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.

We stand under the air-conditioned vents and watch from our enclosed bubbles as the most powerful human stands outside among the sun’s hellfire, hand-like rays punching him.

“Give it up for the Great, the Spectacular Titus,” Lew Graham screams through the speakers. He emerges from his broadcast booth in yellow coveralls with a radiation shield strapped to his head. Hands raised in the air, he prances around the arena. We throw our heads back and chant, “Titus, Titus.” The vents send an echo across the sheltered arena.

The timer above Titus displays the nine minutes he’s stood with us, muscles taut. A record. Even Oil Can Harry, dubbed the great Helios by his stans, can’t withstand the unfiltered sun for more than eight minutes and forty-five seconds. And that’s because of his mutant abilities from surviving an exploding oil catch can. Titus doesn’t need his armor of patchwork skin and scar tissue.

Myra leans in forward until her nose presses against the insulated glass. I yank her back by her shirt’s collar. While we’re safe inside, the glass isn’t foolproof. I’ve seen parents throw their howling children over their shoulders and carry them to the medical tent, palms cinched from pressing on the glass for too long.

When he hits ten minutes, a chirp sounds, and Titus bounces his pecs. Left, right, left. White flecks of skin fall off. His black skin now pockmarked and maroon. Surrounded by nothing except the glass ring filled with spectators, he shines under the light like an organism under a stethoscope. Beads of sweat drip down his forehead, past his chin, and onto the cracked earth. I see his eyes squint against the sun’s glare. We all do and crane our necks forward, faces inches away from the glass.

We watch him bend his shoulder blades inward and turn his head away from the eye of our monster. He bites his blistered lips, shriveled and purple from the sun, and clenches his hands into fists. Parents cover their children’s eyes with their hands and press them close to their bodies.

Inside the tinted announcer box, Lew holds fast to the doorknob. Head tilted to the side, he waits for his earpiece to give him the signal. Lew’s the closest to Titus, and the first to see him start to shake— his body spasming from the heat—tears prickling in the corner of his  eyes.

Finally, he gets the okay and flings open the door. But before it swings shut behind him, Titus’s knees buckle. We suck in a breath. I grab Myra and pull her toward the exit.

When we reach the tunnels, I hear the audience roar behind us. We turn. Titus stands tall, hands clasped in victory. The sun basks him in a halo of light.

Nate Ragolia

Poor Things

Released in December in the U.S., Yorgos Lanthimos’ latest film, Poor Things, might just be the best film of 2023. It’s a heartfelt, deeply feminist coming-of-age take on the literary classic Frankenstein that shows off Emma Stone’s awe-inspiring acting range, while getting some brilliant performances from Mark Ruffalo and Willem Dafoe (among a stacked cast). It features a globe-hopping, eye-catching journey as protagonist Bella Baxter chases her young curiosity to find out who she really is, and who she really wants to be.

Fair warning, this film features a lot of sex and nudity, but does so while subverting the male gaze and bringing sincere, patriarchy-undermining humanity into every frame. It’s a stylish, strange, bold film that may rub some viewers the wrong way, even as it’s one of Lanthimos’ most accessibly human films. We all, ultimately, want to know who we are, what we’re made of, and why we’re here… and Poor Things hits every note in an undeniably unique and heartfelt way. Plus, there’s a chicken with a pig’s head in here, so if you’re into that kind of weird, this film is EVEN MORE for you.

Sara Santistevan

This is My Body: Poems by a Teen Trans Fem

It’s rare to find a teen poet confident in both their poetic voice and artistic mission. That’s why I was so excited to get my hands on Madeline Aliah’s debut chapbook This Is My Body: Poems by a Teen Trans Fem.

In the book’s forward, Aliah makes her goal clear: “This little book is an offering of 18 poems as candles for a birthday I didn’t expect to reach. I hope it’s a light for those who need it. I hope it helps the non-trans reader understand what it’s like to be someone like me.” Indeed, Aliah’s debut is a stunning example of how vulnerability can not only comfort those who identify with the speaker’s experience, but can also serve as a radical form of advocacy and education.

This book is thoughtfully divided into three sections (“The Body Counterfeit,” “The Body Politic,” and “The Body Manifest,”) which explore Aliah’s coming-of-age and relationship with her body. Some of my favorite lines beautifully capture the narrative arc that unfolds throughout these sections. Consider the shift in the speaker’s autonomy from the couplet in “I Woke Up Twice This Morning” to that of “The Pronoun Game,” respectively:

“My second morning body is an oven / My first morning body is a dove.”

“I/Me/Mine / are dangerous pronouns to choose / because choosing me makes me dangerous.”

The choice Aliah eventually makes, and the power she has to make that choice, is fully realized in one of the collection’s final poems, “Trans Risk.” Despite the title, Aliah sees no risk in her choice to become herself, and instead challenges the reader by asking “Does it bother you / that womanhood is a gift / worth dying for?”

I’m always stunned when I remember that Aliah had these revelations, and captured them so powerfully in her writing, as a teenager. If I were you, I’d be keeping an eye on Aliah’s future career as a poet (and bragging that I knew of her before she was famous)!

Marizel Malan

Prelude to Ecstasy

Though I’m a tad late, I have been absolutely obsessed with the band The Last Dinner Party, and their debut album, Prelude to Ecstasy. They’re currently touring, and I’m incredibly jealous of every single person who gets to experience them live.

The woman and nonbinary-led rock band has taken over every playlist I make. I’ve been listening to their album nonstop. Even though it was released in February, it’s a staple of my March listening habits. In fact, I’ve barely listened to anything else this month! This is one of those rare albums where I don’t want to skip a single song. The lyrics are incredible and they tell exceptional stories in each of their pieces. I am an absolute sucker for indie bands, and The Last Dinner Party is no exception. With the release of singles prior to the album, I was expecting some great music, but they completely surpassed all expectations. While I do have a soft spot for the single “My Lady of Mercy“—which sounds great in-between all the other songs on the album—”Beautiful Boy” has quickly become my favorite. If you enjoy unique rhythms, incredible voices, and gorgeous imagery, definitely check out The Last Dinner Party!

Dominic Loise

Resident Alien

To help get through the winter months and my seasonal depression, I’m rewatching the previous seasons of Resident Alien. The third season started dropping new weekly episodes on Valentine’s Day, and it was a better gift than a box of chocolates could ever be for me.

Resident Alien is a sci-fi action comedy on SyFy (streaming on Peacock and Netflix) about an extraterrestrial’s failed attempt to destroy Earth and become its protector. The show is also explores what it means to be human. Alien Harry struggles as he pretends to be an Earthing and learns to not be an outsider. He also learns that being human involves more than just our outer appearance as the show provides deep, complex layers to the citizens of fictitious Patience, CO.

I was familiar with the Dark Horse comic book series the TV show is based on, but the show has its own tone. That tone is built around the casting of Alan Tudyk as alien Harry. And, even though our interactions with the citizens of Patience, CO are filtered through the arrival of an alien, I find myself fully invested in each character’s presence and personality in this ensemble show and look forward to hanging out with everyone in town on my weekly viewing visits with Resident Alien.

Dear Beloved Sister,

I write from the center of attention at the 136th show of our Cirqueau, with my 136th letter to you.

I’m sitting in a new booth, marked a sideshow just yesterday. Upper Command thought it best that no one observe an abomination of a girl like me for too long.

Yet the spectators stare, eyes mesmerized by the reflection of ink on paper. The shapes of my letters are foreign, so different from the standardized typeface the rest are required to use, often with the assistance of aI-WRiTe.

There is a lost art in each stroke of my pen. The spectators see it too. Their longing reaches through the glass and nearly takes hold of my words: I wish to tell my story, too. I wish to write like you do. The Cirqueau offers them a place for such imaginations, but as you know a coveted spot in our show is only reserved for those who pass the TEST—the talent examination.

As I have done for the past 135 letters, I will describe the most interesting of the spectators.

Tonight, there is a girl around your age who reminds me of a young woman I once saw in an old photograph from the Archives. Under this photograph was her last letter. The political climate of the Polar Era caused the writer much psychological distress. She could not determine who she was, as she was always trying to appease others, especially those with radically different viewpoints. She became all those views and lost herself within them. She wrote, “I feel like the greatest liar on Earth.” At this stage, what is Earth anymore? She is a lie herself.

The girl is pounding on the glass now. I cannot hear her through the soundproofed booth. She should leave soon, intermission is ending.

She speaks, her mouth forming the same words in circles. The other spectators head back to the Cirqueau tent, occasionally looking over their shoulders at this funny girl’s commotion.

She continues to hit the glass, sending a quiver down my booth. She might break in. Something is not quite right. Hold on, Sister.

She is saying, “I am the greatest liar on Earth.” This is fitting, at the greatest show on Earth. I believe her.

Two officers have just come up behind her. Their presence makes her bang on the glass more furiously. The ground is shaking beneath me, yet there is not a crack to be seen.

The officers steal her hands. The Earth rumbles.

Do you feel the end coming up on you?

The spectators outside fall, and the ground opens up to swallow them.

At least there is water below. I hope there is, anyhow. It may be all dried up.

Now, I will fall too.