The following piece is the flash fiction winner of F(r)iction’s Fall 2021 Literary Contest.

I left the day my fingernails turned into rose petals instead of Mick coming home in time to eat dinner while it was still warm. Chicken Kiev, like his grandmother taught me. I hated that dish. I’d been vegetarian for a decade, but Mick wouldn’t even try. I dumped his plate into the sink, stood there fuming as petals piled up in the sauce, floated to the cracked linoleum I’d just washed that afternoon. Their beauty hurt like a cramp. They didn’t belong there and neither did I.

This time, I left my car behind because it felt more dramatic. Maybe Mick would notice this way, if I was gone-without-my-car-gone—the only thing he claimed I cared about when our fights got bad, the thing I always used to come back to him. I won’t mention her make or model, her color or the way her driver’s seat was the only place that ever felt like home.

I tried to ignore the petals as I shoved clothes and photos into my old gray cheerleading duffle, but I couldn’t stop thinking that it was weird there were more than ten.

I’m pretty sure I left them everywhere. I’m pretty sure they were pink.

I’m pretty sure I meant to go back. Won’t get to test that theory now, though.

I dug my housekey into the side of Mick’s truck on my way down the driveway, then dropped it on the sidewalk. Maybe someone would find it, break in, and steal his new TV and the weed he bought me for my birthday. I’d asked for a massage at the spa, but he said this would be more relaxing for the both of us. I wish I’d spat at him then.

Or maybe the thief would see the petals strewn everywhere and back out, thinking some lovey-dovey couple who did stupid romantic shit were celebrating an anniversary and not the complete and utter end of fifteen years of taking what we could get.

I felt ransacked. I’d lost so much time waiting for the next escape. My head ached. Another petal flaked off from the top of my pointer finger like a scab and drifted away behind me. Did I want to go back for the weed? It helped with my headaches, maybe it would stop the petals thing.

No. Mick would probably show up just as I creeped back in. I didn’t want to see him. Like, ever again.

Still, I was already rehearsing the fight—loud, repetitive, the make-up sex—boring in the way we both pretended to hate, and the weird conversation we’d have to have about my fingernails—so fucking weird.

I hesitated at the end of the driveway, then went and ripped all the lilacs off the bush growing by the electric meter. My mother planted it as our anniversary gift the year before she died, and a decade had made it flourish. Mick liked to take the flowers into the shop to cut the smell of men and metal. He joked that the bouquets made the women taking their cars in less nervous, so he could rip them off more. How much more stereotypical could he be? How could I love this asshole?

I didn’t. That’s what I told myself as my fingers went thorny, shredding the lilac bundles as quickly as I picked them. I panicked then, dropping my bag, and the zipper cracked open and vomited all my things out onto the grass. I fell to my knees, the headache now a half-blinding scream, and tried to shove everything back inside, but my fingers were no better than claws, thorns sharpening along the sides and splintering at the tips.

The bag went to ribbons in my now green hands, useless as an unstrung pompom. And even though I swore I wouldn’t cry about leaving Mick, this stupid bag….

Tears slipped loose, and when I went to wipe them away, I found my palms stuck. And not just stuck but sinking, the cool damp topsoil at the foot of the lilac bush going soft and silty. Suddenly, I was up to my wrists, then my elbows as my forearms thinned out into tender roots. A soft mossy green bled up through my skin and darkened towards my shoulders. My forehead pressed into the dirt and my headache peaked in a burst of reds, browns, and pinks, then my eyes went dark.

What had been my top-down understanding of my body went wild and stretched in every direction at once. I found the roots of the lilac bush reaching out to me, and I embraced her back, any fear chased away. I felt myself branch up, my spine and legs unfolding into the limbs of a rosebush. I vined and budded, I rounded and I thorned, and each small shift took with it a pain I’d been clinging to, my family’s silences, my loneliness, my never chased hopes turned regrets. The world was now temperature and light, wind and the acidic bite of earth. And I found my sadness was gone.

But the anger was still there.

Mick came home hours later, dropped off drunk by one of his useless buddies. I imagined him waiting to tell me how right I’d been to come back, how wishing for anything different didn’t make me better than him.

It took him until the following afternoon to find the remains of my things, scattered beneath a shower of rose petals and crushed lilacs.

I sharpened my thorns as he leaned down and tugged free my favorite pair of panties, the purple ones with the small hole on the side that he liked to worry at. He pricked the side of his hand on my lowest branch and the petals of my almost bloomed flowers trembled with joy inside their buds.

It took him until the sun was well down to call the cops.

I’m sure I meant to go back.

But I’m fucking glad I can’t.

Creative written work is a landscape for invention and imagination—a place where we see our deepest emotions mirrored and articulated. But although there are unending—and important—works that interrogate love, heartache and desire, there aren’t many that address menstrual and reproductive health and all the issues, complexities and wonders that come with it. People around the world experience illnesses such as PCOS, fibroid, endometriosis, debilitating periods and infertility, but these issues are rarely represented in creative work in recognizable ways. Discovering works that explore these topics meaningfully can bring solace. Here are five creative works that explore menstruation, bleeding and pain in affecting and human ways.  

1) Deluge by Leila Chatti  

This is a stunning compilation of poems that chronicles the writer’s experience with an illness that caused incessant bleeding in her early 20s. As readers, we weave in and out of hospitals and surgical rooms, witness cold, clinical doctors and become privy to the poet’s most personal and vulnerable moments. Chatti examines big ideas—religion, desire, female bodily autonomy—and ties them to personal themes such as relationships, love and shame, making this a deeply stirring read. At one point, she writes, “The doctor speaks to me/as I am told one day a husband might,” and then, “My body the crux of the relationship.” Though she recognizes how women’s bodies are often weaponized against them, she rejects this entirely, instead articulating her desires, pains and transformation on her own terms.  

2) Bore by Haya Alyan  

This quiet, powerful poem is harrowing and painful as it traces the aftermath of a miscarriage and the helplessness that comes with it. Intensely lyrical, it personifies the uterus, noting its “pink and crinkle” as though the uterus were the baby itself—a living, breathing thing that occupies much of the space in the poem. Through this, Alyan skillfully explores her complex relationship with her body.  

3) Healing Saga by Alanna Okun and Aude White 

The visual art in this work situates the reader more intensely in the world it creates. Though the writer documents a very personal experience with fibroids here, it’s easy to relate to her tribulations, doctor visits and ceaseless anxieties. The black and white calendar with red dots, the red pills, the ghost outline of a baby’s crib: these are all vivid and searing images that impact the reader. This piece outlines the real physical, mental and financial costs of having a debilitating illness that many will find relatable.  

4) poem in praise of menstruation by lucille clifton

Some nights when I’m on my period, despite the pain, I feel that it connects me to the world at large and overarching natural systems. In this poem, clifton calls this “wild water…beautiful and faithful and ancient.” I turn to this poem when I want to celebrate myself, my body and the many functions it fulfills.  

5) Jordan convinced me that pads are disgusting by Olivia Gatwood

This poem, tender and light-hearted, offers a glimpse into what a moment like getting your period can mean for teenagers, friendships and feeling that you’re at the beginning of something. Gatwood’s fresh, humorous voice immortalizes a moment with her friend that is specific yet universal. It makes me laugh every time. You can also watch her perform this work here. 

These creative works have served as important reminders that reproduction and menstruation are multifaceted, with aspects to them that are painful, beautiful, ugly, confusing and so much more. They have illustrated that such topics are worth writing about and can offer a shared sense of catharsis. In five distinct though equally stunning writing styles, these writers have provided unique insight into the inner processes of our body, and how we might try to understand them. Discover more creative work on the F(r)iction Log. 

Laura Villareal (LV): I’ve known you for a little over four years, but I don’t think I ever asked about your love of kilts, so let’s start there. I remember that you visited a kilt shop when we were in either Philadelphia or Portland. When and how did get into kilts?

Jubi Arriola-Headley(JAH): Back in 2007 I attended the Folsom Street Fair (“Folsom”) for the first time. Which, I think, if I start the story this way, sets up my love of kilts as a fetish or a kink (see what I did there?)—which it might in fact be. Folsom, for folks who don’t know, is an annual event in San Francisco that features kinky (in the sexual sense) scenes or performances; booths or stalls selling all sorts of kink-related gear and wear; organizations that promote safe, sane, and consensual kink; companies that produce kinky porn; kink-focused or inspired artists and craftspeople; and corporate (of course) entities that might in some way benefit from an association with the folks that frequent such an event. Et cetera. So—I passed by a booth that was selling kilts and it might have been the thick hairy calves of the person selling the kilts that first caught my eye (I’m a leg man), but, in any case, I decided to try one on and the clearest thing I can tell you is that I felt at once transgressive and at home in this kilt, and in my own skin in a way that I never had before. Ever since that moment I’ve had a deep and abiding love of kilts. The superstitious part of me, before Sibling Rivalry agreed to publish original kink, said a prayer to God or The Universe or whomever that if my baby found a home that I’d wear a kilt to every reading I did thereafter. And even though I didn’t anticipate at the time I’d be doing most of those readings via Zoom, I’ve by and large honored that. So even if you, dear reader, can’t see my legs, just know I’m rocking a kilt during my reading. If Omicron or some future variant doesn’t end us all, I’m looking forward to many more in-person kilted readings. My own calves are quite lovely, for those of you who enjoy such things.

LV: I hope one day we get to see you kilted and reading your incredible poems in person! You’re wearing quite a lovely kilt in your author photo on your website. Was that one your first kilt?

JAH: No, actually, that’s my most recent kilt. On my “About” page there’s a photo of me in a blue tank top and a green Utilikilt (see below for an explanation of what this is)—my second kilt, actually. That photo was taken in 2008, if I remember correctly. My beard’s a lot grayer and the laugh lines and crows’ feet have deepened but I think otherwise I look much the same.

LV: What are some places you might recommend if folks are looking to buy a kilt?

JAH: USA Kilts is a wonderful resource. Not only do they have literally hundreds (maybe thousands) of tartans to choose from. They also have a YouTube channel where the owners (two good-natured middle-aged white guys) post dozens of entertaining and informative videos on how a how to measure yourself for a kilt, how you should wear your kilt, general kilt etiquette, the different types of kilts, which tartans anyone can wear (“universal” tartans), and so on.

That all said—traditional kilts aren’t cheap (a good one, most often made of wool, runs you easily upwards of $400). Also, they tend to be heavy (see previous reference to wool material) and formal feeling. If you’re looking for an unbifurcated garment with a lower barrier to entry, consider Utilikilts. These non-traditional kilts (invented by a dude who, to me, looks like the original poster for Burning Man, but don’t let that stop you from living your best kilted lyfe) tend to run cheaper than traditional kilts, and have the added benefit of being lighter on the frame as well as the wallet (they’re made of heavy-duty cotton instead of wool), AND—they have pockets. (Traditional kilts don’t.)

LV: Talk to me about your favorite beaches, Jubi. You live in South Florida with beautiful beaches within driving distance. Is there one you visit more than others? What do you like most about the beach?

JAH: It might not surprise you to learn (based on my previous answer) that I’m a nudist. One of the main draws of moving to South Florida, where my husband and I now live, is the beautiful Haulover Beach, one of the few legal clothing-optional beaches in the United States, which is less than an hour drive from my home. There’s something liberating (figuratively as well as literally) about sunbathing nude among like-minded folks. Somehow, exposing the body renders one less visible, less subject to a judging gaze. I can’t quite explain it yet—I’m working on an essay on the topic but I’m still fumbling for the words. For now, let’s say it’s like the Matrix—you can’t be told what it is… you know how the rest of that line goes.

But I don’t spend all my beach time at nude beaches. I live about two miles as the crow flies from the middle of a 50-odd-mile stretch of beach through Miami-Dade, Broward, and Palm Beach counties that’s home to some of the best beaches you can find anywhere. A few of my favorites: Lauderdale-by-the-Sea is home to a chill, family-friendly beach that never feels too crowded in my ever-so-humble opinion—super important in the COVID era, right? North Miami Beach is a city in its own right, and the beaches there can sometimes get touristy but are home to boutique hotels and cafes and also have lovely mangrove patches to get lost in and overall feel about less 104% stressful than South Beach, which is located (surprise surprise) to the south of there. Finally, Virginia Key is a historic, secluded beach—once Miami’s official “colored only” beach, FYI. If you pick just the right spot, you’ll feel like you’re on a secluded island in sometime other than now—either in the past or future. Also: I had the great fortune to participate in a group reading of Zong! there that I’ll never forget. (“Reading” feels inadequate to describe that experience; I should call it a ritual or a summoning.)

LV: It’s wonderful to hear you describe these beaches. I totally agree about the importance of finding a place outside that’s not crowded in these times. More than ever before I find myself needing to be outside in nature. Do you find yourself going to the beach more now than before the pandemic?

JAH: Absolutely! So many places I used to go are off-limits to me now (COVID, right?)—I tried to go back to the gym in August and five minutes into my attempt at a workout I knew that was a bad idea. I haven’t been to the movies since 2019 sometime, nor have I sat indoors in any restaurant or coffee shop. (Luckily, living in South Florida, many restaurants and cafes have outdoor seating, which feels a lot safer, but still not fully safe safe, you know what I mean?) So, I spend more time outdoors in general, taking long walks, and sunbathing at the beach. Plus, the ocean, I feel, has a calming, restorative effect on me, and in the wake of all the horrorscape that’s been the past two years, I’ve needed calm and restoration more than ever.

LV: What would your perfect beach day be like? How do you like to spend your time—sunbathing, reading, swimming, collecting shells, or perhaps everything?

JAH: I went to the beach two days before New Year’s and the worst part about it was the traffic on the way home. I brought lunch with me, went into the water twice (mainly to cool off, not to spend any time actually swimming, that sounds like WORK) and spent the rest of my time laying out, listening to the waves crashing, talking to no one, dozing off every so often, remembering to flip occasionally so as to brown equally on all sides. That took up most of the five hours I spent at the beach that day. That was pretty close to perfect for me.

LV: Sounds like a perfect day!

Public transportation varies so wildly across the U.S. Where I live in Texas we rely on cars since there are few, if any, forms of public transportation, but other areas of the U.S., like the East Coast, have trains, buses, or even ferries readily available. If I remember correctly, you’ve lived in quite a few different places like Massachusetts and Texas. How did your experience with public transportation differ and what’s your favorite form of travel?

JAH: I love a city with a robust public transportation system—which for me (fight me) means trains and trolleys (more than just buses in other words). In Boston, where I grew up, there’s three intra-city train lines (Red/Blue/Orange) and on top of that a trolley system (Green) and an extensive set commuter rail lines (Purple) that venture not only into the suburban areas outside Boston but into neighboring states. I didn’t get my drivers’ license until I was twenty, for no other reason than I didn’t need it. Public transportation in Boston—if defined by how extensive it is in terms of track miles, or how well the train/trolley infrastructure is developed—is top-notch. New York of course surpasses it. (Though maintenance there is an issue, for obvious reasons.) DC’s public transportation system is pretty good, based on these criteria; other cities, like Chicago, Philadelphia, and San Francisco, have decent public transportation but are limited by the reach (or lack of reach) of their train lines. Los Angeles’ system was a surprise to me when I spent six months there in 2018 on a fellowship; it’s a lot more extensive than I thought it’d be. There’s tiers below these cities (Baltimore, Atlanta, Miami); beyond these cities I’ve named, though, I’m not sure that most U.S. cities have any more than highly limited (in terms of track miles) light rail.

I did spend time in Texas; there’s a car-worship culture there that’s dispiriting. I lived for eight years in Houston—for five of those years I lived in the Westbury neighborhood, and the regional transit board came up with a plan to bring light rail to our area. Maybe half of residents loved the idea, but the other half hated it and the idea died and never came to fruition. I’d moved to Houston because the cost of living there was inexpensive (read: for a dude), but I think the day I learned they’d killed the transit plan was the day the cheap sheen of the city started to wear off for me.

I also love Amtrak—or, more accurately, I would love to love Amtrak. The Acela train which bounds up and down the Northeast Corridor, connecting Boston to New York to Philly to Baltimore to DC, is the closest we might ever get in this country to the way Europe—not just cities or individual countries but the continent, in general—approaches mass transit. In Europe, you can take a high-speed train from country to country and have it rival, in cost and speed, a flight. Of course, tight geography helps. But it’d be nice if more cities in our country could benefit from high-speed rail.

LV: It’s illuminating to hear you describe each city’s public transportation. Boston sounds like a dream in terms of ease of travel. I wish we had high-speed trains like in other countries. Perhaps this is a silly question, but if in the future we had high-speed trains available, do you think you’d give up flying and driving?

JAH: I do love high-speed trains. LOVE. I remember taking a train from Paris to Lyon about ten years ago and falling in love with high-speed rail on that ride. I think if you have access to high-speed rail, if you’re traveling anywhere within 500 miles of your home, it’s a no-brainer to travel via high-speed rail instead of a plane. It’s more environmentally friendly, and all that time you spend checking in at the airport and navigating security, you spend instead chilling on the train, enjoying watching the landscape whiz by. I would also consider taking overnight trains, if that was a viable option. I know “the billionaires” (at least two of them—you know who they are) are working on bringing us high-speed rail so superfast you could theoretically cross the country (Say, New York to San Francisco) in half a day. But I really don’t trust they’re putting as much effort into that project as they are into their cockrockets. So I’ma wait until phase three or so before I jump on a hyperloop.

This being your first novel, how did you know when you were done? How many shelved novels came before this one and do you think you’ll take any of them off the shelf?

There was a long time where I kept going, I’m done, but I was lying to myself. When I felt there was nothing more I could add, that’s when I was like alright, now I’m done.

I have four shelved works that came before this—three novels and a collection of stories. Two were straight-up horror, and I’ll probably rewrite them to make them more what I like now. Another I’m definitely going to bring back is an absurdist pulp-detective story called Hard Boiled Dick.

What is your writing process like? Do you sit down every day or have a ritual?

I’m of the mindset you don’t have to sit down every day. I think the demand to sit down every day is kind of cruel. You’re tapping into something special, and the idea of forcing it is cruel to that thing; you can’t force a plant to grow, you can only water it.

I give myself false deadlines, or I ask someone to give me a deadline. When inspiration hits I sit and write. I try to continuously work on something, be it a script or otherwise. I’m always alternating. I don’t really have a routine I just kind of work on stuff. When I get deeply involved in something I get obsessive and I work on it every day. But right now, I’m taking a break because Sunflower just came out and it’s a huge relief.

How did you find your voice?

I tried to write a certain way for a long time—introspective literary fiction—but then I got fed up with it and was like you know what, fart jokes, let’s go. I think you have to get really angry and disappointed, and then there’s going to be this breakdown of what you thought you wanted and what you thought you could do and how you wanted to do it. You’re going to be like forget it, I’m just going to do this, and you’re going to spitefully write something different, and you’ll realize I like that, that’s actually good. I can’t tell you how many bad stories I’ve written. Practice the bad, and the moment you’re fed up, that’s when you find your voice.

You spent about ten years working on Sunflower. Once it was finished, how long did it take to get published—from that moment of I know I’m done to signing with Spaceboy Books?

It was a weird process. I sent Spaceboy an older manuscript and told them there were some things I wanted to do with it, and they let me. It was probably a year of sending out the one I didn’t have anything more to add to, and then Spaceboy took it, and when they did I realized I wanted to rearrange things and make it bigger. Then, I realized that there’s more sci-fi elements in it than I anticipated. I saw they were interested in weird, innovative stuff and they let me play around with the manuscript. The freedom to make it however I wanted to make it really made me realize they were who I wanted to go with.

As for querying, it was a typical query but instead of the usual response you get from a query letter, we instead started a conversation. My experience querying agents was more formal but with Spaceboy, it became a casual conversation. A similar thing happened at Atlatl Press with Heck, Texas, where it was a casual conversation and I had the freedom to do what I wanted. When you and your publisher both love what you got going—that’s the key.

I’m curious how you devised the book’s structure. Did you always envision it in this nonlinear way?

It was always nonlinear. What changed when I sent it to Spaceboy was the inclusion of additional chapters, deleted scenes, and setting it up the way I did with the deleted scenes in the back. But start to finish, it was always exactly how it is. There wasn’t a whole lot of rearranging.

What came first, the story you wanted to tell, or the framework for telling it?

Both the framework and the characters. The first chapter—the one about Heather who is sick in her room and thinks she’s dying and she’s watching TV—that was the first thing I started writing for Sunflower. I wrote the Delta chapter next and then I started crafting those characters. The framework of Act One was to introduce these characters. Taking so long with the book’s intro, was the satirical framework that I wanted for the beginning. A movie should be quick in the first act but I wanted to take the most time I possibly could.

Your comedic timing is incredible; you often undercut dramatic scenes with a super funny joke, like a spoon full of sugar that helps the misery go down. Was it a goal to include comedy, or did it come naturally?

[laughs] I like that a lot. I wish I could put that on the cover now. My mindset is always: how can I make this really tragic moment be funny? The awkwardness of situations automatically makes me laugh. I kind of wanted a Looney Tunes vibe with the book. If you take away the funny moments of Looney Tunes, it is so unfunny; they are really demented and weird and violent. I think everything I write has to have something that’s funny, at least to me, and if other people see it as funny, great.

I’m drawn in by the macabre, visceral gore, and body horror in both of your books. What do you find compelling about those themes?

I get freaked out about the delicacy of the body—just a little bit of something can throw it all off. One little change can destroy. In Sunflower, it’s all about the idea that the individual is the body, not like this mind or spirit or whatever. Moments in the book like when the coyote turns inside out and things like that; they’re reiterations of that delicacy. Jeff VanderMeer’s Annihilation touches on that too, where the rearranging of the body can be horror. But it’s actually an evolutionary step and to see it as something fearful is to betray that evolution, and to embrace it is to embrace the future and transcend beyond the body.

One thing I really wanted for Sunflower while reading was a map of North America like you would see in a fantasy novel. Is that something you considered?

I think I wanted it to be vague and disorienting where you can’t get a grasp, but really it’s just the exact same thing as it is now. Except that above Santa Barbara, along the border of where Nevada and California meet and all the way down to Mexico, is broken off. Everything is the same . . . kind of. Because of that breaking off some things were rearranged—the concept of what hasn’t broken off and what hasn’t changed, the name, the laws, the rules and all that. 

Sunflower seemed more influenced by film than literature; reading it felt more like the novelization of a film. The narrative mimics film storytelling devices—the camerawork, editing, and score are just as important as the plot. Was this a conscious choice because the story is about a script and the film industry, or is this your style as a novelist that you will continue using?

The next thing I’m working on is kind of but not really film-related, so I don’t know if I’ll continue to use it. Here, it was a conscious choice. Originally, the title was Sunflower: A Novelization of the Final Film by Simeon Wolpe and I wanted it to look like one of those movie tie-in novelizations. Some of those are really good. I read the novelization of John Carpenter’s The Thing, and story-wise, that book is superior to the movie. There’s all this stuff not in the movie because the script got cut for budget reasons and to make the film feel more claustrophobic. The book is a bit more expansive with the characters’ intricacies. So, the score, editing style, and cinematic techniques are in my novel because I wanted it to feel like reading a movie.

That’s very much how it feels. I also thought it felt more like a DVD with all the bonus features.

One of my original concepts for Sunflower was a release where I could somehow get it as two books in one box. There’d be the novel and a little extra bonus booklet, like the ones you get for a Criterion release. That’s what I wanted originally, a fake Criterion Collection release. I even had a mockup cover that I photoshopped.

To me, the book is begging to be adapted. Do you feel like that would be possible? Would a theatrical cut work with all the bonus material? What is your fantasy of that whole process?

I think it could make a decent miniseries, like a five-episode miniseries or something like that. I think it could be a movie. I’m working on a screenplay version that cuts out quite a bit, but because it’s more of the film version you have to lose certain things. It’s almost like Inherent Vice, where the movie cuts out a lot from the book. Some of it’s really important and interesting but when you watch the movie, it leaves out so much that you want to read the book. The movie intentionally leaves those blanks so that when you read the book it becomes a tandem, complimentary experience.

Do you prefer writing scripts or fiction? How do they inform each other for you as a writer?

I think going into a fiction-y thing, the plot is the first thing I think of. Then when I think of that I can throw it away and write what I want to write. There are restrictions with screenwriting and I like those because it’s like painting by numbers but in a good way; that structure makes it fun. I was a screenwriter first. I started writing scripts and then I came to fiction later. But I think screenwriting is harder. Fiction isn’t as hard because I could just write, write, write. With screenwriting, you have to make convincing moments for the story to move forward. Whereas with fiction, you can expand on things and clarify and present the emotion.

You’ve been getting recognition lately for writing scripts. How is that whole process going?

It’s going well. I’ve had some meetings with people and I’m working on something now that could be cool, we’ll see. I got hired to write something, so we’ll see what happens. No one’s really interested in buying or making my features yet, but I’m not going to stop writing. I feel like I’m on the right track. I just need to have the right conversation with the right person.

What are you working on now?

KKUURRTT and I started a press called 100 & 900% Press. We only publish collaborative work, and the first book we’re putting out is a collaborative-journal novel about two guys traveling across America on a vaguely disguised book tour. But in reality, they’re going to deliver drugs to someone. I also have a poetry book coming out from RlySrsLit called This Is Strange June, sort of like an autobiography in poetry. In 2023, Tolsun Books is putting out my short-story collection Violent Candy. As for scripts, I’m working on one called Toothhammer, which is about a retired boxer helping a young girl learn how to fight. The other one is my version of Uncut Gems but at a golf course.

My next big project that’s going to take time is what I’m calling Beyond the Map. It’s four novellas that connect and span time. It starts in the 1800s with a woman getting revenge on someone. Then it goes to the 1960s when a trans man faces the foreclosure of his library where people bring in their pictures, journals, or notebooks and other people can check it out and learn about those people. Then, it goes to the 1990s when a mom dying of cancer goes on her final tour with her band. And then finally to the future, in an unknown time when the world is going blind and a scientist is trying to make a device that people can use to see other people’s dreams—à la Wim Wenders’s Until the End of the World—but all he’s seeing is the three novellas that came before, and he’s trying to figure out why he’s only seeing those three moments in time. Another weird multicharacter thing.

Many governments around the world are currently focused on reconciling with their country’s Indigenous people. Whether you live in Canada, the United States, New Zealand, Australia, or anywhere else with a history of colonialism, the importance of reconciliation cannot be understated. Here at Brink, we love to see communities come together and uplift one another by raising their voices and sharing stories of resilience. Indigenous communities have always been a hub for beautiful storytelling. Recently, many Indigenous-authored books have caught my eye, and these books are too good not to share!

Split Tooth by Tanya Tagaq

Tanya Tagaq is an acclaimed Inuit throat singer from Nunavut. Split Tooth is her debut novel. This was one of the best books I have read in recent years. Tagaq’s style is unique and breathtaking. Part memoir, part poetry, part prose, and laden with heartbreakingly beautiful imagery, this unforgettable book is a must-read. In it, Tagaq blurs the line between the real and the imagined as she explores the relationships between good and evil, animal and human, and family and love.

Nîtisânak by Jas M. Morgan

Jas M. Morgan is “a Cree-Métis-Saulteaux curator, editor, writer, SSHRC doctoral scholarship recipient, and McGill Art History PhD student.” This memoir is an exploration of blood relatives and chosen family, and how to honor both of them equally. According to GoodReads, it is a “groundbreaking memoir spanning nations, prairie punk scenes, and queer love stories.” Morgan uses a cyclical narrative throughout their book as they explore the grief surrounding the loss of their mother.

Moon of the Crusted Snow by Waubgeshig Rice

Waubgeshig Rice is the host of Canadian radio show “Up North,” and he recently released this post-apocalyptic thriller. In Moon of the Crusted Snow, a small northern Anishinaabe community goes dark just before winter. With supplies dwindling up north, people start to panic. The band council, aided by some community members, try to keep the peace, until an unexpected visitor arrives. As society starts crumbling further south, people begin flocking to the northerner’s community.

Disintegrate/Dissociate by Arielle Twist

Arielle Twist is a Cree Two-Spirit poet based in Eastern Canada. Her debut poetry collection, Disintegrate/Dissociate, explores human connection after death. It considers all of the emotions, trauma, and displacement the deceased leave behind, and depicts the life of an Indigenous trans woman as she dreams about the future.

For a Girl Becoming by Joy Harjo

Joy Harjo is the 23^rd Poet Laureate of the United States. She is a member of the Mvskoke Nation, and has written nine poetry collections, two children’s books, and acclaimed plays. She also performs the saxophone and flutes, both solo and with the Arrow Dynamics Band. For a Girl Becoming is an image-rich, poetic story of a girl’s journey from birth, to adolescence, to adulthood

When Sun and Moon Collide by Briar Grace-Smith

Briar Grace-Smith (Ngāpuhi) is an award-winning playwright and short fiction writer. She also writes radio and television scripts. Her book, When Sun and Moon Collide, follows protagonist Isaac as he runs a tearoom in a middle-of-nowhere town, watching life pass him by from the window. Two of his customers meet by chance, after which Isaac finds himself in the middle of a sinister situation.

All of these writers explore what it means to be Indigenous—and what it means to be human—in insightful, authentic, and empowering ways. Cozy up with one of these books and a soft blanket, and read the night away!

Published July 27, 2021 by William Morrow

As a lover of historical fiction and a feminist, I was so excited to read this book. The Women’s March: A Novel of the 1913 Woman Suffrage Procession was thoroughly researched and well-rounded—a total pleasure to read. Though I’m Canadian, the American suffrage movement helped pave the way for my own right to vote, and so much of our countries’ histories are intertwined. While I’d heard stories about suffragists before, I’d never been able to get inside their heads and experiences—until I opened this book.  

Jennifer Chiaverini has given readers an excellent story depicting the nuances of the suffrage movement, intersectionality, and the different challenges various groups of women faced while achieving the right to vote. So often, the American history that is taught in schools excludes women of color and their stories, yet they played a crucial role in shaping the rights we have today. By portraying characters’ intersectional experiences with sexism, racism, and classism, the book is not only richer but more historically accurate. Chiaverini didn’t shy away from depicting the hard truths and rougher parts of the suffrage movement. I learned a lot from reading the book, which is exactly why I love historical fiction. I appreciated how the book gave readers a glimpse into the nitty-gritty details of planning the march (right down to the colors of individual marchers’ uniforms), and the drama that went on behind the scenes of such an event.  

I also admired the variety of perspectives offered throughout The Women’s March. Ida, Maud, and Alice give readers a unique insight into the frustrations, mundane elements, setbacks, triumphs, and range of emotions experienced during the women’s suffrage movement. Alice’s experience fighting for suffrage in Great Britain—facing imprisonment and hunger strikes—colored her approach to suffrage in the US. Maud’s experience as a working woman and her notoriety for interrupting politicians’ speeches with pointed questions gave readers insight into the working-class fight for suffrage. Ida’s strength and determination as someone born into slavery and fighting for both racial justice and women’s suffrage added complexity to the conversation that history classes so often gloss over. The stakes of women’s suffrage are different for all three women, and we see them pave the way for a movement that includes people of many backgrounds and experiences united against a common goal. The book brought to light many details that we don’t discuss anymore, such as how suffrage movements were originally state-by-state and that a vote on women’s suffrage could only occur every ten years in some states. It also depicted challenges that, unfortunately, still largely persist today, particularly when it comes to racial injustice. The book was empowering, insightful, and interesting. Though the action is more of a slow drip than an intense battle scene, I would recommend it to historical fiction buffs

While I thoroughly enjoyed The Women’s March, there were a few elements of the novel that needed refining. At times, the narrative felt a bit choppy as the story pulled readers in three different narrative direction. But I wouldn’t have wanted to miss out on Maud, Alice, or Ida’s perspectives. However, I did find myself skimming earlier passages to remind myself where each character’s storyline was at. The suspense was so great that I wasn’t as interested in the smaller details on the page—I found myself wanting to skip ahead or skim pages to get to the action. That being said, I appreciated the lasting tension Chiaverini created—clearly, she had me hooked! While melding the three stories together did cause some confusion at times, their story arcs were well-rounded and exciting. Each woman’s story could have been a stand-alone piece, but weaving them together allowed readers to understand the complex fight for women’s suffrage. By following these three characters for so long, and getting to know them intimately, it becomes even more exciting for readers to see them eventually meet at the march.  

One of the most striking layers of complexity in The Woman’s March was learning how various Suffrage groups disagreed on the approach they should take as advocates—disagreements that ranged from what level of government to target, to class divisions, state divisions, and racial injustice. Ida’s story was particularly outstanding to me, and I appreciated the care the author took with her narrative to show readers how much harder she had to fight, the discrimination she faced, and how the stakes for women’s suffrage differed for Black and other marginalized people. This perspective adds weight to the cultural understanding of our shared history. The more society unpacks concepts of intersectionality, racism, sexism, and elements of identity, the more we also need to look into the past and add to the edited version of history taught in schools.

Overall, The Woman’s March was a rich, complex glimpse into the women’s suffrage movement. Upon closing the pages, I saw history from a different perspective, and I appreciate the opportunity to step into Ida, Alice, and Maud’s shoes for a few hundred pages. I’d definitely recommend the book to anyone interested in historical fiction, social justice, or women’s rights, particularly if you’re looking for an intersectional way to consider history. Each of the three protagonists were relatable—even though I’ll never share some of their experiences, getting to walk in their shoes for a while was incredibly moving. I appreciate the opportunity Jennifer Chiaverini has given me and other readers to take a march through our predecessors’ stories, giving us powerful moments to consider along the way.  

Published June 15, 2021 by Margaret K. McElderry Books.

Liselle Sambury’s debut novel, Blood Like Magic, combines the allure of hidden magic and advanced technology set in a not-so-distant future. The story revolves around Voya, a witch tasked with finding and destroying her first love in order to receive full witch power from her ancestors. This book promised an engaging plot via a Black-witch fantasy, LGBTQ+ representation, strong family focus, and a unique hate-to-love romance, but it doesn’t quite deliver on most of these promises.

The book aims to bring marginalized identities to the forefront with a Black-girl protagonist and a myriad of LGBTQ+ characters. But the way Sambury talks about certain identities, especially the transgender community and Asian community, seem to perpetuate microaggressions that these communities already face daily. For example, one scene in the book revolves around Voya wanting to avoid a conversation about her Calling (the revelation of what her task is) by deflecting the focus away from her and towards Alex, her transgender cousin, and Alex’s “Bleeding” (the initial onset of witch powers via literal bleeding), even though Alex obviously does not want to be the center of conversation nor want to share. This kind of microaggression pits a hyper-focus on the stories of trans and gender-expansive individuals, using their personal stories as ways to avoid uncomfortable or unwanted conversation without the consent of the individual themselves.

Another scene shortly after involves Voya assuming the genders of three people she sees on a stage, blatantly labeling them as boys or girls. Yet, in the very next sentence, she wonders if the emcee will reveal their pronouns so that she can “adjust” her language. The irony in this is that she’s already assumed these characters’ genders and yet still half-heartedly attempts allyship by hoping to use the correct pronouns. These moments of flawed allyship, moments that don’t directly affect the plot trajectory of the novel, could have been easily avoided.

Additionally, the novel’s language surrounding Asian food perpetuates Asian culture and food as foreign. This is most explicit when the book doesn’t find the need to explain the origins of certain foods like pelau, but the need to do so with Asian dishes like adobo.

The pacing of the novel was also affected by arbitrarily thrown-in details that seemed unrelated to the plot. Not only does the book explicitly tell the reader the characters’ feelings rather than showing them, it also tosses around details about race and gender that serve no point in the story other than to mention it. The mentions of these identities seemed to be diversity fodder—a way to check off and ascertain marginalized identities in the novel. This does a real disservice to the profoundness of these identities by not giving these characters more substance than just a name and identity label.

All of this builds into the book’s problematic themes, two of which this review will briefly discuss. The first is the idea that painful experiences build character, which can be completely true—unless this involves watching a child relative drown in a freezing lake and lose two toes for the sake of “building adversity.” Or, forcefully (without deliberation or consent) taking away any chance a beloved cousin has at being able to fulfill her dreams because the characters know she has the strength to create a new future. This is supposedly the novel’s promised “strong family focus—instead, it screams of a family that very aggravatingly refuses to communicate—a damaging family trait that causes and perpetuates about 80 percent of the plot points in the story.

The second theme regards the intent vs impact discussion throughout the book. The story somehow focuses on intent being most important. Voya, at the end of the novel, says, “We decide who we are, not the magic we practice. And I need to trust myself enough to know, however I choose to use my power, it’ll be for the right reasons.” So this leads the reader to the problematic conclusion that . . . it’s okay to kidnap and kill people in rituals? Or, it’s okay to use magic to chain a person to a house? Or, it’s okay to brush off the fact that a family needlessly participates in a murder ritual because of the family’s poor communication? The answer to all these questions is yes, because it’s for the family’s sake and safety. And while the end of the book tries to focus on how “being [pure] or [unpure] doesn’t preclude you from being morally right or wrong otherwise,” it also entirely contradicts that point by very clearly painting specific characters as morally wrong and others as morally right – for example, the book condemns those who commit murder for science but doesn’t for those who commit murder to save the family’s magic. This could just be a great build-up for an extremely satisfying redemption arc in the confirmed sequel—but as it stands, the book paints Voya and her family more as antagonists.

With all that said, Blood Like Magic does have its upsides. The magic and worldbuilding are extremely compelling, particularly the ways that magic and technology coexist in this advanced society. The author also chooses not to front-load readers with worldbuilding information and slowly reveals new gadgets, new inventions, and changes in this world one by one in an extremely captivating way. And the magic/technology theme isn’t without nuance. Sambury skillfully incorporates examinations of class and socioeconomic status into her novel, highlighting the ways in which advancements might further certain inequities. Interwoven into this is an analysis of immigration and international adoption, shining a light on the multiple perspectives involved in such policies.

The flaws in Blood Like Magic don’t outweigh the positives, but we can look forward to Sambury’s future work. Sambury isn’t afraid to explore topics that other authors often sideline, and while there may be fumbles at these attempts, these attempts also leave the reader with great anticipation of the growth that we will see in her sequel and subsequent novels.

I remember one time sitting across a table from a woman telling me a story about how her dog ate a roof tile. My job requires me to listen patiently, even to stories I’d rather not, and so I sat there, making my best effort to look concerned and not interrupt.

I feel as though clarification is in order: I am not a monster, and anyone who knows me will readily confirm that I love dogs. Give me your spaniels, your greyhounds, and your pugs and I will cuddle and fawn over them to the point of ridiculousness.

Not this time, though. Listening to a woman’s account of a story of her newly acquired dog— a puppy, to make things even worse and to make me look like even more of an asshole—choking on a piece of tile, I felt as if her words were washing over me, leaving me intact, unbothered.

In other words, I was numb.

Before you ask, the puppy was fine.

But now, with the typical self-centeredness of our age, let me get back to my point. Which is me.

I was going through some personal stuff myself back then. Many months and multiple therapy sessions later, I realized that I had, in fact, been depressed, although if you’d asked me back then, I would have shrugged, brushing it aside with some sardonic punchline, and then changed the subject altogether. I have never been a big fan of the “It’s okay not to be okay” pastel-themed mantra that Instagram shoves down our throats, to the point where it makes me feel a bit resentful. Deep down inside, I have always felt that it actually isn’t okay not to be okay; after all, isn’t that what the whole point of not being okay actually is?

Anyway, what I did not, back then, want to identify as depression registered instead as numbness. I was numb when this nice, worried woman told me about her dog ordeal. I was numb watching a massacre unravel on one of the Netflix shows I mindlessly binged, though I admit puppy-suffering numbness does make me feel slightly more ashamed looking back. I wasn’t just willfully ignorant of what was going on in the world. The gravest toll that my depression took on me is that it made me feel numb to the suffering of others. Depression and empathy don’t go hand in hand.

I look back at that period now, when I ponder whether or not it would be appropriate to read “The Depressed Person” by David Foster Wallace (DFW) with my students. The young people who attend my book club are so brilliant—sensitive and aware in ways that it seems only Gen-Z, in its best version, can be. The age gap between us doesn’t seem so big, except that it is—identifying as the youngest of Millennials, I already feel tired and somewhat washed-up. While it seems like their open approach to depression and mental health makes them feel at once more vulnerable and in touch with the world within and without, all mine did was render me numb.

(Maybe, in my heart of hearts, I am a boomer.)

So, there is this dilemma whether we should even read this short story in which depression is approached ironically. For most social media inhabitants, irony seems now increasingly problematic, perhaps at times hardly palatable. Irony requires us to diminish our suffering and distance ourselves from it, and sometimes it takes a while to unpack and absorb. All of these requirements condemn it to failure in the scrolling system, the quicksand of easily offensible.

The main character of DFW’s story acquires this tunnel vision of depression that prevents her from regarding the pain of others as anything else than a segue into her own doom and gloom. The author covers this pity party with a mercilessness indicative of something much more profound: the kind of hate one usually reserves only for oneself. In fact, Wallace himself famously struggled with depression, which led to his suicide in 2008. And so, we arrive at the crux of the dilemma: if you’re the one dealing with something, is it okay to make fun of it? The question is not apparent or readily available; after all, self-ridicule has had a tough time recently as well. In times when righteous indignation abounds and apology videos are legion, irony is in short supply—but whether rightly so is a different question. It may leave you wondering whether we actually lose something in this tedious process of rectification.

Reading this (admittedly hilarious) piece today, I can see how parts of it have not aged well. Putting aside the question of irony for just a moment, consider the phone! Nowadays we are more likely to associate depression or anxiety with dreading any conversations that involve listening to another person’s voice and having to respond to it in real-time. Perhaps the harrowing sound of the “empty apian drone of the dial tone” that left the protagonist feeling such a sudden blow of loneliness could now be replaced with that feeling you get after a Zoom meeting when, suddenly, after excruciatingly prolonged goodbyes and due amount of over-earnest waving, faces disappear from your screen one by one, and then there is just you, staring at your own pixelated features, face muscles gently relieving from all the smiling, as once again you register the emptiness of your apartment—or is it just me?

I recently came across a New Yorker cartoon of a raggedy young woman, sitting in sweatpants in front of her laptop, which is resting against her PC screen, which is right next to her tablet, which is right above the phone she squeezes in her hand while listening to her therapist impart kernels of wisdom: “I recommend less screen time,” albeit with a few caveats of common sense: “Except, of course, for our therapy sessions, school, work, staying connected with loved ones, dating, telehealth, yoga instruction, and searching for vaccine appointments.” A page I follow reposted it with a single “Ouch!” as a caption.

“Ouch!” indeed.

As in: Ouch, I guess I am spending fifteen hours a day in front of my laptop these days, and I guess it’s not going to change any time soon, and it’s not like I have a choice to do anything about it at this point.

But also: Ouch, that person looks familiar. I feel like I have already seen her somewhere; she looks at me with the same air of fatigue after the Zoom parties are over and everybody else has left the call.

And it sucks to be her. It sucks to be The Depressed Person (TDP).

Which brings me to the point that I would surely bring up at my book club meeting should I choose to discuss the text, which is: who do we identify with while reading this story? Who do we root for? DFW’s merciless sarcasm (in a perhaps too obviously self-loathing way) invites us to distance ourselves from TDP’s never-ending landline pity parties. So maybe we sympathize with TSF (The Sick Friend) or TST (The Suicidal Therapist), both of them quietly, tactfully, offering their attention to the pathetically clingy person in need. The friend whose not-so-vibrant and not-quite-active life is being, as we can imagine, marked by the rhythm of chemotherapy sessions. The tacitly suicidal therapist whose death Karen (because, honestly, can we just call TDP Karen at this point? You can fight me on it, but I know you won’t) manages, somehow—at the same time, both amazingly and unsurprisingly—to appropriate, turning the woman’s deliberate overdose into this grand discourtesy on her part.

I know how it feels to numbly listen to stories you’d rather not, while at the same time quietly processing something much graver. And I certainly know how it feels to feel suicidal. And to be perfectly honest with you on some deep, personal level, I do feel like The Depressed Person at times. (Sometimes. Sometimes not. But these zoom-filled days increasingly so.) Does this mean that I should not laugh at her?

We live in times of numbness and often-professed empathy. Even though I have experienced my fair share of numbness, I remain a die-hard fan of empathy; perhaps not the often-professed kind, but the quiet kind, the kind that makes you stay on the phone or look at your screen, taking in your friends’ stories of woe, even when you feel really, really tired after spending fifteen hours in front of your laptop, because they need you right there, right now.

And yet, at the same time, I also consider myself a die-hard fan of irony. The way it helps us to let go of things. The way it puts those things into perspective. Are these two qualities mutually exclusive? It may seem like it, especially judging by our all-or-nothing social media attitudes. But maybe it doesn’t have to be this way. Perhaps we could be tender to ourselves and to each other and allow irony to enter our discourse once again—not the scathing sarcasm, but the gentle irony, a smirk, a sigh, a sign letting you know that maybe, just maybe, even the grave things don’t need to be taken seriously all the time.

I feel like I have yet to find out, and the best way to do that is by bouncing these inconclusive ideas off those brilliant people who attend the book club (the therapeutic quality of which is, by the way, invaluable). Because, after all, this is what studying the classics is supposed to be about— holding them up to scrutiny to see which parts of their work have not aged well and which parts can still afford us some insight, the kind of which has lately been overlooked. We can empathize with them and/or ironize about them—and there is no better way than doing it together; ideally not over the phone, but at least for now a Zoom call will do.

Not having a hometown bookstore growing up, I always pull the car over to hit the local independent bookstores when traveling as an adult. I turn a deaf ear to the repeated question of travel companions asking, “Aren’t all bookstores the same?” Whether the city is big or small, I’ve found that bookstores capture the identity of a place and diverse books on their shelves have the power to open worlds. Browsing the shelves of a local bookstore may reveal the close-mindedness of residential views in a town and whether a reader needs to travel to other cities to find their book nook. Once working as a bookseller in Chicago, I even saw a young woman from out of town moved to tears in our bookstore, struck by a sense of belonging caused by seeing her own identities and experiences reflected in books before her. So, to answer my travel companions of the past: No, not all bookstores are the same, and that is a wonderful thing.

One of my favorite bookstores is Giovanni’s Room in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (now Philly AIDS Thrift @ Giovanni’s Room). This bookstore is not only the oldest LGBTQ bookstore in the United States but is named after the James Baldwin novel of the same name. Both the store and the novel place identity at the forefront of their mission, as Baldwin’s novel was about a man finding himself in Paris, mirroring Baldwin’s own journey of self-discovery as a gay black man. When Baldwin came back to an America caught in the midst of the Civil Rights Movement, his words would help many find their own sense of identity, a legacy they still carry, continuing to influence the idea of self-exploration in modern media. The HBO Max show Lovecraft Country is a great example of this legacy as it uses a James Baldwin speech in Episode One to not only illustrate the racism that the characters experience but to emphasize the central theme of identity in the show. And so I’ve found myself looking at how Lovecraft Country drives through its antiquated pulp novel inspiration and onto new highways, uplifting diverse voices within speculative fiction and developing into Afrofuturism.

Books from our past inspire Season One of Lovecraft Country, both the shared fantasies found on wire spinner racks and those that explore the unknown. The series—based on the Matt Ruff novel of the same name—features a cast of black characters and deals with forbidden magic, white supremacy, and stories both pulped and personal. The show draws inspiration from the writings of H.P. Lovecraft and Jules Verne and sets itself in 1950s America, where Jim Crow laws segregated much of the country. It is in this setting that Lovecraft Country draws its most important inspiration from another book: The Green Book, an annual guidebook for black motorists by Victor Hugo Green, published from 1936 to 1966. In the show, the characters travel across the country on a mission to publish their version of the book, researching safe establishments for black travelers. The map of any black motorist traveling through “sundown towns” in Jim Crow America could read “Here Be Monsters,” as depicted in the show’s first episode, “Sundown.” A sundown town was a segregated municipality that did not allow for any non-white residents; if your business in town was not done come sundown, your safety was not guaranteed. Lovecraft Country captures the anxiety incited by these laws, showing us the characters in peril, driving to reach the county border before sunset without speeding as the racist sheriff—looking for any excuse to pull them over—follows closely behind them. The purpose of The Green Book was to find a safe haven from this monster of racism in America. Just as the content of the fiction books that Lovecraft Country is pulling from as source material is not just their use of monsters, magic, and mayhem, but to show that by blending the fantastical with the factual, we forge a roadmap from mindsets of the past. A better identity for the genre has now unfolded, with modern work opening up into diverse narratives, like those found in Afrofuturism. Afrofuturism is about collecting the images of African diaspora culture to rocket them forward into a high tech, science fiction setting (as seen in the blockbuster success of Black Panther), as opposed to carrying on the traditional space colonization path from the pulp magazine days of science fiction and fantasy in the 1950s. Spoiler Alert: In talking about how Lovecraft Country links to Afrofuturism within this essay, you find some surprises from Season One spoilt, for anyone who hasn’t first watched the show.

The most overt fantastical inspiration for Lovecraft Country is contained within the show’s title, which links it to the writing of H.P. Lovecraft (1890–1937). Lovecraft’s work brings to the show the ideas of warlocks, elder gods, and unnamable horrors but also racial influences beyond The Green Book, as it is through the use of Lovecraft’s work that a direct examination of racism comes into play. It is here that I would mention that H.P. Lovecraft was an amateur journalist and self-published The Conservative, which touted his personal anti-immigration and pro-segregation views. Even with his problematic politics, Lovecraft saw power in books (they are a source of magic in his works), and the theme of identity is central to his writing. The key difference between Lovecraft Country and H.P. Lovecraft being that loss of identity is the notion behind Lovecraftian Horror. When “man” confronts a cosmic terror that he cannot understand, he is inevitably driven to the brink of madness; Lovecraft’s work is about man not being able to be at the center of his own universe.

We see the differences in the theme of identity between this pulp inspiration and the television show best when comparing Episode Five, “Strange Case,”to Lovecraft’s story “The Thing on the Doorstep” (1937). In “Strange Case,” the character of Ruby, played by Wunmi Mosaku, wakes up as a white woman after sleeping with a white man, who turns out to be a sorcerer. This episode examines white supremacy and racism in one of its most systemic forms as Ruby uses her new body to get the job she’d always wanted at the downtown department store. Ruby not only gets the job she has repeatedly been turned down for because she was black, but in this new body, she even becomes a manager. In “The Thing on the Doorstep,” the story’s execution is more about Edward Pickman Derby, a male student of the dark arts, being rendered powerless as his wife switches minds with him because “a man’s mind is superior” for certain rituals. Witnessing magic and seeing how small they really are in the universe drives Edward mad in the end; Edward came to magic for the power but can’t deal with the changes that come with it. But Ruby comes into her own through her experience: she faces something bigger than herself—in this case, magic—and to not be limited by the society around her, she uses it. Ruby’s story eventually shows us that she doesn’t need the false self to be at her most powerful. Ruby’s true power comes in learning how to stand firmly in her own form, whereas Edward cannot stand powerfully in his own form alone, and it is up to others to use that form where he is unable. What Lovecraft Country shows us is the power of personal growth and coming to know oneself, regardless of the bigotry of others. The show grows beyond its source material through its characters finding inner strength and growth when facing the cosmic unknown. In juxtaposition, Lovecraft’s writing remains centered on a fear of the growing unknown, haunted by his politics and evident in his treatment of identity.

Lovecraft Country also sees inspiration in the work of Jules Verne (1828–1905). Jules Verne, along with writers like H.G. Wells, established what we know today as the genre of science fiction in the late 1800s. The Verne novel that inspires the characters to dig deeper into identity in Lovecraft Country is Journey to the Center of the Earth (1864). Journey to the Center of the Earth is the story of a professor and his nephew coming across ancient runic instructions that tell of a pathway to our planet’s core. The journey takes them across Europe, down a volcano, and into a pocket prehistoric world lost to time. We see Journey to the Center of the Earth as inspiration in the show not only with the uncle/nephew mentorship between George and Atticus Freeman, played by Courtney B. Vance and Jonathan Majors, but in the deciphering of runes, this time of a magical origin. And just as in Verne’s book, the characters spend time researching, logging hours in the library, and learning by “reading a damn book” as stated by Atticus’s father, Montrose Freeman, played by Michael Kenneth Williams. In Episode Four, “A History of Violence,” we see the characters taking that research and exploring underground tunnels beneath a museum that is full of deathtraps. When the characters go underground, they are free from the confines of the racism living above them and we see them in full adventure hero form. The inspiration of Verne’s work is not something for the characters to overcome, as with Lovecraft’s work, but for them to embrace.

Verne didn’t see himself as a science fiction or speculative fiction writer, but as a “probable” fiction writer. His work would go on to give future generations inspiration and hope for future discoveries and adventures. For example, his 1865 novel From the Earth to the Moon told the story of an inventor that shot a projectile off from Florida, not unlike the first manned Apollo rocket launched in 1968. Through Verne, we identify with the wonder of our world becoming smaller, travel becoming quicker, and a celebration of scientific achievements that unite us all. Probable fiction is a precursor to the hope and change we look towards in the future, such as what can be found in the diverse works of Afrofuturism.

Season one of Lovecraft Country uses dime magazine time travel stories of the 1950s to best illustrate characters finding their identity and in doing so, takes the show beyond its pulp inspirations into the empowerment of Afrofuturism. The theories and practices behind Afrofuturism become the secret weapon for the Freeman family in Lovecraft Country. The main character of Atticus Freeman goes from reading and dreaming of pulp heroes in the show’s opening to becoming the mysterious stranger memorialized in family stories, and through time travel, rescuing younger versions of his father and uncle during the Tulsa race massacre of 1921. Episode Seven, “I Am”, takes the concept of travel and identity one giant leap forward. In it, the character of Hippolyta, played by Aunjanue Ellis, time travels to become whomever she wants to be in history, with her first stop being 1920s Paris to meet Josephine Baker. She travels to many time periods and lives many personas, but eventually learns to live as herself, gaining the courage to confront the obstacles of her own time: only after traveling through time and coming into her own can she tell her husband, George Freeman, how he has always seen her as a wife and not an equal partner. Hippolyta faces vast cosmic uncertainty but is never driven to fear by the unknown—in fact, she finds her identity and name through it. The final image of the series Lovecraft Country is symbolic of this Afrofuturisistic triumph over adversity, crafted with the future technology from Hippolyta’s time travels, standing victoriously over pinned and defeated Lovecraftian wizardry.

For an onramp to read more Afrofuturism and build your library of diverse voices in the speculative fiction genre, I would say How Long ‘til Black Future Month by N. K. Jemisin is as good a place on the map to start as any. I also mention N.K. Jemisin because of how her record-breaking, three-time Hugo Award-winning Broken Earth series represents a time in the Hugo Award voting when a right-wing group called “Sad Puppies” was campaigning against diversity in the genre. The argument Sad Puppies gave for their campaign was that older guard writers who had “put their dues in” were being sidestepped by newer writers. Some of the writers they mentioned as examples more deserving of a Hugo were writers who tended to write more in the vein of classic pulp fiction writers, a genre historically represented by white men. I will make my point on the whole matter by quoting James Baldwin from a letter to his nephew, “My Dungeon Shook:”

“ . . . the danger, in the minds of most white Americans, is the loss of their identity. Try to imagine how you would feel if you woke up one morning to find the sun shining and all the stars aflame . . . Any upheaval in the universe is terrifying because it so profoundly attacks one’s sense of own reality.”

James Baldwin traveled and lived in Paris for a time to find himself before coming back to the United States and inspiring the Civil Rights Movement with his writing. Like Verne’s work in probable fiction and Baldwin’s work in identity-centered narratives, Afrofuturism is a beacon and a road sign letting individual readers know that there is room for everyone when they arrive home from their travels the long way around and that it is possible to envision a better future. Lovecraft Country shows us throughout the season how there is power in owning our personal journeys and finding hope in books, especially those that embolden us to pave new roads for ourselves and those after us. Books that move the reader forward can inspire those who put the first footprint on the moon or a foot forward when marching for civil rights. And, as we’ve seen, they can even provide a pathway toward self-discovery. Just as a bookstore can be a chain catering to consistency or an independently designed warm welcome, allowing any and all travelers to find a place on the shelves. Come inside with me and cast away the unknown, or—to borrow from Lovecraft Country’s Montrose Freeman—“Read a damn book.”

Published May 1, 2021 by Sagging Meniscus Press

Let me preface this review by giving a major trigger warning. Hashtag Good Guy with a Gun, while fiction, references cults, sexual assault, gun violence, racism, and trauma. If you aren’t in the headspace to dive deeper into any of these topics, I don’t suggest reading the book.

As someone who’s worked in publishing for years, I’m rarely surprised by books. Enter Hashtag Good Guy with a Gun. Jeff Chon has created a truly unique text. I’m blown away by how much research must have gone into creating this depth of character, this chaotic plotline, and at times, my visceral reactions. The book begins with rich references to a Korean folktale and returns to the story periodically to underline key themes. Chon seamlessly integrates a variety of literary references, character backstories, and public events into an impressive mosaic of a story. And somehow it all works.

The structure of the book is confusing and messy—but that’s how trauma is, isn’t it? Nothing is clear-cut; nothing makes sense. Chon makes readers feel like we’re constantly searching for answers. The shifting time period was disorienting at first but ended up providing a comprehensive overview of the story. It felt like the flashbacks one might associate with childhood trauma. Jeff Chon balances intense, life-altering events with nitty-gritty details of mundane life (Scott checking his email, taking a shower, scrolling on Instagram, etc.) in a non-cumbersome way, making the story more rich and real. I especially appreciate how these everyday actions end up being more meaningful than they first appear, such as when we see Scott missing Lisa by watching him scroll through old photos on her Instagram.

Chon keeps readers hooked by slowly revealing elements of character backstories. These elements come together as a mosaic of identity and experience. Despite the extreme circumstances under which we meet the characters, Jeff Chon portrays them sympathetically. Though their actions deeply disturb and disgust me, I sort of understand why they end up where they do, thanks to the author’s attention and thoughtfulness.

Readers see the way Scott Bonneville’s trauma has shaped him. We see the relationships throughout his life, his bizarre fascination with violence incited by Catcher in the Rye, and how he relates to his surroundings. And we learn all of this about him while knowing that he will later go into a Pizza Galley and kill someone. We already know the conspiracy theory that led him there and how things didn’t go according to plan. This hindsight allows readers to process Scott’s past in a unique way that lets us think critically about how these experiences shape the man he grows up to be. This story is complex for readers to unpack because we have to sit with what didn’t happen, what did happen, and all the surrounding unanswered questions.

Part of what made the book so startling is the idea that coincidences, non-coincidences, and a combination of timing, conspiracy theories, and personal trauma all lead up to a moment that can change everything. The fact that Scott only becomes the #GoodGuyWithAGun because he got there second—not because he had good intentions—is chilling. He’s the “good guy” because the man he kills was about to kill someone else. This media attention shows how other people can misinterpret a situation and in doing so they project a false “truth” that will be remembered. It’s chilling because it has, does, and will happen.

The whole book makes readers feel complicit in the hurt, bigotry, and violence that happen throughout the story—and it all feels so familiar as we reflect on recent history. The fact that Scott’s actions could have led to tragedy but instead he ends up a hero is both shocking and incredibly believable given recent political events. Jeff Chon shows how someone’s beliefs, their past experiences, and societal interpretation can all blend together in a perfect storm to stir up hatred, passion, and societal upheaval. I don’t know what to think about this book. I know it’s confusing. I know it has deeply unsettled me. But I also know it’s one of the most well-thought-out books I’ve read in a long time. I can see the artistry that went into creating this non-linear, complicated story. Though the content and plot aren’t really my cup of tea as a reader, I can recognize skill when I see it. I’m deeply impressed by how Chon put this book together.

In my sophomore year high-school yearbook, there is an inscription “keep watching DuckTales.” The person who wrote it sat behind me in geometry class. He had long hair, wore heavy metal band T-shirts and sleeveless jean jackets. He would watch the show, too, when looking after his younger brother and respected that I found my own connection to it. As a quiet kid who dealt with depression, sophomore year was a time when I came out of my shell. Back then, geek culture was not on the front lines like it is today. Watching shows like the original DuckTales—and vocally defending it—helped me find my identity in high school. I loved the fact that the original DuckTales celebrated animation in all its forms and history. Leaning harder into animation, I thought I was finding myself at the time. In actuality, I was painting a protective view of the world and avoiding true self-discovery. Later, I would find out that this was a manic stage of what would be officially diagnosed as bipolar disorder. Given my recent work in therapy, viewing the reboot in 2017 on the Disney XD channel through a new lens thrilled me. This new perspective does not mean that I watch animation to wall off reality but instead allows me to appreciate how the DuckTales reboot goes into longer season-spanning storylines, facilitating deeper dives into the characters of Huey, Dewey, and Louie and the mentorship of Uncle Scrooge McDuck. Looking at the season-long storyline approach of the DuckTales reboot—as well as what I personally took away from each Duck triplet regarding my own mental health awareness—I found a lot to be said on individual adversity and how it relates to developing self-identity.

The Disney comic book work of Carl Barks is the basis for both DuckTales cartoons, original and reboot. Barks created the character of Scrooge McDuck, the settings, and many of Scrooge’s allies and adversaries that both cartoon adaptations pull from. In the cartoon, Scrooge McDuck goes on globe-hopping adventures with Donald Duck and his nephews Huey, Dewey, and Louie. The only way to tell the difference between the Duck nephews, since they are triplets in the original series, was that they wore matching red, blue, and green hats and shirts. And it’s that feeling of indistinguishability that I wish to focus on.

At the time I was watching the original DuckTales, I was living with undiagnosed bipolar disorder. The feeling of being animated/manic freed me in high school from feeling powerless and indistinguishable in the hallways. I did not know who I was, and since I wasn’t in therapy at the time, this mindset helped bandage my mental health. At this age, the stigma around reaching out for mental health therapy kept me from accessing the help I needed. Before my need for help outgrew that mindset, I found myself without a map for a few years, wondering who I was and my place in the world—which brings me back to the reboot of DuckTales.

The first difference we see and hear in the reboot is that the Duck nephews all have individual actors voicing them, while in the original cartoon, they were all voiced by Russi Taylor (who voices young Donald Duck in the reboot). By having different actors as the Duck nephews in the reboot, DuckTales makes an effort to distinguish and develop the individuality of Huey, Dewey, and Louie through its three seasons. The reboot brings characters, not caricatures, to the Duck family. Even Donald Duck’s famous temper is not a defining personality trait in the reboot, but through a number of season-long arcing storylines, we see that Donald (voiced by Tony Anselmo in both DuckTales series) struggles with anger management and learn more about why he does so in the episode “What Ever Happened to Donald Duck?!” From the very first episode, the Duck nephews recharge a set-in-his-ways Uncle Scrooge (voiced by David Tennant) back to the great adventurer he once was when he built his fortune. In turn, Uncle Scrooge guides them in their individual skills and interests to build them into a family of adventurers. 

Going in naming order, Huey (voiced by Danny Pudi) at first glance seems the most by the book of the Duck nephews in the new series. That book is the Junior Woodchuck Guidebook, which Carl Barks created in the comics as a version of the Boy Scout Handbook. Huey is extremely left-brained and logical, happiest when the mysteries found on adventures have an explanation, and finds that the Junior Woodchuck Guidebook is chock-full of answers for every situation. Huey falls at the feet of the scientist characters who work for Uncle Scrooge McDuck. Some of these characters are not the best people, and the show has a running theme of logic and science trying to control the chaos of emotion and magic of adventure.

Logic trying to control chaos is something I can appreciate. In fact, my O.C.D. (obsessive-compulsive disorder) flaring up—when I need to repeatedly check and double-check everything—is a warning sign of my bipolar disorder. For me, this “by the book” trial and error affirmation process moves past thinking logically. It feels like writing out all the computer code in your head before leaving the house but mistyping something so the program doesn’t process. I know what needs to happen next but am stuck on a previous step in the process for minutes to half an hour. After hospitalization, trusted family and friends helped me slowly get back to living a grounded life through exposure therapy, which allowed me to move past a loop of reassuring behaviors and to start living in the real world.

In the episode “Astro B.O.Y.D.!”, fellow Junior Woodchuck B.O.Y.D. tests Huey’s ability to not live by logic. After finding out B.O.Y.D. is a robot, Huey helps him tap into the personal experiences he has had in order to prevent B.O.Y.D. from being turned into a weapon by his former creator. B.O.Y.D. succeeds because of his time with Huey, taking in and appreciating the small personal moments. In turn, Huey’s character growth throughout the seasons is about seeing people as they are and not the science they are working on. Over time, Huey learns to not be ruled by logic but to use it as a guide for living off-book.

Dewey (voiced by Ben Schwartz), on the other hand, shoots from the right side of the brain. He is the type who uses his name as a verb as he tries accomplishing things, or “Dew-ing it.” Where Huey filters everything through facts, wild possibilities blind Dewey’s efforts regardless of his training. Dewey’s positivity is a mask at times. In the episode “Last Christmas!” Dewey goes back in time to meet their mother, Della Duck (voiced by Paget Brewster). At the beginning of the episode, we see that Dewey is hit the hardest by the loss of their mother as he feels he is the only one who still misses her.

 I will admit that I have a sweet spot for Dewey. Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and get the manic version of myself grounded earlier. Then, I center myself and realize it’s all part of my ongoing process. Every step leads to a place of getting help. The manic high schooler was once the depressed middle schooler, and the pendulum swung wildly as my teenage brain was developing into an adult with an undiagnosed bipolar disorder. Eventually, I stopped trying to chase the bliss of manic swings and found out why I act the way I do. The important thing was that I got help and didn’t stop looking for answers.

Della Duck provides guardrail guidance for Dewey’s can-do-anything attitude, helping him not only focus on one interest but to learn focus at all. As much as I enjoy Dewey’s talk show Dewey Dew-Night and his yo-yo tricks, those moments help pay off in his character arc when he finds a true talent in airplane piloting, as seen in the episode “The Lost Cargo of Kit Cloudkicker!” The manic mindset is put to the side and Dewey succeeds by focusing on flying steady. He learns he doesn’t have to be a jack-of-all-trades to stand out in a famous family and lands his place while honoring his mother, who is also a pilot. Dewey’s character journey is one I personally appreciate since I started making true progress in therapy when I stopped thinking about what I missed or what I could have been and instead learned to steady myself and focus on where I presently landed.

Louie Duck (voiced by Bobby Moynihan) is different from his two brothers. Unlike Huey, he has a calming center—to the point of being lazy at times—and unlike Dewey, he has one focus—making money. The show makes a point of saying his gift is “seeing all the angles.” I appreciate Louie for having something that centers him. For myself, it has been developing my awareness of my mental health. In the beginning stages of therapy, I learned to see the angles of the triangular relationship between behavior, thoughts, and feelings. Learning the difference between these three reactions helped set the groundwork for my ongoing work in therapy. It also helped me gain foresight about the outside influences that others, who weren’t part of my recovery team, may have on me.

Out of the three nephews, Scrooge McDuck takes Louie the closest under his wing. Uncle Scrooge, being the “richest duck in the world,” earned his fortune from nothing. In fact, the reboot carries over the Carl Barks mythos of Scrooge’s number one dime—the first dime he actually earned through hard work. From there, Scrooge McDuck built a fortune fair and square by “being tougher than the toughies, and smarter than the smarties!” Scrooge sees Louie is on a path to make money without breaking a sweat, even if it isn’t through the most honest of means. Because of this, Uncle Scrooge sees sparks in Louie like his longtime adversary Goldie O’Gill (voiced by Allison Janney), so he sits Louie down to hear about an old adventure in the episode “The Outlaw Scrooge McDuck!” Instead, Louie seeks out Goldie O’Gill to learn from her. The two pull a con together in “Happy Birthday, Doofus Drake!”, trying to steal all the spoiled rich kid’s gold and jewel filled party gift bags for his guests. Louie’s actions cause Doofus Drake (voiced by John Gemberling) to return in one of the final episodes of the series in “The Life and Crimes of Scrooge McDuck!” In this episode, Doofus Drake recruits all of Uncle Scrooge’s rivals to weigh against the Hall of Two Truths from Egyptian mythology, on the charge that Scrooge McDuck turned them all evil. Viewing moments of Uncle Scrooge’s past, Louie sees his own path before him defending Scrooge McDuck against his rivals in cosmic karmic court. With Uncle Scrooge’s eternal fate in the literal balance, Louie learns that he can’t talk his way out of some problems and learns to apologize to the one person at the court that he personally wronged, Doofus Drake.

As someone who works daily on their own mental health awareness, I can appreciate that the DuckTales reboot shows characters finding their individuality. So, I have developed the anagram Q.U.A.C.K. as part of my mental health toolbelt. Donald works on his anger management to stay “Quiet” in his thoughts. Huey learns that there is a difference between “Understanding” meaning the noun (comprehension) as compared to the adjective (sympathetically aware). Dewey finds “Attention” and focus to obtain his goals. Louie learns “Caring” and empathy, because if he spends a life watching his back, he’ll miss what’s waiting up ahead. And Uncle Scrooge realizes he needs to rely on his “Kin” McDuck and not turn his back on family.

Through all the hurricanes of adventures, the central theme of the DuckTales reboot is the individual members of this family. That is the biggest difference between the original and the reboot. In my twenties, as I was eating in the cafeteria at the corporate job, I ran into the old DuckTales fan from geometry class. He gave me his card, and I called him that weekend to see if he wanted to grab a drink and catch up. We didn’t hang out in high school, so he declined. I guess I was looking for a magic relic at the time, like in the episodes from the original DuckTales, a touchstone to help me find myself in my new corporate setting. But there is no instant change, as I am still learning through my years of therapy, and progress didn’t happen until I stopped waiting for magic, science, or a rich uncle to fix my problems. So, I appreciate the growth individual characters have in the DuckTales reboot. With season-long storylines, the reboot can focus on the Duck family, and we have time to watch them grow, where the original just focused on their adventures each episode. Each season ends with a finale in which the Duck family goes against what has been building against them all season, which makes for a more successful conclusion. The Ducks succeed because they flock together and put their individual selves and growth in motion as a solid family unit. As the show says perfectly “family is the greatest adventure of all,” and it’s been my experience that the most adventurous family experiences are full of birds of a different feather.

Horrid opens with the titular poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Did you build a story off of that poem, or did it come to you later as inspiration?

You Must Not Miss, the book I wrote previous to Horrid, opens with a poem called “One for Sorrow.” It’s another creepy nursery rhyme and I used it to format the sections of the book, much the same as in Horrid. When I came across the Longfellow poem, I had this memory of my mom reciting the poem to me. She’d also told me a very gross true story of a classmate she’d had that used to eat her own hair . . . The plot of Horrid developed quickly after that!

Mystery novels play an important role in the story. Jane talks about Agatha Christie in particular. What are some novels and authors who influenced you within the genre? What did you pull from to create Horrid?

One day early on in the brainstorming process for Horrid, I visited my local library bookstore and found a giant pile of old Agatha Christie novels. When I saw them, it just clicked for me that Jane was a big mystery fan. I read a bunch of Christie novels, then branched out to Josephine Tey, Raymond Chandler, Stephen King, and the queen of all haunted house books—The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson. All of these books sort of smashed together to create the character of Jane (and the character of North Manor), and one of the main plot points of the book is lovingly lifted from one of Christie’s novels, Mrs. McGinty’s Dead.

In Horrid, the house is as much of a character as Jane and Ruth. How did you create a place like North Manor? How did it take shape throughout the writing process?

I grew up in New England and New England is just chock-full of creepy old houses. I’ve been a fan of the haunted house trope for a long time because there’s always something more happening beneath the surface. The Haunting of Hill House is the perfect example of this, and Shirley Jackson really makes you question everything by the end of the book. I wanted North Manor and Jane’s journey to be like that. I think the most interesting kinds of endings are the endings that aren’t handed to you. You have to work together, you and the book, to uncover the truth there. I wanted North Manor to feel real but also impossible, stable but shifting and uncertain. Of course, the house itself is only part of the equation—there’s also Jane, who is constantly shifting and uncertain and very much an unreliable narrator. In that respect, she has a lot in common with North Manor, and the two of them really helped shape and inform each other.

I’m pulling a quote from Barry Curtis’s Dark Places: The Haunted House in Film: “All explorations of the haunted house involve a kind of archeology, the uncovering of an occluded narrative that constitutes the exorcism in much the way that Freud or Marx understood the substructure as providing the key to understanding and redemption.” In order to understand the house, the characters have to understand the past—the two are wrapped up in each other. Which came first when you were designing the story? The events that took place on the grounds and inside North Manor, or North Manor itself? How did the two influence each other?

I had a vision of North Manor really early on in the brainstorming process. I’m not an artist at all, so I’m sure I’d draw a truly terrible rendering of it, but I can picture it perfectly in my head. Without giving too much away, the longer version of the Longfellow poem was very inspiring to the backstory of what happened in that house—so I knew both things almost simultaneously, both what the house looked like and what terrible things had taken place there.

Horrid deals both with generational trauma and hereditary mental illness, and a great deal of it centers around the family home. The past repeats in important ways throughout the story, but there aren’t any direct flashbacks. How did you balance a story set in the present with the weight of the past its characters are influenced by?

I love a good flashback, but I think there’s something inherently creepy about not getting too much information. Memory is unreliable and becomes even more unreliable when mental illness and generational trauma are involved, and I wanted to lean into that unreliability. I don’t necessarily think anyone’s version of the past is quite what happened. But their motivations are a direct result of that same past—so how are we to trust anyone’s motivations?

Roses, hair, and books are all repeating motifs within the story that the characters have great personal attachment to (and, at various times, find themselves compelled to devour). How did you choose these symbols? Tell us about the thought process there.

A large portion of Horrid deals with a psychological disorder known as pica, which causes people to ingest things that are non-nutritive. A lot of these things aren’t even necessarily bad for you—I remember an episode of “My Strange Addiction” in which a woman ate chalk. She visited her doctor, who basically said “Yeah, it’s not really harmful, so while I don’t recommend it, it could be worse.” The same goes for paper and rose petals—you’re not supposed to eat them, but neither is poisonous and most likely will not harm a person who ingests them. Jane eats books because I loved the idea of wanting to consume one’s favorite story. I like subverting the role of roses, too. Most people think they’re beautiful and sweet, but I actually don’t like them much, and think it’s more interesting if the very smell of them becomes sinister . . .

Stories are notorious for changing and evolving as they go. What was the biggest change from the first draft to the final? Is there anything that would particularly surprise your readers?

I remember the ending changed a bit and became much more fleshed out and developed—I think I have a tendency to rush when I see the finish line in sight! The beginning of the book also changed; originally there was a lot of backstory there that really slowed down getting to North Manor and jumping into the creepiness of that setting. Toward the end of the editing process, I wrote scenes down on note cards and spread them around the floor. This was a great way to see the entire arc of the story and what scenes just didn’t need to be there. I’m definitely an over-writer and tend to cut a lot of out my books as I edit them.

Writing teenagers takes a different skill set compared to writing adults. How did Jane’s voice influence the shape or telling of the story? Was it harder to get into that mindset?

I feel very connected to my teenage self. It’s an easy place for me to access, I think because it holds a lot of my own trauma and experience with mental illness and mental health. Jane and I have a lot in common, but I think our biggest difference is Jane’s anger response—whereas I tended (and tend!) more toward sadness, Jane is quick to anger, and that really causes her to make some interesting decisions. Especially toward the end of the book . . .

There seems to be a tendency in YA fiction at the moment to focus on the “right” kind of representation when it comes to talking about mental illness. This can have the side effect of pushing more complicated characters to the side and eliminating the messier storylines. Jane is a complicated protagonist. Beyond her family history, she deals with anger and paranoia that negatively influence her life. How did you approach this as a writer?

The way I handle this is always to talk about things I have direct experience with, at least in some capacity. If I’m being true to my own representation, there are bound to be people out there who relate to that. Jane has pica and a compulsion to eat paper, which is something I wanted to write about because as a child I would also eat small pieces of paper. While I do not have pica and no longer experience that impulse, it definitely existed for me in my past, or I wouldn’t have chosen to write about it.

After having successfully accomplished so much, what are your goals? What direction do you see your writing taking now, in terms of both craft and publication? What projects are you currently working on?

My next book, Summer Reading, comes out in 2022, so right now I’m deep in edits for that! It’s a much different story than Horrid and I think that’s how I constantly try and grow as a writer—to explore different stories, not stick to one genre, and challenge myself with different tropes or ideas or characters I haven’t explored before. I’d love to one day venture to middle grade novels and explore different mediums for storytelling—graphic novels, TV shows, movies. My main goal is to never stop writing, never become complacent in my craft, and always look for the next challenge. And to keep writing and exploring my own truth.