is something reasoned within myself for too long. However, since my time in the MFA, I’ve been reminded time and again of the good that can come from feedback. 

Though it’s been some many years since I graduated from the Mountainview MFA, I now have the most amazing network of support from family and friends both near and far and fellow writers willing to put in the same amount of hard work day after day.

For the most part, the feedback I’ve received has been immeasurably beneficial, whether I make the suggestions into tangible changes or not. And in the time between studying writing before graduate school and now, I have also learned how to parse through feedback to ensure I’m not losing sight of my vision or voice. 

All of this to say, I’ve become accustomed to receiving feedback and utilizing those comments and questions to better my work-in-progress. However, quite recently, I found myself feeling small. This is a rarity, one I’m rather proud to say hasn’t happened since my second semester of grad school.

But this month during a meet-up of writers, I found myself and my story and my knowledge insignificant. While this didn’t last much longer than an afternoon, I found it concerning. I struggled through the memory of the day on my drive home, and discovered why I felt as such. I’ve spent the following weeks working through this sense of alienation within myself.

During this meet-up, I brought Chapter 24 from my work-in-progress. It was a short chapter, one I had sectioned off from the chapter that followed to allow for the scene to breathe. It was filled with small character moments, but ones that were necessary. I read the chapter aloud while the other writers followed along. I knew almost immediately that I would have differing opinions with two of the writers at the table, however, I was not prepared for the misogyny, and did find myself startled at the amount of mansplaining that came from someone not writing or reading in my genre. 

I suppose throughout the other writerly meet-ups I’ve attended in the area, I forgot how precarious a position it can be as a woman in her twenties surrounded by older men who assume they know more. It’s rare that I play the MFA card, as I know it is something that generates further conflict.

Thinking back, I could’ve said so many things, made use of my experience and credentials. In that moment, however, I found myself forgetting my strength, my voice; my ferocity as a female writer. 

For the duration of my critique time, I listened to two men explain to me why, as someone seeking traditional publication, I needed to pay for editing services, though they couldn’t find any concrete examples of something being wrong with the chapter. And while there were other points made more specific to that chapter and my novel as a whole, it was this that infuriated me most of all. 

I have done my research. I have queried before, and when the time is right, I will query again. I’ve had work published in the past and there will be more to come in the future. But somehow I found myself quiet. I didn’t argue. I just let them explain why they were right. And for the rest of the meet-up when one such man used a television series to justify head-hopping without understanding the difference between a limited point-of-view and omniscient narration, I felt like my knowledge wasn’t worth sharing. 

By the end of the writing group, I left defeated. And as I went over the details, later sharing with trusted allies, I found myself angry that I let myself shrink in that situation. The last time such a thing happened, I remember clinging to the feedback. The best friend told me to leave the pages behind. And I did then. I knew that was what I needed to do again. 

So that’s what I did. 

I waited to pen this post until I had some time away. I can assure you, I’ve once again found my strength. 

Now, you might be wondering what the point of critique is in situations like this. As writers, feedback helps us improve. I have had countless experiences where a question will help me unlock the secret to a messy chapter, where a reassurance will help me remember why I love still love this story after almost six years. But what’s more, I was reminded why I’ve curated a group of people to join me on this writer’s journey. This isn’t to say these people only offer praise and goodness. The reason why I appreciate my people so much is for their honesty, their instincts, their belief in both me as a writer and this story. 

We all need those people to help us see where we can be better. 

This is the lesson I take with me as I continue to work through the developmental edits for the work-in-progress and as I endeavor to provide feedback for other writers. I do not wish to make them feel small, but to help them see their strength, their promise, and the importance of their words. I think this same thing applies outside of writing. In a world filled with messes and mistakes and melancholy, we all need people to help us improve. 

All That Remains

Amidst drafting my current work-in-progress, I have found myself reevaluating my writing process. With DREAM CATCHERS still out in the query trenches, I have found this current project to be just as magical as it's always been. After nine years working on the Falling series, it feels like I finally know what BOOK ONE needs to be. And through this learning process, I've reminded myself how I've grown as a writer and how writing this book can be different than the last four years spent on the Dreamer Duology. 

What I've discovered since being back in this fantastical world, is that writers can change many things: the process of plotting and writing, revision and editing. But as my best friend reminds, "you can't change your emotional truth." While she may have said this in reference to another moment and memory in time, I've continued to repeat the words through my mind like a mantra. Much can change. But when hurts and heartbreaks and heeded warnings are all that remains, it is best to remember them.

It is with this knowledge that I proceed into the drafting of the WIP, taking my burdens with me. It is the best gift and the greatest curse of writing that we may spill ourselves into fiction. Such remains a reality in this WIP. There is darkness and there are shadows within these new pages. But there is also goodness and light and hope; everything I know to temper the harsh reality of feeling too deeply about the world and its inhabitants.

As I continue to craft the beginning of this book, I won't try to change my emotional truths because to do so would deny the validity of feeling. But I will keep writing. I'll keep building a world of my own creation. I will plot and plan because that is the kind of writer I am. Unlike the early experience of writing DREAM CATCHERS,  I won't shy away or detach from writing the difficult scenes within this book, because those are the ones which ring and resonant with truth.

If anything, I have learned what works for me in the here and now instead of focusing on what I can't change about my lyrical style and voice. These are the things which I've never had to force, because they've always been there. I'm not sure it's worth dwelling on those things when there is so much power to be had in creating myself anew. So this time, I will write the chapters in a linear way. I will share them with my critique partner as I go. I will check in with the story from time to time to make sure character motivations are clear, that voices remain distinct, that what I am writing feels true to the story I'm trying to tell. But such are the fickle foes of writing.

Much as I would like to imagine writing to be magic, it is work. Alas, it is work that I so love. Maybe that emotional truth is the greatest of all because it reminds I will make this story into something real. And even as the world tries to break my spirit, as people depart and new ones emerge along this writing journey, I will cling to the dream of the Falling series and all it has done to make me into the writer I am today. 

Should you find yourself in the middle of burning bridges broken beyond repair, or breaking bad habits, writing or otherwise,  I hope you'll remember that even if you can't change your emotional truth, you can acknowledge the fear, the hurt, the joy, etc. and use it to grow. Become better. Remain true. 

Exploring the Exceptional

This week, I've once again started editing DREAM CATCHERS. I printed the in-text notes from my wonderful critique partner, formulated a revision plan, met with a beta reader, and organized everything into a new binder to make this arduous process that much easier. After almost four years, I keep thinking this book might be "finished," but now is not that time. And that's okay. 

If the years spent in the MFA with this novel taught me anything, it's that it takes time to develop the best of stories. And this one still needs a little more time to be the best it can possibly be before I begin my third round of querying. Though I have a few things now that I didn't have eight months ago when I entered into the query trenches. 

When I started querying, there was a sense of fear for the unknown, but now that I've been through the query letters, crafting the synopsis, researching agents, hitting send, and waiting, always the waiting, I know this process is manageable. And along the way, I received a Twitter pitch request, a partial manuscript request, and even a full manuscript request from a potential agent. I've submitted to 25 agents and so far all have passed, but I know there will be someone who will love this story. 

This knowing is even more clear after receiving all of the feedback from my amazing critique partner and my first beta reader. My CP has gone above and beyond in not only supporting me, but my vision for this book. So many of her suggestions have found their way into my revision plan. She also made me two more beautiful graphics to showcase my story and my words! 

Both images now adorn the front and back cover of my editing binder as reminders that someday my world might exist in other readers' minds. It's a wonderful feeling to have after living with this world on my own. The first beta reader to finish reading the book in full has been someone who's traveled along my writing journey for eight years now. My National Honor Society advisor from high school is someone who continues to support my writing. She helped me figure out how to best pursue my passion for writing, she read my poetry sample before I submitted my application to the writing program at Buffalo State College, she read more poetry, my first book, my first poetry collection, and now, DREAM CATCHERS. 

On Monday, I met with her, and we immediately launched into the main plot and subplots of my book. We discussed dreams and scenes and characters. She gave me more feedback, which I've incorporated into my revision plan. But the most amazing and peculiar moments from this meeting happened when she stopped to read her favorite scenes from my book. This was the first time I'd ever heard someone read the words I'd written. And in her reading, I understood those paragraphs must've resonated with her enough to prompt such a thing, and it helped remind me why this book will be important to the world someday. She reminded me why this book is important. 

After the hard work was done we talked about life and literature, my writing, this blog, and this website. And she showed me a note I'd written on a guest check slip from the restaurant with my website address. And she told me it remained on her fridge with a magnet that reminded her of me because of the quote: 

"She was perfectly comfortable being exceptional." 

This was enough to make me realize the person I've become; the person she's watched grow from a bookish high school student to the writer I am today. Knowing she thinks me to be exceptional helped me remember what I've done in writing this book, in setting myself up for rejection after rejection, in not quitting, but continuing to persevere: I suppose I am exceptional. 

A few weeks ago, I wrote about finding my way back to believing again. Through meeting with this mentor and friend, through the friendship and support of my critique partner, and remembering my kingdom of those who've never stopped believing in me, I once again believe. That doesn't make the query trenches any less difficult, nor these edits any less extensive than I already knew they would need to be. This certainly doesn't make me any more exceptional than the dreamer I've always known I needed to be, but rather, reminds me I have everything I need to make this dream a reality. 

Haunted

I'm not sure I've put much thought into the things that haunt me. Too often, these things appear in my writing as if by chance, or perhaps fate, if you're so inclined to believe in such a thing. I'm sure it has more to do with the fact that the written word has always been easier for me than anything else. I look at the stories we all have to tell and often wonder what separates writers from other people.

Maybe this is because I am a writer. 

Two weeks from today will mark the twenty-eighth anniversary of the day my maternal grandmother was shot and left for dead. In what has come to be known as a warning tale for other relators and an end to realtor safety in our small town, is something that is more than just a tale told to pass the time. This is my history. This is my real life. 

This year, my grandmother's attacker, E. Beauford Cutner, is up for parole, and this fact not only terrifies her, but our entire family. While discussing petitions and reasons for why this criminal should not be granted the freedom he tried to take from my grandma all those years before, she marveled at the way I was able to explain my frustration and anguish over what is happening. And I know that the words I spoke were easier for me to speak to her than anyone else. I know she wishes I could write her story as it really happened, and while I'm no genie nor djinn, I would like to grant her such a wish. But I'm not sure she realizes her story, the amazing, resilient person she has become, is already there in my writing. 

I know it's not the same as writing a biography based on her bravery. While I would describe myself as a fiction writer, I find my own anguish and obsessions within my fiction. There is an essence of myself on every page because I am the writer and the creator and though I am not the characters, they are part of me. 

Within the DREAMER DUOLOGY, my current WIP, I am trying to figure out what happens to a world when safety is obliterated, when fear sets in, when lives are at stake.

I look back at the way my family survived my grandma's attack along with her; rebuilding the people they were to become the guardians and healers and protectors they needed to be: for themselves, for their children. I grew up in a house that valued text messages and phone calls to relay locations and destinations because my mother wanted us all to be safe. And I'm sure many parents would be the same way, but for us, it feels like we know evil exists in the world, and so, we all must be guarded against such things and persons. 

Now this kind of conscientious life has allowed me to create a character traversing a dangerous landscape. And there is a violent act that mirrors my own thoughts about what happened to my grandmother all those years ago. Though I was not yet born, the stories of this have been relinquished, and to me, sometimes, the stories mean more because that is a language I speak well. 

Helping my grandma organize her thoughts for her victim letter, which she will be presenting to the parole board soon, made me see that much of what she has to discuss is the idea of the unknown, the fear of the the what if; too many possibilities to name. And I realized that all writing deals with the unknown.

Writers take a blank page and fill it, often before they know what needs to be there to make the story feel right or perfect, which any writer will tell you never happens upon first draft. If anything, the what if is a feeling, a need to figure things out, and I know for me and my family, we are hoping to figure out what life will be like if this man does gain parole. 

Fortunately, we have time on our side. And I have my words to help me figure this all out. I am called to the page, much like other people are called to protect or to heal or to lead.

Writing is my life. 

My family is my life.

When I think about the way E. Beauford Cutner shot my grandma three times, in the head and the neck, leaving her for dead; the moment in which I might never have had the chance to meet this wonderul woman, I am haunted by what could have been. 

Like any writer, I am haunted by stories.

I am leaving this here as a way to explain to my grandmother, and maybe, even you, for not being able to write her story the way it deserves to be told. It is something I can't forget, something I can't fathom.

Too often, I think the difficult things fossilize within us until they're ready to escape. For now I hope the words I've taken from her experience, this unending work ethic she's given me, the times I've pondered the meaning of saftey and fear and fate, will all help me finish my novel. 

* 2018 update: E. Beauford Cutner is once again up for parole.

Please help us to keep this man where he belongs by signing our petiton HERE!