Artwork by Art AI Gallery
From Tom Dooley, Managing and Fiction Editor
The artwork for this issue comes to us courtesy of Art AI, an online gallery of "Emotive art by Artificial Intelligence." If you haven't considered the possibilities of "artificial" art, I strongly recommend you check out their online gallery. The singularity is coming! And it's gonna be stunning.
Congratulations to this issue's Spotlight Author Molly Bashaw, whose nonfiction piece made me doubly grateful my gender excused me from the trials of breastfeeding—the giving end of it, I mean (thanks, Mom!). Also to Runners-up Carolyn Wilsey, whose poem, if I'm interpreting it correctly, proves it's not too soon to write poetry about the pandemic (and if I'm not interpreting it correctly, well, maybe it's too soon?), and H. Roth-Brown, about whom I'll say a few words in a minute.
In Reviews and Interviews, in addition to the usual yeoman's work from Ann Skea, we have an interview of playwright Jonathan Dorf by Janis Butler Holm, and we've also decided to bring back a couple conversations David Ewald had with longtime Eclectica contributor, now internationally bestselling author, Caroline Kepnes, to commemorate the release this month of her fourth novel, You Love Me, which is another installment in the You series, which is the basis for the popular Netflix thriller series of the same name. Are we basking vicariously in the glow of Caroline's success? Certainly, but we're also just super happy for her and grateful to have her as part of our extended "family" of contributors. Go, Caroline! And good job, David, for capturing these thoughtful interviews when you did.
This issue's fiction section... with one notable exception, is peopled by a demographically narrow set of authors—a demographic I fall into myself, being the increasingly problematic "white male." Whenever I finish putting together an issue, I take a moment to consider which voices are winning my affections. Eclectica is, at least in my mind, supposed to be all about a global approach to literature. I've always strived to lean into the "world wide" portion of "www." As a managing editor, I'm shooting for diversity in every sense of the word. But as a fiction editor, am I achieving it? It's a question I continually ask myself, but only after I've selected the pieces for a given issue, and only, I suppose, rhetorically. Because in the end, while I can strive to be open to perspectives and voices unlike my own—and genuinely striving is probably half the battle—I cannot change who I am, I will not select a piece of fiction for any other reason than that I want people to read it, and I am at the mercy of whatever the gods of chance and generosity place in my submission inbox. Those are three powerful constraints, and ultimately, I have to go by something Caroline Kepnes refers to in one of her interviews with David:
Writing is not a male activity. It is a human activity. That is why there are the million mugs with the Cheryl Strayed quote, "Write like a motherfucker." A motherfucker is a beast. That is the goal for anyone writing.
The truth is, this mindset works both ways. Cis white males named John from the midwestern United States are just as eligible for motherfucker status as anyone else. As editors, our job isn't to deny them a seat at the table. It's to keep seats open for authors who don't fit those historically over-privileged categories. I remain hopeful I'm up to the task of keeping those seats open, and filling them, and I invite any motherfuckers out there, regardless of identity, to give Eclectica a try.
Shout out to Gilbert Allen, whose story "Grammatology" marks his third appearance in Eclectica, and to Thomas J. Hubschman, who not only continues to hold down the Salon section with his piercingly intelligent essays (this issue, he tackles the "end" of Covid), but who has now notched his ninth piece of fiction in our pages. The aforementioned H. Roth-Brown was my nominee for the Spotlight. Their story "The Road Past the Sea" employs some especially rich imagery while addressing the long aftermath of trauma (something explored elsewhere in this issue—see Sarah Myers' "You're Crazy, But I Love You Anyway" in Nonfiction and Ted Morrissey's "Cultural Trauma and the Postmodern Voice" in Miscellany) and it had me Googling the fascinating history of the Salton Sea—a body of water I'd previously heard of but didn't know much about.
In Eclectica alum news, Rebecca Evans reports three of her poems are in Willowdown Books' The Poetic Bond X, and she received their Poets' Choice Award Commendation. Additionally, the first Sunday of each month, she and Ken Rodgers host a podcast called Writer to Writer on SoundCloud. Obscure & Irregular by Eli S. Evans was released in February from Moon Rabbit Books. R.L. Maizes is a finalist for the Colorado Book Award in General Fiction for her novel Other People's Pets. Oh, yeah, and Interior Chinatown by Charles Yu recently won the National Book Award for Fiction. Wait, what?! Wow. Congratulations, Charles!
Speaking of alums, if you are on Facebook and wish to join the group Eclectica Magazine extended "family," you can see more news as folks post it in real time. There have been updates in the past couple months from Susan Tepper, Richard Risemberg, Wade Bell, Steven Deutsch, Kris Saknussemm, Sylvia Petter, and Jonathan Pinnock (apologies if I left anyone out!).
On a less happy note, Amy Crane Johnson, former Spotlight Author, longtime contributor, fellow classmate, and great friend to my wife, Julie, is battling a grave illness. I'd like to close this note by sending my love to her and her family, and by urging everyone to appreciate the time you have with your own loved ones.
From Evan Martin Richards, Poetry Editor
Hello,
As always, I hope this note finds you well. We've now spent over a year in the COVID-19 spacetime vacuum, a length of time I'm still struggling to process—my best approximation places the effective length between a couple of months and half a decade. When paired with the long, snowy winter we've had here in Chicago, it feels like waking from hibernation. But we're starting to see inklings of a post-pandemic world. In the United States, the vaccine floodgates are opening—I'm fortunate to be days away from my second dose—and I hope the same can soon be said worldwide. On one hand, the thought of returning to "normal" seems inevitable. On the other hand, it feels like it will take a concentrated effort to re-establish social circles, routines, and pastimes. Hopefully we can use the opportunity as a soft reset, and reconstruct something positive.
Global health crisis aside, it seems pivotal, historical moments are occurring near-weekly; the verdict of the man responsible for George Floyd's death has struck a new chord in the ongoing strife of persons of color and the fight against police brutality. President Biden made history by officially recognizing the Armenian Genocide on its day of remembrance, some century after the fact. The recent virtual climate summit brought new green pledges (or lack thereof), a promising yet grim reminder the world does in fact go on after quarantine. The world has never not been changing, but if the news cycle has been giving you motion sickness as of late, you're not alone.
So, where am I going with this? Poetry, of course! I am continually grateful for the grounding effect editing Eclectica's poetry section provides. To hear from so many writers continuing to express their thoughts and feelings is always reassuring. My wish is that this latest poetry section will provide you with some sort of assurance, connection, or peace, as well! The spring issue has no particular theme, other than comprising pieces I enjoyed and resonated with in this particular time. Heading that off is Spotlight Runner-Up Carolyn Wilsey's "My kitchen," which blends nature and domesticity in a dream-like meditation on being stuck inside the home. This issue also features an extended, fishy metaphor from Peter O'Donovan, a maternal portrait from Alanna Shaikh, a sun-filled memory from William Thierfelder, and an omnipresent rumination from Edward Salem.
Our Word Poem Challenge special feature is full of great pieces from first-time Eclectica authors Skyler Arden Barnes, Nathanael O'Reilly, Emily Rose Miller, S.Y. Chen, and Jayant Kashyap and from returning contributors Mandira Pattnaik, Beau Gambold, and Bob Bradshaw—be sure to spend time with the latest from these writers! Unfortunately, circumstances prevented me from contributing to this issue's feature, but I'm eager to come up with a piece for next time. The summer issue's Word Poem words are gnaw, let, house, and same. I hope you'll join me in attempting the challenge!
Be well, wash your hands, get vaccinated as soon as possible, and happy reading!
EMR
From David Ewald, Nonfiction, Travel, and Miscellany Editor
Of all the board books I used to read to my sons when they were young, one in particular remains in memory: Richard Scarry's I Am a Bunny. It's a book about the seasons, and about change. Richard Scarry's bunny observes his environment changing from winter to spring to summer to fall and finally to winter again, at which point he curls up in his warm and cozy hovel and waits for spring.
Seven years from the time I first opened that book, I still think about it. I think about all the moments—moments of joy and moments of frustration—I had with my sons, and of how I'd like that time back because of how, like the book, innocent it seemed.
But it only seemed innocent. I was a different person then, much less of a father than I am now, and certain afternoons when my sons returned home from their early days of preschool they would play the Lockdown Game with me. With all three of us in their bedroom, they would ask me to make the place as dark as possible, and they would then "lock" the window and door before telling me to hide with them in the closet, which too would be "locked" for reasons only I fully comprehended.
It's spring again now, in what should be a different, a transformative time, and yet in many ways we're stuck. A colleague of mine died of complications brought about by Covid-19 toward the end of March. With the numbers still the numbers, the deaths still the deaths, there of course would be a desire to go back to what once was, and what could have been. Nostalgia is the best friend of so many. Was it ever an innocent time? Is it ever?
Sometimes I feel the need to step aside with my commentary on the pieces I've published and let the work speak for itself. This is one of those times. I will offer that reading the five pieces, nonfiction and miscellany, you will be taken forward, you will be taken back, and you may well even be taken aback. Sex, yearning, regret, art as a reflection of life—that creation—and possible destruction, hope—in this singular spring, what could be more appropriate.
