Ari Iscariot

Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga

When going to see a George Miller action film, you might be expecting flawlessly executed fight scenes, stunning scenic shots, and colors so bright they feel edible. Miller’s Mad Max films are a beautiful and brutal visual experience, a reprieve in a cinemascape inundated with darkness and flat, unimaginative lighting. They are known for their visual worldbuilding, their to-the-point, poignant plots, and their absolutely break-neck pace. But perhaps what you aren’t expecting from Miller’s vicious, post-apocalyptic wasteland is a message of hope, and the gentle, spring green love that helps it to bloom.

Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga is, at its core, a character-centered story. Slower than its predecessor, it is no less gruesome or exhilarating, but its darkness is deeper, sadder: the grief of an orphaned girl separated from her home, and subjected to the whims of madmen. Furiosa, in her suffering, has every right to be as ugly and as cruel as the world that raises her, but time and time again, we watch her choose a kinder path. Choose to trust. Choose to offer salvation, and to become the woman we know from Mad Max: Fury Road. This is no more obvious than in the relationship she shares with Praetorian Jack, the legendary driver of the War Rig, and Furiosa’s best hope to find her way home.

This movie doesn’t contain an excess of dialogue, in fact, the only one who speaks incessantly is Dr. Dementus: the hateful, hilarious, and begrudgingly pitiful antagonist of young Furiosa. But what the movie doesn’t say with words, it shows with deeds. In the midst of the ravages of the desert and beneath the dirty greed of men, Furiosa and Jack grow something as precious as the bountiful abundance of her home. Through their trust, their intimacy, and their hope to escape together, they defy a universe that expects them to be apathetic, selfish, ignoble. Through her, Jack is redeemed. Through him, Furiosa holds tight to her humanity. This connection is not physical, as far as the audience sees. They share a single moment of closeness, foreheads knocking, lips murmuring “My Fury,” “My Jack.” But there is no need for declarations, passionate kisses, or overblown displays of sexual prowess. There is only Miller’s brilliant ability to render a message of self-sacrifice in the midst of gunfire and explosions. There is only Jack and Furiosa, choosing each other over safety, freedom, and escape. There is only hope in every action they take, which reaffirms their love in the wasteland. You are my green place.

“In the process, we find them, relinquishing their own self interest, one for the other. What follows is, through their actions, not their words, their promises to each other, but through their actions, that they actually are prepared to give themselves entirely to the other. So in a way, it’s kinda a love story, in the middle of an action scene.”

—George Miller, ‘Furiosa’ | “Anatomy of a Scene”

Dominic Loise

A Fox in My Brain

The cover of A Fox in My Brain (FairSquare) say it is written, drawn, and experienced by Lou Lubie. The experienced part is why I connected with this graphic memoir about Lubie’s discovery and daily living with cyclothymia, which is a mood disorder from the bipolar family. “Bipolar disorder takes various forms, and cyclothymia, extensively addressed in A Fox in My Brain, is still quite unknown, suffering practically from a harmful delay in diagnosis,” as stated in the graphic novel’s post face by psychologist Isabelle Leygnac-Solignac.

It is Lubie’s perseverance through misdiagnosis that I related to in addition to how accurately she conveys mood swings, depression, and processing a relationship with another person. A Fox in My Brain is a graphic novel that I would hand to my partner, my family, and my friends to inform them of the experience of being misdiagnosed for your mental health and to share how someone with cyclothymia, bipolar 1, or bipolar 2 feels with a stigma society has created around the disorder.

Lou Lubie’s has a wonderful fluid art style, which works for the fox that represents Lubie’s cyclothymia. Her depression is as represented as a wolf, which comes out of the shadows as it lurks and growls when Lubie feels the disparity associated with depression. A Fox in My Brain is a truthful story about one person’s mental health awareness, which I honestly connected with. 

Kaitlin Lounsberry

Remembering Gene Wilder

Growing up, I didn’t quite realize how much of a powerhouse Gene Wilder was in the film industry. I knew he was funny, I knew he was in all the movies I watched with my dad, but I didn’t realize just how special and influential he was until I was much older. Remembering Gene Wilder, a tribute documentary released in early 2024, features countless behind-the scene clips and interviews with those who knew Wilder most intimately. Though the documentary doesn’t follow the traditional, linear storytelling we’ve come to anticipate for films of this nature, it somehow makes sense for Wilder’s story to be told in such a manner. Most of Wilder’s creative genius is presented through the outrageous storytelling of Mel Brooks, but most special, is the inclusion of the narration of the now-deceased Wilder, providing an look into his world that only he could provide. We’re given insight into the creation of Young Frankenstein (my favorite film of his), Wilder’s transition into acting-direction, and bits and pieces of his personal life that make you feel further enamored with the powerhouse.

As a life-long Wilder fan, Remembering Gene Wilder captured much more than Wilder’s Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and Mel Brooks fame. It showcased Wilder’s tenacity as a writer, his unique thought process while acting-directing, and his consistent desire to uplift and support up-and-coming actors in the industry. This documentary highlighted just how much of a powerhouse Wilder was and frankly continues to be years after his death in 2016.

You and artist Adrián Gutiérrez worked on last year’s Blue Beetle: Graduation Day miniseries, expanding on the mythos of the blue alien scarab (Khaji Da) that gives Jaime Reyes his powers and brings the intergalactic threat of the Reach back to Earth. How does the miniseries tie into the Scarab War?  

You can start with Blue Beetle #1 without reading Graduation Day. Issue #1 of the ongoing series is our pilot. We introduce an offshoot of the Reach, known as the Horizon. They have their own agenda. We are also introducing Starfire as a mentor to Blue Beetle and Jaime to a whole new city (Palermo City), giving him his own Metropolis as I like to say.  

A whole bunch of fresh new characters and old favorites like Paco and Brenda are along for the ride too. All this is to say, I am putting pieces in place to knock them down in our big Scarab War arc.

Graduation Day also shows the different mentor styles of Ted Kord (the second Blue Beetle) and Starfire who are “guides from the sides” and Batman up against Superman who take a “Sage from Stage” approach with Jaime. Can you talk about how Ted and Starfire trust Jaime when the Justice League wants to ground him when the Reach returns to Earth? 

Even back when Jaime was first introduced in the 2000’s Infinite Crisis, he has always had a relationship with Batman and I think Batman cares for him as much as he does Robin. Batman knows Jaime has unique responsibilities and a unique destiny because of the scarab (Khaji Da) attached to his back. So, there is always a level of suspicion that comes from Batman inherently and I think that is different in how he looks at Jaime. 

Ted Kord is the Blue Beetle before Jaime. He is the second and Jaime is the third. So, Ted looks to Jaime very positively as the next generation, as a way to fulfill all his hope and all the potential Ted sees. Ted is very much like a hopeful Batman, I like to say, versus a more cynical one we see in the comics from time to time. 

Starfire is a window to his greater cosmic destiny. Starfire has been a warrior princess on Tamaran. She is very knowledgeable about alien races and alien history, and she’s someone Jaime can lean onto to help explore that side of him (the Khaji Da). So, they fill different roles, and in our Scarab War arc something happens to Ted that takes him off the board for a minute, and Jaime has to lean on Starfire a little harder than ever. I think it is interesting to see their contrasting mentor styles. 

We see Ted Kord standing with his arm around Jaime Reyes’ shoulder consoling him after a mistake, while Batman stands over someone making sure they don’t make the mistake again. How different are the Beetle and Bat families?

I think the Bat-Family and the Beetle-Family maybe aren’t all too different in some ways. It’s both this large community around a central hero and how they build him up, hold him accountable and give him something to fight for, but Jaime’s family is much more informal. It’s safe to say, they laugh a lot and have that Justice League International (JLI) heritage.  

Ted is a goofball-through and through, but Jaime’s story doesn’t begin with tragedy—it begins with a mystery. Batman comes from that seminal loss and seminal tragedy. So, I think there is more optimism and curiosity about the world around him for Jaime than maybe Bruce (Wayne) experiences. Jaime is our window to the DC Universe. He is very wide and bright eyed, where Batman has teamed up with everyone from Superman to Santa Claus. 

Who have your mentors been in your writing career? Did they have a “guide from the side” or a “sage from the stage” approach and did you find that helpful? 

I have been really lucky with some of the creators who have taken me under their wing over the years. A big one being my editor over at DC, Andrew Marino. He’s the editor on Graduation Day and our ongoing series. Andrew is a huge fan of Jaime Reyes. This (comic) was something Andrew had been advocating for for years and really saw me as the potential guy to write for that character. It took almost six years from when we started our conversation about Jaime to where we are now if you can believe it. So, it is about teaching me that patience. Comics can move very quickly, but they usually move very slowly and it can be a waiting game. Waiting for your opportunities or building your own opportunities in the meantime. So, he has been enormously helpful. 

I look to my peers. Levi Hastings is an illustrator I worked with on a book called Washington’s Gay General, that came out last year. He is a great sounding board for story. Josh Cornillon, my co-collaborator on Pool Boys, listens to my insecurities and woes and helps keep things in perspective. Like Jaime, I have a huge community of people I bother with text messages in the middle of the night. 

Ted Kord is put in a coma when the Blood Scarab attacks at the beginning of the new Blue Beetle series. Jaime is, again, without Ted’s guidance like when he first started as a hero. Ted made his own path without Dan Garrett, the original Blue Beetle, in his own origin story. Can we talk about how each Blue Beetle honors their predecessors but starts out in their own unique way? 

Dan Garrett is our original Blue Beetle. He found Khaji Da in a pharaoh’s tomb in the 1940s. As I see it, Dan acted as a mentor to Khaji Da, teaching the scarab humanity, heroism, and selflessness. This all comes to a head when Ted becomes the Blue Beetle after Dan’s death. Ted has this enormous responsibility, not just because he idolized Dan Garrett/Blue Beetle, but also Dan Garrett/the Professor/the Scientist because he was a student of Dan’s. There is a real passing of the torch moment born into that “How am I ever going to live up to that…The greatest hero of the time” mentality. 

Jaime has a similar situation because Ted was killed right before Jaime got the scarab. There is a sense of heavy responsibility and legacy that permeates through our book and the Blue Beetle chronology, and I wanted to do right by that. Our book is very new-reader friendly, but we have to acknowledge we’re building on the shoulders of giants. 

Since we are now talking about all three Blue Beetles, let’s talk about how the new adversary, the Blood Scarab, connects the three heroes? 

In Dan Garrett’s origin, he found Khaji Da in a pharaoh’s tomb and that pharaoh was awakened by the energy of a nuclear bomb. Kha-Ef-Re was his name and he was the first Blue Beetle villain. Dan was able to stop him in his origin and seal him away. We haven’t seen or heard from Kha-Ef-Re in continuity since. It has been over sixty years. Kha-Ef-Re has a bit of a grudge against Khaji Da because Dan is already dead. 

The Blood Scarab is a human host controlled by Kha-Ef-Re, who has now taken on a scarab form of his own. I wanted to create a through line from the original Blue Beetle villain to today and that goes straight through Ted. Ted isn’t an heir to the scarab in any way, but Kha-Ef-Re still saw Ted as a threat or potential obstacle in his path to claim Khaji Da. It’s a bit of the past, but a way to recontextualize this silly Golden Age story with nuclear bombs, evil dictators, and the type of fun we had in the Golden Age and Silver Age of comics. 

Beyond the blue alien scarab (Khaji Da) and the azure costumes, there’s another connection to the Blue Beetle legacy through comic book creator Keith Giffen, who we lost last year. How did the Blue Beetle #7 tribute to Keith Giffen come together?  

Losing Keith Giffen was a gut punch for me. I never had the chance to meet him personally, but his work was among my favorites at DC. Specifically, his JLI was a real window to enter the DC Universe and I loved the way he handled Ted and Booster (Gold) in particular, co-writing with J.M. DeMatteis and Kevin Maguire on art.  

We wanted to do something special for Keith immediately once we heard the news. For me, that meant going on a bit of a road trip through the DC Universe to see how large Keith’s influence was. That meant going to the JLI days, the far, far future of the DC Universe and everywhere in between and beyond. The issue is star studded as far as guest stars but also guest artists. We have Adrián Gutiérrez, our regular artist, Natacha Bustos, Howard Porter, Cully Hamner, Scott Kolins, and not to mention our incredible colorists Laura Martin and Luis Guerro and lettering Lucas Gattoni.  

It’s a real party to try and live up to Keith’s legacy and show new readers or readers who haven’t given him a second thought in a minute to reevaluate his work. I hope people will go into the back issues and see all the contributions he has made. 

Keith Giffen left an impact on the Blue Beetle characters fans connected to. Older fans connected with Ted Kord his quotable banter as a superhero talking like a real person. Can we discuss that and how your current Blue Beetle comic continues to communicate with fans through its organic dialogue and truthful portrayal of the Reyes family speaking Spanish when together? 

It was important for me to capture that Ted Kord voice from those JLI comics to a degree. He is Batman in some ways but also your loveable uncle or that guy who can’t seem to get it together. I wanted to capture the duality of being the smartest person in the room but maybe a little hapless here and there.

But capturing those voices and the language was essential for me to capture the authenticity of growing up in a bilingual household. DC was really welcoming to the idea of including untranslated Spanish in the English editions, and they, more importantly, released all Spanish editions for the book. This is a real way to attract new readers and to show DC’s commitment to expanding who gets to enjoy superhero comics. And that’s something I take very seriously, finding a way to keep these books accessible. If you don’t know Spanish, don’t worry. You can translate it with your phone camera or ask someone in your life. But you’re not missing any plot information. You are just missing a little bit of flavor and I wanted to stay true to what it would be like to live in that environment. 

We have a lot of characters who speak Spanish, but we also have characters who speak the Reach language or Tamaranean. It’s about showing diversity but not doing it in a way that anyone feels excluded. 

Last year, you and artist Levi Hastings released a historical biography graphic novel. Could you talk a bit about Washington’s Gay General, which is the story of Founding Father Baron von Steuben, and the history we aren’t taught in school? 

Baron von Steuben was a Prussian General, who fought in the Seven Years War. He was a prisoner of the Russians and was trained under Frederick the Great. He came to America to really save our butts in the American Revolution. He was a big confidant and mentor to George Washington, teaching the United States military how to be an army and go against the biggest military superpower in the world at that time, which was Britain.  

Beyond all that, Von Steuben was a little outlandish. He was a larger-than-life character and queer/gay. We try to look at his life through a queer lens for maybe the first time and examine the realities of living during that time. But we examined all the things we do not know.  

History is very much written by the victors and for most of human history to be publicly out was impossible. Many of these people destroyed their own belongings before they died or had family destroy evidence of their relationships. We only know about von Steuben because of his class and his fame. For every von Steuben, there are countless people we will never know about. We don’t have queer stories during the Revolutionary War below his level and I think that’s a real tragedy. It makes people misunderstand the queer identity. We have always been there, but for so long we have had to keep it hidden or didn’t have the language to understand it. 

Looking to the future, how do you see Jaime Reyes’ unique and greater cosmic destiny being played out with the book’s recent cancellation? What is next for Jaime, Khaji Da, and the Reach? 

I think the best is yet to come with Jaime! He’s a beloved and vital character to the DC Universe, and that will go on long after my Blue Beetle brothers and I finish our final issue. I hope to return to the character someday in some form, though, if not, I think we left him in a better place than when we found him. I think we made a satisfying, complete run over the past 11 issues (plus 6 from Graduation Day!) Hopefully this is the kind of book people will pick up and read for a long time to come. Right now, I’m celebrating what we accomplished, and I am eager to see what the future holds for our Blue Beetle.

Where can people find out more about you and your work online? 

You can find me on all social media at @losthiskeysman and I have a website: joshtrujillo.com. I am very reachable. Just come at me with your questions or thoughts. I love connecting with fans, especially about Blue Beetle and Baron von Steuben. Those are my heroes right now. 

Inanna Carter

Mass Effect Legendary Edition

Okay, I’m a little late to the party. I bought Mass Effect Legendary Edition sometime last year during a huge sale. It was practically free, and there were romance options. What more could a girl want? I started playing it a few weeks ago, and I regret not starting it sooner. Mass Effect explores a massive world in space, with an attention-grabbing main storyline and plenty of side quests to keep you on your toes. You play as Commander Shepard making decisions that will affect you, your squad, and maybe even the world. I’ve never been into science fiction, but I have to say this game is one of a kind.

While I’m only on the first of the trilogy, I’ve played enough to know this is a game I won’t be putting down any time soon. It’s been a while since I’ve started a game that made me think, “Wow, I have to see this to the end.” If you’re like me and you haven’t played this masterpiece yet, I highly recommend it.

And no, I’m not just saying that ‘cause I can date the pretty Turian.

Dominic Loise

DEADWEIGHTS

Tyrone Finch currently has a comic miniseries out from Ahoy Comics called DEADWEIGHTS, and the spirit he brings to friendship is the DNA of this book. DEADWEIGHTS is about two former supervillains finding their way after one is kicked off the team and the other decides to stand by their friend’s side. Finch writes about sticking by someone through hard times from a place of truth. This comic is not the manufactured bromance we usually see in comic book, but a friendship of heart backed up in the blood, sweat, and fears of the characters actions and the repercussions of those actions. 

These actions are smashingly portrayed by artist Sebastian Piriz. The artwork of Piriz also captures the tight, pulled-in moments as the characters wrestle internally and celebrate their support of one another. He is an artist I admire and recently have found myself checking out any project he is working on. 

The DEADWEIGHTS miniseries is coming out monthly from Ahoy Comics.

Kaitlin Lounsberry

The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess

Before anyone get’s mad at me, I have been a major Chappell Roan fan since she released “Pink Pony Club” as a single in 2020. So, when her debut album, The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess, was initially released in September 2023, it was no surprise that I had it on repeat for weeks and weeks and weeks. I thought I’d eventually move onto another pop princess as new music was released and return to this album from time to time. But, as we move into warmer months and everything gets a fresh breath of life, the more Roan’s debut album cements itself as a constant in my musical rotation. I don’t just come back to The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess, I’m comparing everything I hear to the album. And nothing satiates me in the same way.

Roan’s album features songs you can’t get out of your head, songs that compel you to grab a friend and sway with tears in your eyes under a disco ball, songs that you want to sing in a crowd of people covered in glitter, and much more. Quite plainly, there’s life injected into this album and Roan herself. It’s a feel I wish I could bottle and carry with me everywhere I go. Whatever magic is in this album, it’s something rare and incredibly authentic in today’s age of music and consumption. I’m eager to see how Roan’s career grows from this debut, which already feels larger than life. That’s all to say, if you’re on the hunt for an album of the summer…look no further!

We retreated to the Recycling Depot. It cost us one twenty-character palindrome to get in. We were all reusing language. That night’s show was billed as a lecture. It didn’t matter. We had plenty of poisonous food and ashy water. What we lacked was entertainment.

The lecture featured a man chewing and sucking on aluminum soda cans. It was bloody and slow. He was demonstrating his theory that there were enough nutrients left in these cans, sticky and dirty, to sustain us. The lecture had been ongoing for weeks. It was awful, regardless of whether it was true.

There was another reason to hand over such an elaborate palindrome. Beyond this exhibition were The Piles, and within them, every item we ever slipped into a blue bin. They sparkled or hummed or vibrated among the heaps in such a way their previous owner would recognize them, remember their circumstance and context. It was a strenuous jog of the memory, painful and euphoric.

Paper. Cardboard. Aluminum. Clear glass. Colored glass. We weren’t being judged or punished. This wasn’t hell.

Our editor-in-chief, Dani Hedlund, sits down with Hart Hanson, creator of the critically-acclaimed show Bones, to discuss his new book, The Seminarian. Hart and Dani first met when she interviewed him about his debut, The Driver, which Dani has been bananas about for years. She devoured the new book in one caffeine-fueled Sunday, and she’s terribly excited to chat it out with Hart…

Right, Hart, let’s get the most cliché questions out of the way first. What inspired you to write The Seminarian?

I live a few steps from the Venice Boardwalk, which, if you know anything about Venice, is where everything happens. It’s a busy, crazy, diverse, wildly energetic, and bizarre place! When you live here, you can’t help but look at people and wonder what their story is. One day, I was cruising by an empty house I was quite jealous of, and I started to wonder what kind of person would live there and what they would do for a living. That’s what inspired the main character, Xavier Priestly—Priest.

I also made a list of interesting protagonists for television, films, or books. Priest is a combination of two of these protagonist concepts: one was somebody who has a bit of oppositional defiance disorder, and the other was somebody who leaves seminary.

I started to think more about the story through Priest’s character, like who he hangs around and works for. I knew planning a mystery book means I would need to figure out who would be Priest’s “muscle.” I was bored by every kind of “muscle” I came up with until I talked to a stunt person who was so fantastic she inspired the character of Dusty Queen.

As anyone who talks to me knows, I’m a huge fan of your first book. At the time, The Driver was your first long-haul prose piece, and we spent a good chunk of time talking about how different that was from writing for TV and film. How did writing The Seminarian feel different from writing The Driver?

I learned a few important things writing The Driver that I was able to bring to The Seminarian.

What I was most proud of in The Driver is the depth of character. So, when writing The Seminarian, I was inclined to be less worried about diving into subplots that complicate Priest’s character. I took that even further here than in The Driver, and I’m happy with that direction.

I also learned how to tighten plot. Having gone back and read The Driver as it was being pitched for TV adaptation, I felt there were so many weak points in the plot that relied on my urge to direct readers, like “don’t look there—look here instead.” This time, I put a lot of effort into making sure plot details weren’t superfluous. Granted, the plot of The Seminarian is still very adventurous and, hopefully, puts readers into strange and weird places. But it bears greater scrutiny and makes sense when examined from multiple angles.

You did a great job at that! How did you keep every subplot so organized? I’m imagining an old-school detective board with lots of sticky notes and red thread pinned chaotically between them…

Not that far off! One way is by planning everything out, but sometimes, when you get down to writing, different things happen. Writing The Seminarian felt like a constant back and forth between my outline and what my characters actually wanted to do.

After I wrote my first draft, I had the urge to be super hard on myself by examining any potential red herrings and connecting them back to the plot in a significant way. This led to huge changes in character, pacing, and entire movements in the plot. I worked very hard to sift through these plot and character details so that everything made sense after.

One of the things I loved in this book is that there are no uninteresting or throwaway characters. Every side character is so fascinating they deserve their own book. How did you make them all so unique?

I learned working in TV for so many years that to have two-dimensional characters on screen is a problem in many ways. If your central characters are the only interesting characters with interesting stories, you are going to kill your leads because they have to be in every single scene!

At risk of revealing something vulnerable about myself, I feel I’m very much a solid secondary character in other people’s lives. I’m surrounded by people who are more interesting, fun, and clever. So, as a fellow secondary character, I feel the only thing I can do is give other secondary characters their moment in the sun.

It’s so important to have interesting secondary characters because of the effect they can have on your main character’s personalization and growth. A good thing to ask yourself when writing and editing is: does the story really need this character?

Something that stood out to me is how these characters aren’t just different in their build and backstories—they also have such different language. It’s so charming! How did you keep each character’s voice so distinct and recognizable?

This might be due to my TV training, but it’s ineffective to rely on characterization through parentheticals in dialogue, such as “ironically said” or “angrily asked.” For one thing, actors don’t like that—they need space to do their thing. Also, emotion should be suggested enough by the dialogue alone. The book-equivalent of this is if you have to keep clarifying who is speaking, maybe your characters aren’t speaking uniquely.

I like to go to the Venice Boardwalk or a local cafe and just sit and listen to the fisherman or other locals talk. I’m not very recognizable, so when I walk around with a camera in my hand, people assume I’m a tourist. I can sit and listen to people talk and pick up on their unique dialects, slang, and other quirks.

If you had to greenlight a series based on one of the side characters of this book, who would you make the main character in a different series?

Well, the smart answer would be Cody Fiso running a big private detective agency in Hollywood! That would be a very solid series.

Another fun option would be a series around Baz—a lawyer who tries to do the right thing and is surrounded by people who try to help her by doing the wrong thing.

Maybe CBS could make a series out of the two social workers giving air high-fives and making inside jokes that no one else understands!

When I tell everyone why I’m such a huge fan of The Driver, I commend how you tackle enormous existential questions through a fun romp. Still, I wasn’t ready for The Seminarian to tackle the existential romp of religion and the role God plays in the world so gracefully, but you did it! Why was that the big subject you wanted to tackle?

The minute you have an ex-seminarian as your main character, these questions are bound to come up. I read somewhere in passing that if you went to the Vatican and the people visiting were incredibly honest with you, most of them would say they no longer believe in the tenets of Catholicism but firmly believe we should live as though they are true. Priest has all the structure and mindset of a religious person, even after rejecting religion.

As for the larger existentialist questions in the narrative, I’m fascinated with religion and envious of everyone who is religious. In the years we’ve been together, I’ve told my wife many times I would love to be religious—I would love it. But you can’t make yourself believe something. If I can’t believe in religion, at least I can respectfully poke around in it in my fiction.

While writing The Seminarian, did anything elucidate itself about religion and life to you? Or did you come out with the exact same feelings?

I came out the same except I accepted there are great mysteries in life. I do not accept anyone knows the answers to them. One of the people I have existentialist conversations with is my good friend Rainn Wilson, who is something of a spiritual seeker. I remember saying to him once, “My poodle knows as much about what happens after we die as the Pope does.” People have theories, but not answers.

I think before the book was written, I understood certain characters’ decisions less. The shorter answer to your question is: I think when you write about people and these big topics, maybe you get a little less judgmental. Maybe.

Like 99% of novels on the shelves—and shows on the telly—we’re used to having a central romance, so I was shocked to realize, when I finished the book, that I didn’t notice there’s no central romance here! Why the decision to focus on something else as Priest’s motivation?

That’s a great question! In The Seminarian, the biggest question Priest has about romance is a chicken-or-the-egg situation: do I go out and get love, or do I behave in a way which allows love to come? It’s a bit like religion: do I have faith, or do I behave as though I have faith and the faith will follow?

I knew that Priest’s emotional story was going to revolve around the nature of friendship and the nature of parenthood. If I had Priest pursue romance, that would have taken away from the central thrust of these two themes.

I was also fascinated by the notion that perhaps he already met the woman he should have been with, but for all the reasons elaborated upon in the book, she moved on. He mentions all his relationships were with women who eventually decided they needed to be with someone that they’d want to spend the rest of their life with. So, Priest has bigger things to deal with than his love life, and he’s had enough failures with romance that I didn’t want or need to see another failure—and I definitely don’t think he’s ready to succeed. Perhaps if there’s a sequel, I’d like to explore what happens next time he runs into someone he’d be interested in.

Despite all this, this book, as a whole, is actually quite sexy! There’s so much sexual chemistry going on in the background that it’s absolutely ludicrous. Was this decision intentional to compensate for the lack of Priest’s romantic journey, or did it just feel natural for your other characters?

That is so delightful to hear! When you write a book, there’s a balancing act of meeting the elements of genre and taking risks. Although you have to satisfy your audience’s expectations, you can challenge the way they think about those expectations. The risks I took with The Seminarian being a detective story is not including a femme fatale and having absolutely no attraction between Dusty and Priest—they are really, really, really great friends. I would love to explore how their dynamic develops in a series!

Regarding the other characters, I think chemistry is a necessary element for stories. If I’m reading or watching something, and a character is not in a sexual or romantic relationship with someone, I want to know why.

Speaking of your previous work, you have so many different projects going on: You write books, you work on TV shows, you’re co-writing, you’re constantly travelling, and you have grandkids! How do you balance everything?

I’m really lucky to be one of those people whose job is to write! I treat writing as a workday—I put in my hours. Sometimes I look at other writers and think, “Oh my god, how prolific are they?” when I’m split between television and books (and yes, grandchildren). But it’s a rare day when I can’t get in six hours of writing. It’s my job—I love it, but it’s my job.

You left The Seminarian on such a huge cliffhanger that I’m going to be heartbroken if it isn’t turned into a series! Since everyone is going to desperately want a follow-up, can you tell us about any plans for future installments?

I have a very big plan. I have a bin full of ideas for characters, situations, and plots for this universe. Some of these ideas fit better with certain protagonists than others, but I think it would be shitty of me to not fulfill the cliffhanger element that I set up at the end of The Seminarian in another book. I do know where Priest is going to be in the beginning of the next book, and I have some ideas for which cases he might find himself embroiled in.

The world ended five times. There was The Flood, but few remember Theia’s moon-bearing collision with the Earth. That was rough. Fewer still recall Meekal rending the sky with righteous rage, or whatever you lot called it in Gilgamesh. First time any of us angels bothered to say no.

We’ve been saying it ever since. Since his OG defiance—some nonissue to do with life’s will to power—my brother has shrieked across time while we’ve torn through the galaxy to haul his ass home. Creation wormed out of our flyway, but we didn’t notice until hindsight, which was quite recently. Sorry.

I’m at the sixth extinction, pouring Nu-Shroom coffee for an idiot in a Givenchy suit, trying to convince him not to blow up the sun. We’ve been stuck in avatars since the precession. I’m used to being a woman, though not so much having a human sense of smell. I gag as dank, pretending-to-be-roasted-beans steam flirts with the back of my tongue.

“There are things we can do,” I clip in my avatar’s crisp RP. She’s a good girl, grass-fed. We’re both uncomfortable in a silk blouse.

“Who?” the idiot barks, eyes shining like black-gold, crude oil money signs.

“Everyone.”

Meekal’s entrepreneur extraordinaire spreads his stocky arms, nub fingers splayed. He looks like a bald eagle, featherless—an amalgam of impotence—which is how I know it’s him. He ignores me and the implication he’s not the center of the universe with biblical gravitas.

“A controlled explosion will redirect the sun’s rays to Mars for recolonization,” he says. “A fresh start.”

Though indoors, he punctuates this statement by donning a pair of Ray-Ban Metas. I want to say wow, but when he taps the hinge near his temple, I realize he isn’t speaking to me. His recording goes live, instantly viral with his monopoly on the algorithm.

“It’s all me, baby,” he drawls in unbelievable earnest. Meekal swoops the drink from my hands and slurps. Then, he heads for the jet.

Fuck.

That night, the world watches Meekal’s sun-exploding missile take to the sky. From my apartment, starfall pitter-patters until the sky crawls with light. Crowds thrum with unease. As the first bright fragment falls, a sonic boom peels the night open. Meekal’s man-mug appears on my phone screen, beaming wider than the event horizon he spewed himself out of.

“A lightshow for the new world,” he coos, awed by his own undoing.

The fall quickens, one starlit shriek after another. Crack, Crack, Crack. At our sixth cosmic cockup, I snap.

“Is your head really too far up your own ass to realize the fucking sky is falling?” I holler.

He doesn’t know it’s me. Never does.

“No,” he says, like he knows what’s up. Like I’m the idiot.

I let rip, but too late. The footfalls of panicked crowds eclipse my voice and Meekal mistakes the sound for applause. He swells like a dying giant and bows for the world’s next end.

Haley Lawson

I Made an Album

This spring, I’ve been obsessed with Daði Freyr’s “I Made an Album,” released in August of 2023. I first heard them when they performed their song “Think About Things” as part of Eurovision in 2020. Since then, I’ve been keen to hear more from them. An electronic pop icon from Iceland, Daði Freyr’s good vibe lyrics, teal sweaters, and soothing melodies are the perfect fit for longer days and melting snow.

The second track on the album is “I’m Fine”—an upbeat track with equally motivating lyrics. The song speaks to the idea that we should be works in progress because that way we keep growing and changing.

It’s all right if you’re taking your time
People who have been found
Are the worst to be around anyway
Okay, all I wanted to say
It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right
I know I’m a work in progress
And I would like to stay that way
Don’t stress, it isn’t worth it
Your life is not your resume

Dominic Loise

STEVE! (martin): A Documentary in 2 Pieces

I remember being young and deciphering the image on the Let’s Get Small (1977) comedy album. As a grade schooler, I had seen my share of kids with balloon sculpture hats, but this cover featured an adult male wearing one with a fake nose, glasses, and bunny ears. On the back cover, the comedian was reaching out to the camera with a manic look in his eyes. I couldn’t make out his face with everything he was wearing, but comedian Steve Martin would become a very familiar face to me throughout the remainder of the decade. His avant garde humor would become the compass to help find my people as I grew up in the eighties.

The documentary STEVE! (martin): A Documentary in 2 Pieces (AppleTV) takes an in-depth look at the performer and his career over the decades. Martin also opens up about his anxiety in the documentary and discusses his growing mental health awareness over the decades. We see Martin share old comedy set lists and his journal from his stand-up years as he processes that anxiety. It is through Martin’s journaling that he talks about not pursuing happiness but purpose, which ties into the second part of the documentary.

In the first part, the documentary explores Steve Martin’s purpose as he focused on the art of stand-up comedy, which he took to new heights in the seventies. The second part of the documentary deals with Martin leaving stand up for movies. The second half also deals with an artist finding a place of ease in being themselves while finding a creative outlet that satisfied them personally. We also see the nineties onward when Martin moved away from zany films into being a playwright, returning to playing the banjo, and writing pieces in The New Yorker.

Most might tune in for the stand up and rare clips from the start of Martin’s career. They’ll wish to see the “Wild and Crazy Guy” who was the first comedian to fill a rock stadium. My connection was to the second (martin) part when Martin explored not living to please to the unknown masses but to appreciate the people who are supporting your personal progress.

Kaitlin Lounsberry

Baby Reindeer

If you’re like me, you often log into Netflix without something intentional to watch and the expectation you’ll spend a good deal of time clicking through titles to find a show or movie that suits your fancy. Enter Baby Reindeer. Adapted from Richard Gadd’s one-man comedy show, this scripted Netflix series explores a local comedian’s experience with a female stalker and, in turn, is forced to confront with secrets of his own. I know, I know, is this (now) viral show really worth the hype? I sure think so. 

It’s dark, funny, delightfully twisted, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since I wrapped up the last episode. In addition to the obvious themes you might expect from this story, there’s a great deal of empathy and understanding for all parties involved that I wasn’t anticipating. The choice to humanize those who lived this reality added a great deal of nuance I wasn’t expecting and it elevated my viewing experience for the better. 

Don’t believe me? Watch and decide for yourself. 

The thing is, the Apocalypse kind of went tits up. There was fire and brimstoning, trumpets blaring, people disappearing, and then, Us. The left behinds, the nothings, the unbelievers. Souls too hollow to be worth anything.

Nothing green grows anymore. Nothing living lives. So, we all aimlessly drift, stuck alongside the freaks left behind when heaven and hell closed their gates. We’ve learned nothing from our exile from paradise, so the freaks get locked away in little cages or cramped caravans, and bored, useless nothings like me come to stare at them.

This sideshow is a corny setup. A single chair sits in the middle of a small, high-top tent, red and white pinstripes melting into darkness. There’s a glass case in the middle of the room, lined with enough fake gold filigree to glint even in the low light. A shadow moves within.

A bright white glare washes away my sight. I wince and turn away. When I look back the shadow is illuminated, holding a pull switch, and spreading—

—her downy hawk wings.

Red plump lips, sticky blood vessels, slick candy gloss. I’m thinking, Gabriel Dante Rossetti: white-cheeked, heavy-lidded, corn-silk hair and vacant, vapid O-faces.

My chest burns with blue-hot feathered flames. Licking, eager and wanting. Not for anything as base as sex but … admiration. Inspiration. Maybe even creation. For the first time since the world ended, I compose colors in my head, symphonies of shadow and light, wet pliable globs and streaks of harmonious paint.

Then I think: What’s it matter? The world’s over. There’s no more room for art. There wasn’t room even when the world was alive.

“Why are you here?” I ask, because I haven’t had it in me to feel wonder while sleepwalking through the post-credits. “Why didn’t you go back with the rest?”

The angel’s words are hideous, but her voice is another chorus of glittering hues, purple starblooms and sun-searing yellow. “I ate the souls I was meant to take to God.”

I laugh. A rasping, creaking thing. “You can have mine,” I say. Her dewy, owl-blinking eyes are dark as a panther’s coat. “I’ll let you out and you can have it.”

She cocks her head, an alien, avian movement. “Why?”

I throw out my arms, let her see my color-stained coat, my ink-blotted shirt, the black-charcoal creases of my hands. “Because I want to die of beauty.”

“Deal,” she hisses, her feathers flaring in excitement. I break the glass and there is red— glorious, Pompeian red in glitters of rainbow shards, more red as she dives for my mouth and—

—sucks down my sorry soul. Worthless no more.

My family likes to sit at the coast of the bay and make grand plans for the future. We drink wine, and we smoke. We talk about the multibillion-dollar inheritance we’ll someday get when an attorney informs us the last member of my great-great grandfather’s secret, second family has died, and my father is their closest relative.

We’ve unanimously decided when that happens, we’ll buy the entire bay. No more tourists, we say, looking at one of the two monstrosities anchored in our tiny bay. Each city-ship that comes in daily has more passengers than the bay’s biggest town has residents.

We’ll sink one right outside the bay entrance, and leave its corpse as a warning to all the others.

We will only allow water travel by sail within our borders. No more waiting for hours, trying to pass the single road in town when the foreigners pour out of their gigantic metal tubs. We conclude outsiders will have access to the bay exclusively on weekends.

Suddenly, the lights on the opposite coast go out. This is a somewhat frequent occurrence, but it earns a standing ovation from our corner of the bay nonetheless. “That’s another thing,” says my mother. “We will enforce a curfew on certain days. Only candlelight will be allowed, so we can watch the stars without all this light pollution.”

She’s got a point I think as I shield my eyes from the neighbor’s floodlight.

“But on other, rarer days,” Mom continues. “We will have a festival of light. Think about it, fireworks and holograms in the sky!”

“Drones,” My brother chimes in.

“Projections on the water,” I say.

Dad’s best friend perks up, “And movies you can watch from the sea!” he sweeps a hand to indicate the mountains rising all around us.

“We should instate new religious holidays,” my adopted aunt contemplates. “We’ll introduce the cult of Machina Abramovich. The matron saint of clean dishes and soft hands.”

“Oh yes,” Dad agrees. “We’ll build her a grand cathedral, halfway up the mountain. People will make pilgrimages just to get a glimpse of her.” My brother and I can’t help but laugh.

I have my own suggestion, “I think Conchetina also deserves her own holiday.”

“Absolutely,” my aunt approves, adjusting her companion’s chubby plastic legs to sit more securely on her little handmade beach chair. “She’s a worldly woman! My daughter’s birthday deserves to be celebrated by the masses!”

“I’ll drink to that!” Dad cheers, and we all raise our glasses in Conchetina’s name.

The other coast has long since gotten their power back. The cruiser is still anchored some kilometers away, slowly turning with the current. It will be replaced by another ship tomorrow. Possibly bigger.

I met the Witch of the Route 34 Gas-N-Go at three a.m. on a Tuesday in a particularly dusty part of Pennsylvania. I didn’t quite need gas, but there was a big hand-painted sign by the side of the highway that said Come See the Witch: Gas, Diesel, Coffee, Spells. My thermos was stone cold, so I thought I could refresh it, and that would be as good an excuse as any to see the Witch.

She was about twenty years younger than I thought she’d be, sitting in the gas station right next to the coffee bar, so close there were little splashes of flavor syrup on the edge of her table. It was a little folding table and she sat in a little folding chair. She looked me in the eyes as I turned away from the dark roast and said, “You missed your turn off five exits ago.”

And I said, “Shit.”

She said, “Go pay for your coffee.”

“Can I come back after?”

“Sure.”

I grabbed a sleeve of powdered donuts too, because it would be breakfast soon and I wouldn’t be stopping again.

“Do you want cards, or can I just tell you?” said the Witch as I sat down in the second little folding chair in front of her table.

“You can just tell me. How much?”

“Free. Who has time to care about money these days?” She had a paper cup with a cardboard sleeve and no lid by her elbow. She took a sip from it. I wondered if the Gas-N-Go gave her free coffee for being their witch, since I guess they weren’t paying her. “I used to be one of those Wiccany influencer types online, you know. Did tarot streams. The money was okay, but now I just don’t have the time to worry about it. I just don’t have the time.”

“I’m glad you’re still open,” I said.

“Lots of places are still open,” she said.

“I guess that’s true.”

“You’re heading in the right direction, but you don’t have enough time to get there.”

“Oh,” I said, disappointed. “Do you know a quicker route?”

She tapped her finger in the center of her bottom lip thoughtfully. “No.”

“Right. Can you tell me something useful?”

“Not really,” she said, and she sounded honestly sorry for it. “There isn’t such a thing as useful anymore. It’s all just little distractions. Coffee and fortune tellers. I can give you a charm, though, hang on.” She leaned over sideways, reaching into her bag where it was squished up against the coffee bar. She handed me a length of blue yarn with two soda tabs and some kind of bone tied at the end. “Hang this on your mirror, if you want.”

“Will it do anything?”

“It’ll make you think of me before you die. I’ll think of you too. It’s free, obviously.”

“Thanks.” It wasn’t a bad deal, all said. I was glad I’d stopped for coffee.

“Grandmother, look!” Off to the side of the path they walked every morning loomed a large, white tent. It stood in stark contrast against the bleak, gray landscape ravaged by years of weather extremes that fueled famines, pandemics, and wars. “Let’s go inside.”

The woman held the child back.

Spying the pair, a man hollered, “Step right up! A world of possibility awaits.”

“I want to see!” declared the child, mesmerized by a poster of a hummingbird.

The woman covered the child’s ears. “There are no possibilities, only death,” she snapped. “You know that.”

“Yes.” The man nodded. “Still, we’re not dead yet. We have three days.”

The woman scoffed. “Some choice: die a slow death along with this world, or visit the Center in three days, and . . .” She sighed. “An ignoble end to what’s left of humankind, either way.”

He pointed to the child. “She doesn’t know?”

“No. I can’t find the words. She’s so full of life—so inquisitive, caring, optimistic, kind. She’s a force of nature, this one, and she deserves better, but we can’t survive on her will to live alone.”

“Why not allow our simple sideshow acts to entertain you until then?”

“Your distractions will change nothing.”

“No, but perhaps you should let her have this.”

The child pulled away, tugging her grandmother toward the entrance. “Come on!”

“Alright, alright.”

Inside, the tent was enormous. The center corridor extended farther than they could see, with openings lining each side. People were coming and going, chattering among themselves about the marvels they had witnessed, things adults barely remembered and children knew only from stories.

In the first room, they watched in awe as spiders wove their webs. In another, seeds sprouted from rich, dark soil. They grew into plants that produced fragrant flowers, delicious vegetables, and luscious fruits. The child liked daisies and peaches the best but didn’t care for broccoli. In the next room, bees pollinated flowers and produced honey. “This is good!” the child squealed, when offered a taste. Further on, they saw birds build nests, hatch eggs, and teach their young to fly and sing.

They wound their way through the tent, and in each room were given glimpses of nature as it was, before it was spoiled by recklessness and greed. The grandmother wondered how it could be that everything appeared as if it was happening in real time; the child absorbed it all.

When they reached the end, the child asked, “Can we go again?”

“I’m afraid not,” the attendant said. “It’s time for you to go home.”

Hand in hand, they emerged with the other explorers—into a lush, welcoming world teeming with possibilities.

“How can this be?” the grandmother inquired. “How long were we inside?”

“Long enough for the world to heal.”

“Why us?”

“Them.” The attendant nodded at the children. “You’re right. They deserve better, and they need you to help them build a future. Teach them to do things right this time.”

Spoiler Alert—The following review contains plot details about The Most Precious Substance on Earth.

What made you want to start writing?

I was always a reader when I was a kid, and the books that impacted me the most were short story collections or anthologies: Budge Wilson’s The Leaving and 21 Great Stories are ones that still stand out in my mind. I read those books over and over. There’s always been something about short stories that grabs me—their compression; how what’s off the page matters as much as what’s on it; how they can end with a kind of suspension or irresolution.

I wrote what I consider my first short story in Grade 8, when we had a unit in English class on “surprise ending stories.” Those surprise endings seemed like such a cool trick to pull off, and so impressive in how they earned it with foreshadowing. My own story was very bizarre and murderous, involving a unreliable narrator who may or not have stabbed his jerk brother with part of his Halloween costume.

The Most Precious Substance on Earth is such an empowering and moving coming-of-age story. I was intrigued by the title, which is also the third chapter title, in which the school band Nina is a part of argues whether platinum, the band’s namesake, is indeed the most precious substance on earth. As the narrative continues, it becomes clear that the most precious substance is something far less tangible. When writing this book, did you immediately know The Most Precious Substance on Earth would be its title?

Thank you! I had written that third chapter as a stand-alone short story before I realized it was going to be part of a novel. Originally, I plucked the phrase from that scene and made it the short story title, because I liked its enigmatic quality. I had the sense that it represented what the narrator loses at the end of that story, where there’s a fairly tragic coming-of-age moment. Once I had the full novel written, out of all the chapter titles, that one struck me the most as applying to the whole book. The “most precious substance” is this nebulous mix of all the things a girl loses when she comes of age—innocence, confidence, faith, a feeling of safety and certainty.

The first chapter ends with Nina experiencing something unspeakably traumatic at the hands of her favorite teacher, Mr. Mackenzie. Compared to books like My Dark Vanessa, The Most Precious Substance on Earth doesn’t focus on the continued predation of a teacher upon their student. How important was it for you to portray Nina’s trauma and struggle to come of age through the physical absence yet otherwise looming presence of Mr. Mackenzie?

I don’t think I would have felt comfortable writing a book that was, from start to finish, about a predatory teacher. It was less the abuse itself that interested me than its aftermath. It was important to me that the actual event remain offscreen and not be depicted graphically, but that readers still feel the weight of its impact. I’m a little obsessed with how a single incident or action or moment can cause a permanent shift and lasting trauma. I wanted to explore the subtle but still devastating effects of such an experience and how they follow Nina even when the event is over, the teacher has left, and her life has moved on.

Some readers were confused or disappointed that there wasn’t a big confrontation scene later in the book, or that the abuse didn’t get reported or go to trial and so on. I wanted to write something that felt true to real-life experiences of sexual abuse and assault—a kind of ongoing silencing. But I can certainly also understand the desire for justice and catharsis!

Despite the dark subject matters this book handles, Nina has a memorably humorous voice; there were moments that had me laughing out loud, and then feeling immediately empathetic for her. Was it difficult to strike the right balance between serious and humorous?

I’m so glad this made you laugh! Initially I wrote the first chapter of this book for a reading I gave at a bar in 2007, and I was trying to write something that was accessible, easy to follow while listening, would get an audience reaction, and had tonal range. I wanted to write something that had a breathlessness to it, in the sudden emotional turn of the ending—an ending that aimed to pull the rug out from under the reader. Because the subject matter and emotions of this story are so dark, it needed some lightness to balance it out. A big part of revision was considering and calibrating the tonal balance; I didn’t want people to think I was ever joking about what happens to Nina, but I also didn’t want the book to be joyless.

The bits of pop culture weaved throughout the narrative flavored the text and made Nina’s adolescence feel so relatable and grounded. How did you go about researching or recalling these pop culture factoids?

I was a teenager in the suburbs of Toronto in the ‘90s, so even though the book is set in Halifax, a lot of the pop culture references were just the TV and music I listened to back then. While writing, I listened to music by Our Lady Peace, The Smashing Pumpkins, and Radiohead (my favorite bands in high school), and the soundtracks to The Craft and Romeo + Juliet, both of which came out around that time.

I also had to do a lot of googling to avoid anachronisms. I kept a spreadsheet of the chapters and what years they occurred in, then looked up each reference and tracked it on the spreadsheet. While revising I had to change some of them, like if I had a reference to a TV show that was released in 2006 but the chapter was set in 2002. And it was not for only pop culture, but also things like whether there was a dollar store in a certain mall in Halifax in 1998, what thrift stores were most popular in the city then, or whether my characters would have needed to take a bus to get to Tim Hortons. It was painstaking but also very fun. I enjoyed all the nostalgia.

I appreciated how Nina’s growth continued well into her adulthood. It makes sense that going through something so traumatic would take years to heal from. Part of this is explored through Nina’s decision to become a teacher and the struggles she faced in this line of work. As a professor yourself, did you experience any struggles when you first started teaching that influenced Nina’s story? Can you tell us a little more about the role of a teacher to not only educate students but to protect and inspire them?

I did take inspiration from my teaching experiences, though I imagine teaching high school students requires a more intense level of personal responsibility. A teaching workload can be very high in terms of grading, class prep, and admin work, and there are the many hours of public speaking every week. My first few years teaching full-time were overwhelming, particularly because I was a young female minority teaching mostly white students. My teaching evaluations were full of microaggressions. I felt a lot of pressure to prove myself. I had Nina share those pressures.

Now I teach in a much more diverse environment, but any teaching comes with frequent and unexpected ethical and emotional dilemmas that we’re not always prepared for. I teach creative writing, and it’s not uncommon for students to write about very personal things, like eating disorders, gender identity, relationships, assaults, and abuse. Many students are also dealing with physical and mental health issues and have pressures outside of the classroom. Most instructors I know have had students cry in class or in office hours or have had students become very angry or send cruel or inappropriate emails. That being said, my students are engaged and brilliant and funny; they’re good writers and hard workers and sharp critics; they encourage each other. My creative writing workshops are often really fun, but I’m always aware that I’m only responsible for a small part of that—that I’m a facilitator, that the dynamic is very fragile, and that how a class goes depends so much on the mix of personalities in the room.

Before going into teaching, Nina attends an MFA program for Creative Writing in the U.S. and immediately feels alienated as the only person of color in the program. At the beginning of the narrative, when Nina imagines reading Beowulf by the fireplace with her teacher, she imagines herself with blonde hair, even though she’s Indian. This alienation is, unfortunately, a common experience for so many women of color. Did you set out to portray this heavily when you started writing this novel, or did it organically come up as you continued writing? 

It did come up organically, based on my own experiences. I didn’t put a South Asian character in any of my stories until I was 23 or so, probably because I didn’t encounter any South Asian American characters until I read Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of Maladies. Even now, in my students’ writing, it’s rare to see someone put their cultural identity in their work, or to identify a character’s race (white still seeming to be the default, even when the writer isn’t white). On the other hand, it’s very common to see them set their stories in a kind of vague American setting (though we’re in Canada). They also love setting stories in New York, which most of them have never been to! I find this last bit very charming and interesting, but I have introduced a “write what you know” assignment, partly to suggest that their own experiences—including the places they live in and the people they know—are valid to explore in fiction.

I loved how central Nina’s cultural identity was to her growing up and her relationship with her family. One example that comes to mind is how normally it’s presented that Nina lives with her parents as an adult. While this is normal in many cultures, it’s still seen as unusual in Western society. During the publishing process, did you ever face resistance or confusion toward your portrayal of Nina’s heritage?

I was very lucky to work with agents and editors who didn’t question the way I depicted Nina’s cultural background. When McClelland & Stewart made an offer, they sent a letter with kind quotes from their editors and staff responding to the manuscript. I remember one editor who referred to a moment when Nina describes having dinner at the house of a white friend as having a hidden choreography she couldn’t follow, and the editor said that, as a Korean-Canadian, that was something he had felt, too. That comment meant a lot to me. I appreciated hearing from people who could understand what those small moments are like.

Silence and power play such important roles in The Most Precious Substance on Earth. We see this clearly when Nina joins a local Toastmasters group to improve her public speaking skills. The intersection of race and gender, and the way silence is imposed on marginalized individuals, is especially present in these sections. How do you think the solidarity between Nina and the women of color in Toastmasters played a role in her growth?

I wanted Nina to find some like-minded people, and her friendship with Jules makes the story a more hopeful ending than it would be otherwise. I wrote Jules as basically Nina’s ideal friend. Like Nina, she struggles with speaking up, but she’s also sharp and funny, and Nina witnesses her stand up for the other woman of color in the Toastmaster’s group. Jules is someone who has goals and works toward achieving them. She’s a good influence on Nina, and there’s no toxicity between them; it’s a much more calm, mature friendship than what Nina has with Amy in high school.

The publishing industry can be difficult for emerging authors to navigate. If you could give your past self one piece of advice about the publishing industry or process, what would it be? 

I would tell myself to write what I wanted to, and not what I was expected to.

Part of our mission here at Brink Literacy Project is to bring the revolutionary magic of storytelling to underserved communities. Do you have any advice for aspiring authors from marginalized communities? 

My advice is the same as it is for my past self, and perhaps for all aspiring writers: write what you can’t stop thinking about.