Rania M.M. Watts: What does the Godfather have to do with killing a cockroach? Check out page 29....

When I think of the human condition, two ugly emotions strike a chord with my intimate self: jealousy and anger. For years, I'd been writing poetry as a cathartic release of my true emotions, never did I feel more at peace than when I became the architect of—

THE COCKROACH BLUEPRINT

The origin story of this book came at a time when someone close to me was constantly in crisis which, in turn, desperately affected her quality of life. Without giving away any details, no one ever likes to see their friends suffer. I thought about my years as a Registered Social Service Worker when I was designing & implementing programs; how innovation played a serious role for my clients to release their emotions in a safe environment. One space, free of judgment, to simply write what is felt. Sometimes, we do get insane ideas in our minds, especially when we are excessively hurt. To be able to purge the inner vile, to me, is a better methodology than going out and physically hurting someone. Actions inside of themselves are permanent—writing can simultaneously be permanent and temporary depending on what is done with that parchment after words are scribed on it. Instead of being a strong advocate for violence, I suggested another way.

In 1839, an English author by the name of Edward Bulwer-Lytton wrote Richelieu; or Conspiracy, a play which houses one of my favorite quotes ever “the pen is mightier than the sword”. Well, to be frank, I took this to heart. I knew I needed to find a way to afford my friend a safe surrounding to be able to express herself fully without any fear. I realize that some of the methodologies listed in the Cockroach Blueprint may be ugly or disturbing; so is life! I mean yes, there is an infinite amount of beauty to behold, nevertheless if you are expecting flowery prose than this is the wrong book for you. As dirty or repulsive this insect is, so is the work you will read. Visceral, unrelenting, and even humorous!

The reason that I chose the cockroach over any other insect is that throughout human history this bug has always had the reputation of never being able to die. There's a joke that the only thing that will survive the apocalypse are cockroaches. Also, it is so versatile, it can squeeze through tiny spaces as if its anatomy is made of jelly. One wouldn’t feel too much remorse after haphazardly squishing it underfoot, no? My original intent for the Cockroach Blueprint is that it be utilized as a journal of sorts, for the reader to feel free to not only read but, also write in their own methodologies as to how they would kill their own intimate cockroaches – therein lies the reason why the anatomy of the book finds itself with an abundance of parchment to draw or write in.

With each draft, I wrote I found my frustration and anxiety kept brimming, just as the roach taunted me, scurrying around my feet with malicious intent. This is the reason why I chose to use my introduction from Cockroach Blueprint for this article—I want to ensure that I properly convey to you the true origin story of the Cockroach Blueprint. When I started writing the Cockroach Blueprint, individuals thought that I was crazy! I heard repeatedly “who would purchase a book about killing cockroaches?”, “why would someone want to read something by you?”, “are individuals going to understand the call for peace that this offers via writing down a simple methodology?”, “killing a cockroach on paper instead of doing something to cause self-harm or worse to someone else?” All these questions lined my brain with anxiety so profound it started to effect how I ate or slept. All I knew is that I genuinely needed to be true to myself. Regardless of what anyone said or did. This was my baby and my choice to release it into an unforgiving world. So, I bravely allowed KUBOA to publish it. About a month before I finished Cockroach Blueprint I approached KUBOA with a query about something completely unrelated. Turns out, their editor was interested in my writing after all—and the rest is history. I was quite fortunate to have this wonderful nonprofit press publish this book, yet I was so frightened that it would not sell or, even worse, become terminated early (no pun intended). My inner critic, Tabitha, justified the complete idiot of my inner creative, even though it was just in my head. The original blueprint was set, and with this, I turned outward in the form of an anthology; others needed to get in on the splattering mess!

Once Cockroach Blueprint was published I wanted more, it wasn't just enough for me to write the book. I wanted to create an anthology with multiple writers each taking up the task of writing their own methodologies. We rallied a hundred and one different poets to contribute each a 2-3 sentence methodology, and let me tell you—it wasn't the easiest thing! Promises were made and broken. Some were studious and punctual, some barely crossed the finish line, but all that matters is the manuscript is complete. As the curator, I also began to learn intrinsic facts about the submitters, where they come from, and what makes them tick. Many of them opened to me as to how this was such a tremendous idea and how it's going to such an important global cause.

Now, the important premise, the reason for all this. In another life, I used to be a Social Service Worker. As someone who was top of their counseling class, it really saddened me to have to leave the field. I could not deal with the heartache anymore, too much death and sorrow. I worked specifically with human affected by HIV/AIDS and some of them struggled with various levels of mental illness. Some with Bipolar, others with Schizophrenia and of course many suffered from anxiety on various levels. It's not a pretty life to be faced with on a daily level. It's quite tragic how many individuals constantly have to battle their illnesses. That's why it was important to organize this anthology, to acknowledge that there are human beings on this earth who are so riddled with sadness who fight each day to make it better than the next. So, in closing, I do hope my advocacy towards this anthology serves as a conduit to help your fellow human. Notice the signs. Enact upon them. Save a life worth living...unless it’s a cockroach.

I want to take a moment to thank: Josh Dale, Medina Gacevic, Scott Laudati, Thom Young, Ottis Blades, Christopher Andrews, Micheal Edwards, Rose Lupin for all their continued support of this initiative.

*A portion of this essay was taken from Cockroach Blueprint, By Rania MM Watts, Published by KUBOA press.

Rania M.M. Watts is a Palestinian-Canadian poet with an eventful past and humble future. Her latest publications are through KUBOA, 48th Street Press, and through her blog, Cement Covered Ink Quills, where she has interviewed and showcased creatives of all disciplines. She is a stay-at-home mother and knows how to top a pizza (seriously, she works as a call-in dispatcher for a pizza shop).

Kailey Tedesco: How David Lynch has Inspired my Writing, for Better and for Worse

            I’ve never been an advocate for killing off darlings. I’m actually just the opposite—the kind of writer that keeps alters to those who are of deep inspiration and mood boards for those passing, yet burning dalliances between myself and my interest in another artist.

            When I entered my first, official MFA workshop in 2014, I came in with a little packet of poems all inspired by Lynch’s Blue Velvet. I was convinced I was living in a Lumberton of my own, having just found out the house around the corner from me once harbored a grisly homicide, and very shortly thereafter discovering one of my students, an eighth grader, conspired and murdered her own mother. I was both terrified by the way small towns deliberately force a veil of superficiality around themselves— “things are fine / this is my honor student / we have a chocolate lab…”

            Yet, I was fascinated by the way the veils lift to reveal grotesqueness of what’s beneath them. I had way too much aplomb, I can now admit, in presenting my tiny packet of poems which a professor of mine later deemed the “ear in the field” collection. But I stuck with them.

            I read Spinoza and I read The Secret Diary of Laura Palmer and I thought: I will make this collection work—this will be my book. I forced it to the point where, when “strange” things stopped happening in Fogelsville, PA, I no longer had any creative fodder. I made things up, I got more surreal. I borrowed the bearded lady in the radiator from Eraserhead. Week after week in workshop, I’d get “neutral” comments. Nothing that would say the poem was necessarily good or bad or interesting or hateful. Just “I like this line… change that em dash.. New title?” —my poems weren’t getting the engaging and thorough discussions of my peers, and it was because, I soon realized, there wasn’t much to discuss. They were Lynchian… OK—but I realized then that’s the easy part. Anyone can create something Lynchian. The true Lynchian task, I now understood, was to actually create.

            So I took a break from Lynch in terms of writing (of course, I was still re-watching the Twin Peaks finale at least once a week…). I found myself breaking down the labyrinth I had built in my subconscious that only allowed for one kind of poem to fit through. I learned, gratefully, how to freely associate and build worlds in my poems. I experimented, thought about my beliefs and what it means to believe in the first place, and I stopped forcing my poems to live in a known reality—even the Lynchian realities that thrive upon the unknown.

            The most important thing I discovered was: any existing universe, even within the universe of art, is a reality as soon as it is shared. The key to creation, in my own opinion, is to deny these realities altogether—put yourself into nothing at all, and then build.

            I learned this from Lynch after years of analyzing his work and reading his interviews. I never killed him off in my mind, I just decided I needed to stop creating a world that already exists beautifully. That doesn’t mean that I’m not still inspired, though.

            This past weekend, while watching the return of Twin Peaks, I turned to my partner in tears. A figure appeared in a glass box and suddenly a couple was entirely destroyed. It was the kind of meta-scene that reminds us that we’re doing the same as that couple—watching a glass box, hoping, but not expecting something will happen that will change the way we believe, and then, suddenly, we are destroyed by what we see—we need to start again from scratch.

            I did have an emotional response from the young man and the wicked step-sister from A Cinderella Story sitting in a torrent of their own blood, but this isn’t why I teared up.

            I told my partner that it hurt so much to watch something so perfect, almost like it was planned over these 25 years. It hurt more to know, as an artist, that I’ll never be Lynch. I just won’t…

            But if my inspirations were saints, Lynch would be the Saint of all Belief.

            By recognizing I won’t ever be Lynch or maybe even truly Lynchian, in the primary connotations of the word, I am able to enjoy both myself and my inspirations more. Another writing primer that I’ve learned from Lynch is that belief is something you enter into willingly, and that belief will, without doubt dictate your reality.

            If you believe bones are made of the fossils of ghosts, so they will be. If you believe a purgatory exists in red velvet, just beneath the forest, where the duplicity of your very self resides—so it has already been for a very long time.

            So, to be Lynchian, I try to wax poetic about everything: coffee, gorgeous cherry pie, the town I live in. But I do it according to my own belief in my ability to alter realities through words—to be both the strange and the wonderful.

Kailey Tedesco’s books, She Used to be on a Milk Carton (April Gloaming Publications) and These Ghosts of Mine, Siamese (Dancing Girl Press) are both forthcoming. She is the editor-in-chief of Rag Queen Periodical and a performing member of the NYC Poetry Brothel. Her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She received her MFA in poetry from Arcadia University in 2016. You can find her work in Luna Luna Magazine, Hello Giggles, UltraCulture, Maudlin House, and more. For more information, please visit www.kaileytedesco.com 

Terry Barr: I Think the Kids Are in Trouble

        When I was eighteen, I discovered that a girl I loved had been raped just before I started seeing her again. We had dated previously back in high school, but ours didn’t last long enough then to qualify as an authentic high school romance. When she called during my freshman year at college, I felt hopeful again. Hopeful of love and true romance, and all the things that were supposed to happen to boys and girls who did “good,” who showed a proper respect for each other and their world.

            Her mother had abandoned her and her sister when they were grade- schoolers. The mother didn’t leave town, just moved in with a different man, leaving her father to raise these two girls alone.

            I didn’t discover that this man wasn’t her biological father until our most recent Facebook message.

            “He was such a sweet man,” she told me not too long ago. “He adopted me and always treated me like his own. But I was so troubled, and he never knew.”

It’s strange now to think of the man I saw on those nights, the one who either wished us well as we headed out to a movie, or sat on the sofa with us during Alabama football games on TV. I believed then that he was looking after the child of his loins. Like him, there was just so much I didn’t know.

            I did, however, know her rapist. I used to play little league baseball with him. He had red hair and freckles and had lost his own father to some heart-related illness. His mother sat alone in the stands for every game, cheering her boy on. He seemed mild enough to me, and before I knew what he did, I’d see him at parties. Once we shared a plate of raw oysters. Many times we shared a joint. I never really liked him; he was just one of the guys I knew back then. One of “our crowd.”

            He was older than both the girl and me. He was a football player: compact, burly, and usually very quiet. Home from college, he asked her out one early fall weekend and took her to a party. He lured her to a back bedroom and asked if she knew what a Yankee Dime was. She didn’t. Then he showed her.

She had been a virgin.

            After she called me when I was in college, we dated again for a few weeks. At that time, I didn’t know about her rape. I found out from a mutual friend who swore me to secrecy.

“She thought she was pregnant,” the friend told me.

I never found out if that was true or not, or if it was, what happened next—what she did about it. But it killed her anyway, and it killed us. Though she initiated our renewal, she gave up on us after a few weeks. All I ever wanted back then was to kiss her, to love her. Sure, I would have wanted more had we kept dating, but in the “back then” of us, unlike her, I was still a virgin.

            Occasionally over the next few years, this girl I maybe loved would contact me, and we’d talk. Finally, I let her know that I was in a serious relationship.

            “Oh, I see.”

            We didn’t speak again for nearly forty years, and when we did, she finally told me what had happened. She wasn’t concerned that I already knew. In the meantime, she had married, though she didn’t love her husband romantically. They had her only child together but eventually divorced, and she began seeing another guy—someone, ironically, she first met not long after we broke up.

            It turned out that this new guy was a sociopath. He hurt her physically and could have killed her. She blamed herself, as she always had. None of her horrors, I’m sure, would have happened if this guy we all knew had not offered her his Yankee Dime. If he had not seen her as a thing but rather as a person. As a troubled, beautiful girl.

            I thought of this story again when I first heard The National’s song, “Conversation 16”:

“Now we'll leave the silver city 'cause all the silver girls
Gave us black dreams
Leave the silver city cause all the silver girls
Everything means everything”.

            I listened to these lyrics, and others: the “Hollywood summer,” where “We belong in a movie, Try[ing] to hold it together 'til our friends are gone.”

            I know it sounds strange, maybe even “Hollywood,” but the song gave me a curious kind of courage. I know I’m distorting The National’s intent, changing it to suit my needs, but it helped me.

            I know, too, that this young woman held it together as best she could. After thinking about the song and letting it cleanse me, I wrote about us, elsewhere, and asked her permission to publish.

            “Yes, I’d like you to tell this story,” she said, “but please don’t use his name.”

            I had considered exposing him because whenever I told friends what he had done, the responses I received ranged from incredulity (“He wouldn’t have done that!”) to defensiveness (“But he was such a good guy!”), to blame (“What did she do?” And, “Don’t you know that guys are more and more becoming the victims of vengeful women?”).

            “What if your son was accused wrongly,” a friend asked.

            “I don’t know, I have daughters,” I said.

I keep hearing the chorus of “Conversation 16”:

“I was afraid, I'd eat your brains
Cause I'm evil.”

So, in the end, I didn’t use his name. Like the song suggests, I took the only road available, the most direct route I could.

I called him “Evil.”

            Maybe I would have told this story without hearing The National’s haunting chords. I know that the rapist is married and has children. Little girls. I know this because as I was writing the story for the first time, he sent me a Facebook friend request. Though I turned him down, I looked at his profile. I saw the same supposedly innocent, “good-guy face.” Still, I wish I could play him a song I love. I feel reasonably sure, though, he wouldn’t get it, even though we both know that indeed, “everything” does mean “everything.”

Terry Barr is the author of the essay collection, Don’t Date Baptists and Other Warnings from My Alabama Mother, published in its second edition by Third Lung Press. His work has appeared in Red Fez, 3288 Review, EMRYS Journal, Vol 1 Brooklyn, Left Hooks, Hippocampus, The Bitter Southerner, and Wraparound South. He lives in Greenville, SC, with his family.

Daniel Chang: Instapoet: My experience with Instagram poetry

Before I begin, I want to make it clear that I am not trying to make any claim as to what is "real" poetry and what it is not. I believe definitions for such things can be fluid. I mean, I used to think It G Ma  (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DPC9erC5WqU) was garbage, now I think that shit bangs. Orca ninjas, do indeed, go rambo. (Give it about thirty listens before you judge me, it starts to grow on you. Though if you can’t get past the first few seconds…I can understand that too.)

Two years ago, I had no idea people were sharing poetry on Instagram. It never even crossed my mind until I heard of Rupi Kaur. After browsing the various poetry related hashtags, I decided it could be a great way to get exposure as well as get comfortable sharing my poetry. To be completely honest here, I read a lot of what was being posted and thought I could easily get the 10k+ followings that some of the other people were enjoying. I was so cute, and by cute I mean, naive.

I joined and became what some people call an “instapoet.” At its core, this word just describes someone that shares poetry on Instagram. However, it is not without negative connotations. There is a pervading thought that they are unskilled and primarily write only for ‘likes’. They do not submit to literary journals or seek any form of constructive criticism. Of course, these are generalizations and do not apply to everyone, but enough people fit this mold that many writers with aspirations outside of the social media platform do not care for the label—myself included. 

By far the biggest gripe against instapoets is the poetry itself. Many are simple one-liners and contrived stanzas, something that you may think is genius when under the influence of drugs, or a vague remembrance of a love interest that you have lost. The “she poems" (not my term) that propelled many to ‘instant fame’ fall under this category. 

“She is the night sky and also the morning sun.” 

“She is fire and whiskey.” 

“She is the receding tide, but also the sand.” 

These are lines I cooked up right now, with little thought to diction or theme, yet this is what floods Instagram. I want to be clear that the issue here is not the length of the poems, but the lack of creativity and refinement. If you think about how the typical person uses Instagram, it’s a noncommittal experience. Users scroll through and double tap photos during their commute or in between other tasks, spending a few seconds at most on each post. Short, easily digestible poetry fits seamlessly into this user experience. Poems that are longer or require the reader to sit with it for a while do not. If popularity or an increased following is your aim, a short simple poem will serve you much better than prosaic or literary poetry. That’s just the status quo. People have just adapted to the media platform.

While the widespread popularity of very simple poetry is concerning to some, personally my biggest concern with this community on Instagram is the bubble. A space where anyone with a smartphone can get comfortable and have their egos inflated, with very little encouragement to push their boundaries and improve as writers. This is most telling when writers publish a book and get offended by anything that is not a glowing review. If you are looking to become the best writer possible, shouldn’t you be thankful for criticism? I just don’t understand. The publishing aspect is also treated very casually. There is always a fear of a vanity publisher on the prowl, eager to take your money with lackluster results. Many accomplished poets go years before publishing their debut book. Some people on Instagram crank them out faster than Dyson vacuums (and the both suck).

But it’s not all bad. There are some great things happening. For starters, it’s an easy way to meet other poets and share your work. Just a simple comment or DM on another writer’s post can be the beginning of something magical. Okay, maybe not that serious, but it’s a great way to network with like-minded individuals. I’ve met some amazing writers on Instagram and watching them do their thing encourages me to keep trekking along when I’m feeling unmotivated. Most importantly, they help keep me accountable for my own goals. For example, as delayed as my forthcoming chapbook is, I don’t think it would be as far along if it weren’t for these friends asking me how it is progressing or telling me they’re looking forward to reading it.

Some of these friends may have never touched poetry if it weren’t for Instagram, which leads me to my second point. Instagram has made poetry so much more accessible to people that may not have sought it out otherwise. If nothing else, this platform has increased our audience and encouraged people to try writing poetry themselves. Sure, not all of it is amazing, but I have never seen such energy around poetry before and it’s been great seeing all these newer writers give it a shot. When I started writing poetry about 14 years ago, I used to be the weird one huddled in a corner while blasting Linkin Park. Now I have a community of people to be weird with me.

But in the end, it doesn’t even matter. Sorry I couldn’t resist. (If you don’t get the reference, reevaluate your life.) In the end, Instagram is a great place for poetry if you keep a couple things in mind:

1.      Don’t let it get to your head. Your follower count, likes, etc. is not a good metric for how skilled of a writer you are. 

2.      Constructive criticism and people willing to give it are hard to find on Instagram. Value these people. Seriously. Hug their knees and never let go. 

3.      Don’t feel like you must change what you post in order to become more popular, but understand that the platform does lend itself better to posts that can be digested in a few seconds tops. (I’m still posting full poems regardless.)

4.      Don’t worry about what others are doing, just do you. Who cares if someone has 40k followers while you have 50. Getting bitter about it is wasted energy. Focus on your craft instead. Who knows, you may already be the more skilled writer.

Until next time, this is me, backing away slowly to Kendrick Lamar’s HUMBLE. Sit down. Be Humble.

Daniel “dchang” Chang is a New York City based creative. When he is not writing, he is wandering the city with his camera or eating aesthetically pleasing food (it doesn’t have to taste good, just should look good for the camera.) You can find him on social media @this.is.dchang

Andrea Passwater: A Collection of Hammer Strikes

I am a blacksmith.

That is to say: I place metal into a furnace that is over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit. I wait for that metal to turn bright yellow, so it will spread under my hammer like wet clay. To retrieve the metal from the forge, I reach in with short tongs—often getting close enough to the heat that my forearm hairs remain permanently singed down to a mere two millimeters long. I assume you’ve done the following before: put a lighter to a frayed end of nylon rope, and watched the individual strands melt in the heat before they harden as a rough circle of plastic. Running your hand down my forearm, I’ve sometimes thought, must feel like that. Like stroking a series of hardened, prickly rope fibers.

Once, I spent hours manually threading pipe. You know what I’m talking about, the fat metal pipe that juts out the backs of old brick buildings into dirty city alleyways. It drains water or sewage or something-or-other from the restaurant kitchen. The pipes always have those threads on them, like screws, so you could attach a cap on the end if you needed to, or maybe join two pipes together. It’s tempting to believe that those threads got put there by a machine. I can assure you, they almost certainly did not. I can assure you there was a person, with an impeccably sharp tool, who carved those threads into the pipe with sheer human willpower.

When I did it, it took all of my bodyweight. I would position the threader onto the pipe, place the lever at a 50 degree angle up into the air, and hang on it until my feet touched the floor. I pulled that lever the rest of the way with all the muscles in my upper arms and back. Over the course of four hours, I threaded maybe thirty pipes. It was one of the most exhausting activities I have ever done.

But before I did that, I had never noticed pipes in the world before. I had seen them without seeing them.

Let me explain. I have a poem that goes:

the blacksmith extracts the iron from the ore/the blacksmith understands the lineage of the smiths who came before her; she knows them back to the days of wrought iron, the days before steel

Once you start working with metal, you see it everywhere. You encounter the pipes sticking out of the wall, and you know—a person did that. You know, if you needed to, you could do that too, with your own, calloused hands.

the blacksmith uses her body as a lever/the blacksmith bashes the body of metal/the blacksmith does not bend the metal in order to break

When your bathroom towel rack breaks, you have a powerful realization—that you don’t need to buy a new one. You could make one. You could make anything you wanted. Scissors. Knives. Shelves. You could make everything that you needed to survive.

the blacksmith changes form/the blacksmith will have whatever form she desires from the metal

The next morning, you walk past the metal gates in front of every San Francisco doorway and you immediately recognize how many of them were done by hand. You see those objects not for what purpose they serve, but rather for the collection of individual hammer strikes that made them. They begin to represent entire generations of people who have shared the same work you do. You know how much practice it took; you know which techniques they used, whether it was difficult or easy.

Walking down the street becomes so moving, that you feel cold inside when you stumble upon an object that was obviously mass-produced. You feel so cold that you don’t want to touch it. You know that it has no humanity. That’s what art is for me: something fundamentally human. It is the act of a person pouring their body into an expression, and leaving behind the evidence for you to uncover. You may not know the metalworkers whose pieces you encounter in the world, but you can see parts of their lives in the objects they made.

the blacksmith grinds the metal; it deposits a grey-black particulate into her shoes which she will choose to carry instead of clean

“But Andrea, if you believe art isn’t about words, then why are you a writer?” you ask.

It’s a fair question. The thing is, no matter what you decide to make out of metal, you start with a hunk, and you hit it, again and again, until a form starts to emerge. In the same way, I use words to shape. I write about moments and minutiae more so than plots, draw out time like falling tree sap. I strive to overwhelm the senses and explain nothing. Just put you there, and let you find your own way.

the blacksmith never hits without probable cause/the blacksmith hits without probable cause

Perhaps it’s informative that one of my favorite works of literature is An Attempt At Exhausting a Place in Paris, by Georges Perec. The entire book is a series of observations that Perec made while sitting at the same fountain in Paris for three days in a row. He writes in exhaustive detail which busses come by, what the people are wearing, notes each cigarette he saw a passerby smoke, and by the time you read to page fifteen you have been charmed into a trance from the comings and goings of daily life. The smallest and most insignificant occurrences become starkly emotional.

For instance, he says, “a little girl goes by wearing a long red hat with a pom-pom (I already saw her yesterday, but yesterday there were two of them).” At that, such a small thing, I was overcome with a sense of foreboding. Where did the other girl go? Did she leave school later than her friend? Is she sick? Is she alive?

the blacksmith—

I guess what I’m really trying to say is, I’ve heard that art is about Truth, which makes me think it’s supposed to be about Answers. But maybe I am a bad artist, because I don’t have any answers to give. What I do have are disparate pieces of the human experience. I’ve been collecting them. I have them, right here, in my hands, some already fading. And while I could never begin to understand them all, or attempt to tell you what the lives of others should mean to you, I can hand over every shred of evidence I have gathered, bit by bit.

Inside, maybe you will find your own answers.

the blacksmith—bashes

Andrea Passwater is a writer and experimental narrative artist based in San Francisco. Her work leans into exploring a wide range of perspectives on single moments in time. She is a member of the Action Format art collective and If I Told Napoleon Writers. Her latest project is Moments in Index (MiN), for which she has filled thousands of index cards with the items present around people in their moment of loss. She really should have a website, but she doesn’t, so instead you can follow her on Instagram (@andreapasswater).

T.J. McGowan: Balancing the Seesaw

I read, but not nearly as much as I should or anywhere even close to making a dent in the list of required classics. So, I’m not going to sit here and pretend like I do, or that reading is what drove me to love writing. However you’d like to digest that information, that is up to you.

I wanted to make movies. I didn’t play Cowboys and Indians as a kid. I made up movie plots in my head and performed them alone. I would string them along for days and days at a time. I’d act out every character. I’d envision different surroundings in the confines of my room and do a good job to avoid whatever turmoil might be unfolding just outside my door on any given night.

As kids, we look for ways to channel the mess we feel inside into anything else. Most of us still do the same as adults. I wanted my life to stay wrapped up in that escape that comes with seeing a great film for the first time. I was fascinated at how a film could manipulate feelings into believing the viewing experience was real. I thought of film directors as mad scientists, concocting potions to command our emotions.

My passion for filmmaking began when I saw Goodfellas for the first time. I needed to know how these things were made. I watched that movie until the VHS tape popped, and I learned very quickly that everything started with a script. But the mechanics of scriptwriting are boring and not why I’m writing this. I also grew up on Abbot & Costello, Bowery Boys, and Laurel & Hardy tapes. My mom would create them by recording straight from the TV. The beginnings and ends of the movies have white noise and messed up tracking marks. I still have them. They’re a line in my fingerprints. They still cure me on bad days.

I’ve attempted many times to map out my obsession with writing and what inspires me to write. I always find new ingredients to who I am, each time I look back at myself. I’ve always been able to laugh and make others laugh even when there was a war going on inside of me. Since a very young age, I’ve always treasured the feeling that comes with laughter and its sound. It’s the purest form of self-medication other than crying and the greatest gift you can give other people. I was always ‘on’ around the people I cared about, always trying to make someone laugh but never in crowds. My extroverted traits came in small doses and to few at a time. Whenever I could, I would do or say or listen or watch whatever gave me a good belly laugh. Laughter is morphine.

I think comedy and pain sit on a seesaw in my heart. One gives me the ability to analyze the other. It’s a balance I try to maintain. Way before I wanted to learn about writing a screenplay, or making a movie, I was writing poetry; poetry before I even knew what it all meant. I would scribble in little black books, stored in hidden places around whichever room I was living in (can of worms for another day). I’d funnel the darkness out of me with Bic pens and paper, and then heal myself with “Who’s on First?” and “Well that’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into”. As I got older and my love for comedy of all kinds grew, I saw that the funny people I came to love and admire were some of the most tragic.

I’d have never looked to turn my pain into something creative without a love for comedy and humor. Humor is a universal language we all use to show ourselves that what doesn’t kill us, can be laughed at, and until death comes calling, we might as well laugh at the grim reaper too. Humor has always been a loyal companion to me. Always there, walking with me down midnight roads while I’m full of midnight thoughts. Doesn’t it feel so fucking good when you can look back at a moment that crippled you, and find a way to laugh at it? You can then really dissect your sadness and poke around your own history for ways to turn old horrors into new beginnings. And even if you don’t remove all of the weight, you’re able to face it head on and know you’re one step closer to defeating it. I’d wear humor like a coat of armor and explore myself in my journals. I’d pour everything raging inside of me onto the page. It wasn’t until high school that I came across “Wilderness” by Jim Morrison that I even thought to myself, “Maybe this is poetry I’m writing?”

I never shared any of it to anyone until I was about twenty-seven years old. To put that in perspective, I’m currently thirty-two. One day after a devastating breakup, I kept thinking about how unfair it is that we are conditioned to accept laughter, even when it is derived from pain, in society, and to swallow and stomach our heartaches alone. As if feeling bad was a taboo and crying must be done in dark rooms and closed books. I let a friend read them. Then another. And another. I wanted to let people know that who I am was more than what they saw. Most of me was willing to bet they’ve felt the same way at some point, too. And they all had, or did, or currently do, or will one day.

Opening up that way changes you. You realize you’re still alive even if someone doesn’t get what it is you’re trying to say. That, too, can be laughed at. Creativity is a tool that can turn struggle to strength. As much as I adored characters in movies, and to pen my own in scripts and stories, my story has enriched my life, even though I know it will never rid me of all my worries and neurosis. However, my legacy will reveal itself to whoever is willing to read. Some pain will always exist, but, to me, so will, “March of the Wooden Soldiers” and Robin Williams.

T.J. McGowan lives in the Bronx, NY. He currently creates make-believe as an Associate Producer at an NYC-based production company. When he’s not at the office or on set, he’s either watching a new film or writing. T.J. self-published, and released his first full-length collection of poetry, We Are Not One Thing, this past September. It can be purchased on Amazon at the link below, and you can catch some of his other ramblings on IG, handle @theeverydaybite.

http://tinyurl.com/m4xv3kf

Arianna Cardinale: Searching for the Answers

Why is the sky blue? Why is sand hot? Why do worms wiggle? Those were the kinds of questions I thought about growing up. I was a very curious child who wanted to know the answers to so many questions about life around me. I could always find the trivial answers to those kinds of question in schoolbooks, on the television programs, talking to those around me, and eventually learning through life experiences. As I became older, the questions became introspective and significant to me. What was my purpose? Who was I? What did I live for? These were the questions I wanted to find the answers to. Hoping to shed some light, I set out on a mental journey to examine my life. Let’s start with my childhood.

Growing up, I had many friends. They came and went the first seven years of my life, as most young childhood friendships do. When I transferred to public school in the third grade, I lost touch with everyone I spoke to at the parochial school. Yet, there was a friend who remained a constant in my life: my twin sister. Though we were separated in our classes and with friends, we were each other’s best friends at home, inseparable from the first day we were brought onto this earth. It's a wonderful thing to have someone in your life who cares for you as much as you care for them just because. Yet, it is difficult to understand yourself when you have someone whom you are constantly comparing yourself to. The problem was that friends and strangers had gotten into the habit of asking us to compare ourselves to each other when we spoke to them. Who was smarter? Who was the good twin? Who was the bad twin? Did we love each other? These questions forced the both of us to simultaneously label and measure out our worth. My sister was more accepting of this ‘challenge’ while I shied away. How could I put into words our relationship without sounding cruel, or more importantly, making our relationship appear less significant than it is? In retrospect, these exercises helped us both understand that we were two, unique individuals and though similar, were different in many ways.

My sister and I did many activities together during our early childhood. We were on a basketball team in the second grade. We enjoyed it but I learned I had no competitive spirit, even against my own teammates. We stayed for one season and then we were gone. In the fourth grade, swimming. The beach was our second home. Our father drove us directly to Riis Park after school when there was the warm weather because he wanted us to swim in the ocean as he did during his childhood in Sicily. Swimming on the swim team was great, my sister and I the fastest ones on our team, but our parents were worried we would get sick from leaving our hair wet after practice and were forced to stop after the last day of the season. We both regretted leaving.

That same year, I decided to join the school band. I played the trumpet. I took great pride in performing with my peers and loved practicing at home, treasuring my mouthpiece and blowing into it anytime I could to warm up my lips for performance. My sister and I joined the computer club after school. We would spend our afternoons playing RPG games with our classmates until eventually, the computer club converted into the newspaper. One of my closest friends and I came up with the idea of a school newspaper during the fifth grade. We pitched our idea to the principal and we could work alongside our library & computer teachers to publish the school’s inaugural newspaper.

It was in middle school that our lives seemed to change more and more. We slowly began doing things at different levels. However, one change we both were subject to was returning to the parochial school. We felt out of place then. We were there but there wasn’t us. Our experiences and outlook clashed with those of our classmates. Our escape would become writing. My sister would publish online daily, writing for upwards of four hours a day while I spent time with neighborhood friends. I started writing stories to share with my classmates and then transitioned to publishing online too. I liked writing. My sister liked writing more. It continued that way into the high school with my sister developing an internet following while I focused on writing fan fiction. And then things changed again.

Art. I had been a volunteer at a community-based arts program along with my sister. We would volunteer there every Friday to work with young kids with arts and crafts. During the summer of our freshman year of high school, we were volunteer counselors for the church day camp instructing arts and crafts. Teaching the kids arts and crafts were something I took great joy in and so I went back another summer to volunteer again. When the school year started up again, I joined the watercolor club. I loved art and sought to take any art class I could; some were for collegiate credit. Something about making art fascinated me and slowly became a major figure in my life. The intervals enacted again when my sister joined the watercolor club with me, as well as the photography club. Though we adored reading and writing literature, drawing and painting became my passion and photography became hers.

Before I entered college three years ago, I had a health scare that forced my family and me to face the potential reality that I could have been very sick. I told myself I could not deny myself the happiness of living and chose to embrace life in art instead. Whether that was with writing or making art, I took any opportunity I could to do what I loved most, treating every day as if it was my last. Now, as an adult, I have the privilege of teaching children how to write and create art of their own every day in a classroom of my own.

I am still learning about life and I am still searching for the answers to those questions. Yet, I know now that through art and writing, I am one step closer to knowing.

Born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, Arianna Cardinale has been surrounded by and exposed to some of the greatest artists of her time. She is a practicing artist currently working towards her Bachelors of Arts and Sciences in Child Study with a concentration in English. She plans to become an early childhood educator. She loves sharing her love of painting and writing with her students and hopes they will be inspired to make art of their own in the future. Some of the biggest influences on her work include nature, emotions, her family, and her students. Arianna’s work can be found in Instagram @thehotkpopfan

Kendall Bell: How The Written Word Wrote My Life

Writing has been an escape for me, for as long as I can remember. I started writing short stories when I was nine. Once, I had to write something for a project, then read it in front of the class. This was also quite terrifying. However, it seemed to be well received and gave me the impression that this was something that I might not entirely suck at, so I kept going. I began writing stories in my early twenties, but never actually pursued publication for any. I don’t know if any were redeemable, but at least I was writing…until it just stopped. Usually, that reason was the pursuit of a girl. I wasn’t very focused back then.

I didn’t take poetry seriously until I reached my twenties, anyway, but there were moments in my teens when I’d try to write poems, and many were just awful. One of the biggest catalysts of my writing revival was music. I was a fan of a band called The Golden Palominos, which had a revolving lineup of guest musicians. Anton Fier, the drummer, and founder went entirely rogue on their last album, “Dead Inside”, by bringing in a poet named Nicole Blackman to write and perform the spoken word pieces. These poems would be the centerpiece of their musical landscapes. This album was a revelation to me. I was entirely taken in by Blackman’s words and delivery. This was a kind of poetry I’d never heard before. I can thank Nicole for giving me the proper inspiration to rededicate my life to poetry. She and I would strike up an online friendship, which led to a meeting at a poetry reading she was hosting at The Knitting Factory (the featured poet was Mike Doughty).

Since then, I have committed myself to writing, specifical poetry. I’ve put out twenty chapbooks, done many, many readings in NJ, NYC, and PA. I’ve had some of my work read on the radio at an independent, alternative radio station. Poets House, a fantastic library of poetry in Battery Park (NYC) tweeted a line from my poem “Blair” one day, which blew my mind, considering that they tweet the words of people like Claudia Rankine, Ted Kooser, Kay Ryan and people that are far more successful than I. Still, I feel like my best work and my best accomplishments have yet to happen. I feel like there are avenues that I’ve left untouched, places that could help me ascend to another level.

There will always be the self-doubt, the brutal critiquing of my work. As rejection comes, so will the feeling that I’m not good enough, not important enough. I think this is a common feeling among writers, whether or not they care to admit it. As a publisher, I gain no pleasure from rejecting manuscripts sent to me at Maverick Duck Press or poetry submissions at Chantarelle’s Notebook (an online poetry zine I edit). I’ve come to realize that sometimes, it’s just a matter or preference, and not a reflection of the writing itself. Subjectivity, in short. I have a clear vision of the poetry I want to publish at MDP, and I feel like the work I’ve put out since its inception in 2005 speaks for itself. I feel like there needs to be a fostering of community and support in the poetry world. There is too much cronyism, too much back scratching, too much of people (male editors and poets, specifically) taking advantage of other poets for their own gain. There needs to be greater avenues for those who aren’t being heard.

At this point in my life, I’ve come to the realization that writing is the one thing that fuels me, the reason I live and breathe. Any mediocre, unimportant job I work for eight hours a day will never define me like writing does. Music and poetry define who I am, and those things influence my creativity. I have two chapbooks that are heavily influenced by music (“Into The Undertow” and “Siberia”). Artists like Kristin Hersh, Lights, Jucifer, Emma Ruth Rundle, Gemma Hayes, Lucius and Chvrches (to name some) have directly influenced my work. Poets like Sierra DeMulder, Megan Falley, Sarah Kay, Nicole Blackman and Olivia Gatwood continually inspire me to be better, to be bolder.  

The need for connection remains the base of my intention. I will always write. I will always release these words from my head, but the chance of being able to connect with another human being with my words is the ultimate form of gratification for me. I never want to do another reading if what I read doesn’t make an impression on the people listening. Or if people walk away afterward not feeling anything. I hate to use the word “artist” for myself, but writers are artists, and are protective of their creations, and want (at least I believe so) to share their work as much as possible. Ultimately, I hope that something I’ve written will move and inspire someone the way music and poetry inspire me. If one person decides to create something off my passions, I would consider my writing to be successful.

Kendall Bell lives in New Jersey, is an avid poet, and editor of Maverick Duck Press and Chantarelle’s Notebook. You can find more about his press and his own personal works: @kashleybell & kendallabell.com or his publishing endeavors:  maverickduckpress.com and chantarellesnotebook.com

Kate Foley: My Life is a Redemption Poem

Two hours ago, I texted my ex-boyfriend, hoping for some clarity, asking him what the point of all of this is. All of this being sobriety. I get in this space sometimes—a space that tries to convince me I could somehow be a successful drug addict. He texted me back with one word: poetry.

My relationship with writing goes back further than my relationship with drugs. My mother would say it started when I placed regionally at Reading Rainbow in 2002. My high school therapist might claim it began when one of my emo poems, written on a college-ruled piece of paper and folded into a triangle. It circulated into the guidance office. I personally think it really took off in the months that followed quitting heroin.

Summer 2014, I traded my soul for a stamp bag. And an eight ball. And a vile of liquid LSD. I distinctly recall being eight hits deep on acid, lying sideways on a playground roundabout, wondering what they would say about me at my funeral—how I was beautiful, full of light, had so much potential. It was comforting to think that maybe someday somebody would say nice things about me. When I was using, I wanted to die. I was trying to.

As seasons progressed, my alcohol and drug abuse continued getting more reckless and nasty. I became a violent drunk. Blackouts became a habit. Insufflation became a passion. I was always becoming and never being. Who did I want to be? I couldn’t even answer that because vodka and dope became so entangled in my identity.

My journey of steady substance abuse lasted roughly five years. My head was spinning. I depended on a high to get me through every unwanted feeling. When drugs couldn’t get me through the suicidal thoughts, I found myself Googling directions to the highest suspension bridge in England, where I lived at the time. I waved the white flag. I had enough.

This week, I celebrated two milestones: two and a half years sober off heroin and a year off all other mood and mind altering substances. Honestly, I’ve been having weird feelings about these milestones. For one, I never thought this day would come. I genuinely believed I’d be doing drugs for the rest of my life. Additionally, I still question if recovery is really a fate I can accept.

Which is why I texted my ex-boyfriend two hours ago. I needed an objective third party to remind me that I’m doing the right thing. When he said poetry, I felt the last year unravel in my lap. My resolution for 2016 was to write 365 poems within the year. I wrote 366. I started attending and winning slam competitions. My friend and mentor, Megan Falley, suggested I try to collect 100 rejection letters from literary publications. In that attempt, I sent in manuscript submissions to several presses. I was one of the winners for the Where Are You Press 2016 Chapbook Competition. My first full-length poetry collection, The Bird Hours, will be available in May 2017 which is nothing short of wild.

All of this has been achieved within a year. If the average life expectancy of a human being is 79 years, how much more can I accomplish? Personal growth can be so addictive when you realize there’s no limit. I must remind myself of this: there is no limit with writing. There are always words that need to be put together. There is always something to say.

Poetry has been my savior. It has given me a reason to live again. I feel it everywhere I go: overheard chatter on the train, a letter from a friend who’s in jail, sunrises, sunsets, on the phone with my grandmother, even in church basements. My life has been a redemption poem. Whenever I doubt myself and my ability to stay clean, I throw myself into my keyboard and write. Some days, it is all I can do. Every day I don’t use is a good day. Every day I write is a good day.

I often ask myself, why didn’t poetry save me before I did hard drugs? For the same reason that my friends and family couldn’t. I needed to suffer before I could ever fully understand happiness. Now that I am familiar with both pain and success. I beat myself up for lusting after the past so badly. As I write this column, I am thinking of what somebody might say had I died while using. They might say I went to a better place. A better place is on this planet, away from tampon toots and plastic straws and rolled-up dollar bills. A better place, for me, is on a typewriter or laptop or pen on paper. A better place isn’t an afterlife. A better place is during life. I am truly so blessed to have found a creative outlet and therapeutic tool in this weird world.

At my funeral, hopefully decades from now, my wish is that nobody talks about all my lost potential. I want my loved ones to celebrate how much drive I had, how far I came after being so low, and how I changed my life. Isn’t change the most beautiful thing out there anyways? At my funeral, I hope they will read a poem.

Kate Foley is a slam-winning poet based in New Brunswick, New Jersey. Her work has been featured Yellow Chair Review, Germ Magazine, the Legendary, Words Dance, and more. Her debut poetry collection, The Bird Hours, will be available with Where Are You Press in May 2017. You can find more of her work at facebook.com/katefoleywriting.

Compass North: An International Interview Series-Harpreet Dayal

J: What interview can't start without an introduction?

H: My name is Harpreet Dayal. I was born and raised in London, England but now I most recently reside in Calgary, AB Canada. For as long as I can remember. I have always enjoyed the creative arts in all shapes and forms. I love art, music and of course writing! I have been writing from a very young age but was never one to finish anything I started simply because I didn’t consider my work was ever good enough.

I faced a large societal and cultural change when I relocated from the U.K. to Canada; it really awakened something in me. Fear of moving to a new place and away from everything familiar became a catalyst for internal change. I started writing a story about Wilbert the Worm, which at the time was kind of therapy for me. I pushed myself to complete it but couldn’t have done it without the support of my husband and siblings. In the summer of 2015, I finally completed and edited manuscript of Wilbert and begun sharing some of my work online. I truly feel that if you don’t believe in yourself you shouldn’t expect others to. We take it for granted sometimes, the simple idea of “believing yourself”. It’s not always automatically there. Sometimes one has to develop it, and I definitely “faked” it until I really did believe in myself. As of August 2016, I have published Wilbert the Worm and a short poetry book called ‘Svadhyaya: A Journey of Self Learning’.

Shortly after moving to Calgary, by happenstance, I began reciting my spoken-word poetry at various open-mic events thanks to the encouragement of my friend, Miranda Krogstad, (an established Spoken Word Poet in Calgary). I feel she deserves a mention because she is one of my biggest supporters and has played a big part in my writing/poetry journey in a country that was at one point very alien to me. I am fortunate enough to be invited to speak at charity events and various other events in the city on a regular basis. Even though I wouldn’t classify myself a spoken word artist, it has allowed me to connect with the writing community and share my work.

J: Very interesting. I’m glad to see that you have maintained your moral qualities since your beginnings; tells a lot about your character. Speaking of, we must’ve first met close to two years ago. Given the acquaintance on Instagram, have you met like-minded creatives to brainstorm/collaborate with?

H: I have met many creative people, be it through Instagram or through my local writing community in Calgary. I find the writer friends that I have made through Instagram are always at hand when it comes giving advice or sharing their personal experiences about their writing journey. They are always a source of inspiration! I consider myself lucky to think I can just send someone an email or a message and they are there to help! The same can be said for the local artists. When I am facing struggles as most writers do at some point in their career, they are always there sharing tips and inspirations as well as their own struggles. They are always cheering me on when I reach a milestone.

J: Wonderful. I know what it’s like to have a virtual and physical community that are there for you and vice versa. So, how has the cultural & geological change affect you as a person as well as an artist?

H: I feel the change has most definitely played a big role in my personal growth. I am more outgoing than I once was and more willing to take risks and try new things. As an artist, I feel that the change has helped me embrace the creative side of me more fully. I see more of the world and meet genuine people so I am constantly inspired.

J: Well said. I’m very glad that “Wilbert the Worm” and “Svadhyaya: A Journey of Self Learning” have become a success! Time seems to have done you a service. Care to elaborate on (some of) your writing method?

H: I don’t have a strict writing method as of yet, but I endeavor to get most of my writing done early in the morning before stress of day to day lives takes hold. When I am focused on one idea, I try to catch the wave of momentum and ride it indefinitely.

J: I see. I write at night so hearing that is interesting. I am unfamiliar with Hinduism and the spirituality that stems from it. Does “Svadhyaya” contain both universal and idiosyncratic truths?

H: Svadhyaya means a ‘study of the self’ in Sanskrit. It describes a journey to better understanding oneself. I chose to name the book Svadhyaya because I feel I am learning more about myself through my writing and all the experiences connected to it. My book only extends as far as my own personal journey and growth that stems from realizing one’s potential. Studying the self-recognizing our thought processes is key. Being self-aware at all times is key. Universal in the sense that we are all encouraged to self-reflect, whether it is through journalism or meditation.

J: Very interesting, thank you for that! Next question. How has spoken word evolved your written word? I know it may seem like a bland question, but like myself and countless others, performing your work may change things for the better.

H: Spoken word, to me, is more like a performance. There isn’t rhyming, repetition, annunciation of words. But I personally think the most important thing is to evoke emotion and really get the listeners to imagine and feel the words. I am learning to use language that will really evoke emotions in the listener. If I can do these things, then I can then apply my skills to writing and bring the narrative come alive in the readers’ mind.

J: Nice. I have had a handful of readings ‘under my belt’ but no slams as of now. I enjoy just hearing the cadence and stories/themes being expressed the most. Maybe one day I can sit in to a reading with you! Ok, so what’s your experience with say contemporary fiction? I can imagine narrating poems have sparked something different?

H: I have a bit of an interesting journey. I started with experimenting with prose prior to poetry. I had an idea for a story that may be novella or novel, yet I still don't really know yet. I started writing poetry to really make sense of my feelings and thoughts on a more visceral level. With my spoken word pieces, the themes become coalescent and not sporadic. I prefer poetry over prose for the desire to have more flexibility to articulate my message, as it is not in the confines of a particular structure or format.

J: Awesome. So, to close this out, feel free to leave any links of your work for our readers to view your material. Thanks again for such a wonderful interview!

www.facebook.com/harpreetmdayal

https://www.facebook.com/WilbertTheWorm/

www.instagram.com/harpreet.m.dayal

Anthony Desmond: Writing has its Fangs and I Welcome Every Bite

The arts, since I was a kid, I've always had a passion for creativity; from drawing, to music, to poetry – I've done it. But writing, is the only thing that wouldn't let go,

like a snapping turtle. That kept me up at night, yet, helped me sleep when I'd have a bad day. The only thing that stressed me the fuck out, but also gave me the ability to find beauty in everything like greatest fucking pair of rose colored glasses once I got used to the tent. Writing is like food for me – nourishing, but it can poison you as well. I mean, we all have a poison. An addiction. Something that has the potential to kill us, drive us mad, yet, we constantly return to it. And this happens to be mine. There have been times when I didn't know how to take a step back; I was too wound up in the rejections, the high off praise, the feeling of writing something I was proud of and wondering if I could top it.

I started writing poetry when I was sixteen and felt totally different from everyone except for when I listened to 'The College Dropout' and “Good Life” by Kanye West. After I failed at writing raps and questionable songs I could never quite get on beat to my acoustic guitar (Melodies just aren't my thing, okay?). My first publication was a steady gig that lasted a couple mouths before the magazine shut down at seventeen. Putting yourself out there really tests your passion for writing; plenty of times I cried, wanted to give up and moments where my mother believed in me more than I did. But I've continued to push forward and submitted not only to poetry journals and anthologies, but other kinds of art magazines that always seem to leave poetry out of the mix, while keeping up with the online poets community across a myriad of social media websites.

Google+, Wordpress, Tumblr, Facebook; twitter and other pages solely dedicated to the written word. Blogspot was my first step into a true poetry community; I made great friends who helped me grow with honest feedback, support as well as opening up doors to publications and a review I did for Emmett Wheatfall, featured on the back of his book 'Fragments'. At twenty-one, I became a part of d'Verse Poets – a community where poets were welcome, but those who did not contribute to the growth of their peers by interacting were blocked from the site. We dedicated hours and hours of our time creating prompts, events, interviews and even putting together our own book, 'The d'Verse anthology: Voices of Contemporary World Poetry' in 2013. I've since left with their blessings.

Shortly after, I found instagram, but had no idea that a platform for food pictures and selfies would be a place to share my writing and become friends with so many beautiful, like-minded individuals. It's been quite an interesting experience. I am grateful that there are so many outlets to share my work. And with Instagram, I think it's about balance plus knowing who are as a writer and pulling back a bit because it is a fast media app, short writes work best and that's just a fact. Whoever said great writing can't be short, though? Poetry snobs look down on poems based on length, but some of the best poems in my opinion are short. For example, “Planning the Disappearance of Those Who Have Gone” by Frank Stanford, 

Soon I will make my appearance

But first I must take off my rings

And swords and lay them out all

Along the lupine banks of the forbidden river

In reckoning the days I have

Left on this earth I will use

No fingers

Estate of Frank Stanford © C.D. Wright

Source: The Singing Knives (Lost Road Publishers, 1979)

Epicness, I say! One might argue that if Insta-poets aren't validating the beauty in your brokenness, the light in your chaos or focusing on the moon while she dances with demons, we don't get the recognition we deserve – well, you're right, but only for the most part because there are some people whom I believe are truly great writers with very high numbers. I just wish more would get that kind of shine. Overall, writing has given me the gift of patience and I'm looking forward to continuing my journey on and off social media, taking a dive at publishing my own books and branching into other fields as well.

Anthony Desmond is a twenty-five-year-old Detroit born writer & poet,

now residing in Center Line, Michigan. Desmond's poetry can be found in many magazines

and anthologies, including: What is Inspiration: Thoughts on Life Series Vol. 1,

Railroad Poetry Magazine, The Rusty Nail Magazine; Recipes for Hemlock

(2nd anthology from Boston Poetry Magazine), Signal from Static:

a collection of modern poetry (credited as Anthony Scott) & The d'Verse Anthology:

Voices of Contemporary World Poetry. Find him on Instagram @anthonydesmondpoetry

and Twitter @iamEPanthony.

Compass North, An Int'l Interview Series: Christian Klute

J: What interview can't start without an introduction?

C: Is this a metaphorical question? (laughs) My name is Christian Klute, I´m a traditional artist from Germany, working mostly in oil and charcoal. My main motives are monochrome landscapes and portraits.

J: Not exactly (laughs). It’s very standard among all the interviews, but thanks for your observation! So, your piece, The Raven, is hanging prominently in my room. To me, it seems, well angry, with the rigidity of the line work. Care to explain your mindset when creating this?

C: The Raven was kind of special. I was experimenting with a technique where I used turpentine to ”paint“ with graphite and the outcome was more expressive than my regular drawings at that time. I wanted it to be dynamic, full of movement and…well ravenous (go figure). I can´t really put into words what I felt or wanted to express, which is probably why I´m a visual artist and not a writer (laughs).

J:  I do see that. It is sporadic, frantic, yet subliminal and centered. Next question. How has working for a ‘9-5’ job helped you realize your true calling as an artist?

C: It helped that it went away at one point (laughs). I was always very unhappy with my job, but couldn´t figure out a better alternative, so I kept working. When I finally became unemployed, I saw it as a chance to finally change something. I was thrown into the water and forced to find out what I really wanted to do with my life. Without this pressure, I might have continued to sleepwalk through my life. But apart from that working as a media designer helped to develop a sense for composition and probably various other things related to visual art that I´m not consciously aware of.

J: Now that’s more of a metaphor. Love it. Tell me more about the German fine arts. (This is a broad question, so try to limit to your own personal experiences.)

C: Oh I can´t tell you much about it, I´m not really into the German art scene, or any other scene for that matter. I´m a hermit, living in his cave, focusing on his craft. It´s quite ignorant, I know (laughs).

J: Hey, no issue on that! Paraphrasing Ernest Hemingway, but the more an artist involves other people, his/her art declines. I can see how that theory is working for you since your artwork is stunning. Our in-house artist, Jessica C. Barros, is also a scholar of realism; magical realism to be specific. Care to compare traditional vs. magical?

C: To keep it short I´d say magical realism uses imagination and depicts inner realities so to speak while traditional realism tries to capture the outer reality and filter it through the eyes of the artist.

J: Got it. So, what is monochrome exactly? Have you used other mediums while at the academy?

C: Monochrome is basically a reduction of the color range to only one color, which is only altered by its tonal value. In my case, it´s black, respectively various shades of grey. I find that limiting everything to only this basic form of expression creates a calm, simplistic form of aesthetic with which I really can identify. I worked in color too though, not only at the academy. And of course, I also love colorful images of other artists. But this down to earth black and white approach has something very appealing to me. Despite of that, I won´t preclude to ever work in color again, I try to stay open for new things.

J: A masterful answer! Using the mediums you described in your cover letter, typically pertains to darkness, underground, and even cultist/satanic. Being a fan of metal music (I assume), how does your work channel the energies of other forms of art such as music?

C: Right, I´m into metal since I´m 11 and it had an enormous impact on me. Not only the music, but also the very dominant visuals of this genre of course. I´m sure this shaped my preferences a lot, which might be one reason why my art tends to be on the darker side. I don´t conciously try to fit in this dark art category though, it just comes naturally for me.

It´s funny that you ask this… I´ve been experimenting a lot with the influence of music on the painting process lately. For years I was listening to audiobooks or documentaries while I was painting to give the left side of my brain something to do as well haha. But a while ago I had a very intense experience when I turned on music instead… it was as if I was able to dive into the painting way more than before because of the music. I´m sure it has something to do with how certain areas of the brain work together. Since then, I´m fascinated by experimenting with how different music impacts my painting and how my art can benefit from it. A very interesting topic I think.

J: I agree. I also can listen to metal while doing my writing or just about any chore; just the type of music I’ve always like. Very insightful answer, Christian. Next one. How have commissions fueled your metaphoric ‘fire’ as an artist? Do you think your corporate skills would’ve been augmented if you kept your typical job as a media designer?

C: Actually, I did the portrait commissions out of a lack of fire for my own art. I was in a huge creative block for quite a while, so I figured I could at least hone my skills by drawing whatever subject my customers wanted me to draw. I hoped that through this monotony one day I would be able to break through this block and find the passion for my own projects again.

And no, I don´t think any of what I do today would have happened if I would have kept my regular job as I explained earlier.

J: Glad to hear. Staying sharp keeps a sort of ‘base-level’ creativity that can fluctuate with life. Have you ever done commissions for authors? If so, how was the illustrations and/or cover design process? Do you write at all?

C: I don´t do illustrative commissions anymore, but I remember that I did a cover artwork for a book years ago. You wouldn´t recognize for it´s from me though, the author had very specific ideas which I just implemented. Colorful and a little kitschy, basically the opposite of what I do today.

I actually did write a lot in the past. I did a daily practice of creative writing called ”morning sites“, where you write 3-A4 sites by hand every day with everything that comes to mind without censoring. The purpose of this practice is to weaken the inner censor during any creative process, so you basically train yourself to produce, produce, produce and refine later. It was a tremendous creativity boost for me to learn how to get into this ”production mode“. All in all I did this daily practice for around 2 years, so I technically wrote a book of 2000+ sites with complete incoherent nonsense. (laughs). I still have piles of notepads here which I wrote cover to cover and never read again. I highly recommend this practice for any creative person, independent of his or her discipline by the way.

J: Wow! I may have to adopt that practice for myself. Thank you very much for this interview, highly appreciated. Links to Christian's site and social media handles are listed below. If you are interested in becoming the next Compass North interviewee, please contact us via the Submit tab!

http://www.christianklute.com/

https://www.instagram.com/lllnomadlll/

https://www.facebook.com/christian.klute

https://www.youtube.com/user/christianklute/feed

Compass North, An Int'l Interview Series: Rania M.M. Watts

J: What interview can't start without an introduction?

R: Hello, my name is Rania and I am a Poet! Well, at least that is what I keep telling myself. However; my inner critic named Tabitha may strongly disagree. I’ll let you decide!

J: If I had to name my inner critic, I think Harold would suffice (i.e. Harold Bloom). There seems to be a new lexicon forming in the depths of Instagram poetry. How familiar are you with the terms “glancer/glancership”, “boo”, “she-poem/poet”, and “balling”?

R: When I first joined Instagram, I wasn't familiar with these terms at all. Now, I've a better understanding of the words and their definitions. And thanks to Poet Thom Young, whom I follow, and his satirical writing -- who uses those terms quite frequently. (Shameless plug – hey you, reading this interview: once you are done with this one check out —Thom Young's interview on the CCC blog!)

J: Shameless self-promotion! That covers that. Reading about your ethnic & cultural past is very intriguing to me, as I was born and raised an American. Do you have any memories of Beirut? If not, how did your parents ‘introduce’ these images of civil unrest to you?

R: I was two years-old when we left Beirut so my memories are quite vague—when it comes to that time. However, I can recall a story for all of you. I was about three years-old visiting a petting zoo with my family for the day, a plane flew overhead. Apparently, I was so frightened that I ran to my eldest cousin for comfort. So, there must have been some residual PTSD with regards to perhaps bombs exploding overhead that stayed with me a bit. Which is funny, because the one place I am the most comfortable is up in the air! Whether it be on a ride going up a mountain, a Ferris wheel or on a plane…high altitudes are my best friend and it is in these places I feel most free. After two diasporas, one from Haifa in the 1940's and another from Beirut in the 1970's, my parents were not really in the mood to discuss much of what happened during either war. Upon one rare occasion my mother opened up about the events she experienced firsthand during Black Saturday and how she had to contend with many road closures on her way home as well as the violence that ensued.

Being a Christian Palestinian in Lebanon did not help either.  My brother at the time was thirteen years-old and such individuals were being targeted; Palestinian boys were being taken, strangle-tied to the end of a car bumper and dragged to a painful death by being constantly scraped over the roads. One of many catalyst to my parents leaving Lebanon—not something I would wish on anyone to go through. I remember last year, when Canada took in Syrian refugees—to allow them a fresh start after the atrocities they'd been exposed to whilst they still lived there. I became very emotional when I saw the first plane land on television because I somewhat appreciated how these Syrians must have felt having to leave because of civil unrest. I felt proud to be a Canadian, being an immigrant myself.

J: Wow. I’m speechless. Seeing the contradiction between seeing the plane vs. flying in a plane is intriguing. Then the paranoia your brother had to overcome. Unbelievable. If actions like that occurred here, there would be mass panic and riots. But I digress (and to keep this off the political side, we should move on). You said you’ve been writing since 13. How has Canadian life shaped you as a person? A Writer?

R: Yes, I first started writing poetry at the age of 13 it has been my salvation—the most liberating thing about being a writer is that you can allow your mind to go anywhere regardless of how wonderful or miserable your real life is. An outlet I will always be grateful for. I did not really think about the depth of this question until a few years ago when my husband turned to me and said, “Look at the adversity you've encountered over the course of your life!” From being tossed into an English-speaking classroom only knowing how to speak French, being the only Palestinian in an elementary class, to marrying someone who is of another ethnicity, to having mixed-race children as well as coming from a war-torn country at such a young age…These experiences have shaped me into the person I am today and have shown me that when I write I should always write from a place of my truth. I hope that makes sense—it's the best way for me to explain it.

J: Makes perfect sense! Let’s talk about your social work. What experiences with patients/clients do you remember the most? Does your humanitarian work crossover into your poetry?

R: Yes, being a Social Service Worker bled into my writing. I remember whilst completing my diploma I was constantly writing poetry. Human atrocities enrage me on so many levels—being able to write about it genuinely helps in a way I would have never imagined. About six months before graduation, I no longer wanted to be there anymore; too many of my clients had died on me already and it was painful constantly losing more people I grew to care about. So, whilst this existential dilemma had occurred, a specific philosophy or ideology floated into my funnel (for those of you who remember Thomas the Tank Engine). What I sought most at that time was the definition for the phrase “the verity of humanity,”. What it really means to be human: the experiences which shape us always hold true to one universal question asked over the ages—what does it mean to be human? I think much of the experiences that hold fond memories for me are the interactions I had with my clients. During my second year of school, I was surrounded by such a supportive group of people—who one would think would be breathless at death’s door. But they all fought for their lives; something I will never forget. Not one of them thought it was going to finish them but the science back then wasn't as consistent as it is now. These days there are medications used to prolong the life of those who suffer from HIV/AIDS which is nice to see considering how grim the statistics were when HIV/AIDS first hit the main stream media.

J: To me, it seems that you are someone’s best friend; a last hope possibly. That is a very selfless and noble pursuit to follow as a career path and lifestyle. You mention that you’ve been ‘deemed a freak of nature’. Despite the negative connotation, I (and the audience) would love to hear what this translates into. What sort of artistic and/or literary theory do you value the most?

R: 'Deemed a freak of nature' is who I am and have always been. Do you know the song from Sesame Street: One Of These Things Doesn't Belong? Well I was always the odd one out; the one who went on her own to write poetry in a corner. I mean, how many thirteen-year-olds do you know who want to run away to Europe and type on an aged typewriter while composting in a field of long grass?! Normal thirteen-year-olds don’t think of things like that! Also, then as now, whilst I was young, I was always vocal about what I thought and people don’t like that. Especially if they think that you are simply a snot-nosed brat that doesn't know their head from a hole in the ground. I know, I am different and that scares many people because not everyone is going to take the opportunity to get to know someone before they are negatively judged. I subscribe to one philosophy “les goûts et les couleurs ne se discutent pas” directly translated means, “tastes and colours you do not dispute.” Just because someone likes something that you do not it is ok; acknowledge the difference, especially when it comes to art and writing as much of it is subjective and really should not be argued over. Discussed ad nauseum perhaps but; argued over? Absolutely not.

J: I see how your philosophy incorporates this thought of the ‘different’ into your work. Don’t get me wrong, I romanticize the American renaissance as much as you with the Euro’s; far too much for my liking. If you get a chance to travel southbound, Concord, Amherst, and of course Boston are huge literary hubs that I’ve visited. It solidified my interest in the transcendentalist movement of the early-mid 1800’s. So, next question. You are the editor-in-chief of Crimson Covered Critique and Cement Covered Ink Quills, blogs that promote yourself, as well as other authors and poets with critical reviews and interview spotlights. I thank you humbly for the latest interview of myself, my work, and Thirty West. Care to talk more in detail about this venture?

R: You are more than welcome! It was an absolute pleasure (for those of you reading here is another shameless plug for CCC: the week before last was interview week and Josh's interview was posted on Friday so after you read this one you can go and read his!). I no longer wanted to write for this blog or that—I wanted to focus on my own poetry. Cement Covered Ink Quills has come from that desire and now CCIQ has become my daily poetry challenge page. Currently I am focusing on all things candy-related and, no, I've not yet lost my sweet tooth. Crimson Covered Critique came from a whole other desire all together: to be able to scribe reviews and interviews, again focusing on the literary community with a heavy focus on poetry. I want to get to the heart of indie poetry to write about those poets who constantly inspire with their versification.

J: Nice metaphor, and an even bigger compliment on being at the forefront of the indie poetry scene. Also, Congratulations on being published through (KUBOA). I am duly a fan and friend of Scott Laudati, whom has two publications through them. Without spilling ‘trade secrets’, how did you like the traditional publishing route more or less over self-publishing? Care to tell me (us) what your latest title is about?

R: Thank you so much! Yes, Scott is a brilliant writer one whose work I often refer to when I look for inspiration. The main difference I would say is support. Any writer can put a book together and sell it on Amazon. Create Space has made it quite simple for anyone to do so. However, being at a place like (KUBOA) where they really support and believe in their writers is worth its weight in gold. Everything is managed through them which, in my opinion, clears the writer's mind from any minutia that goes into self-publishing in the first place. It also affords the writer a moment to freely scribe knowing their work is in good hands. My latest book published just a few weeks ago by (KUBOA) is called Cockroach Blueprint. The purpose of this book to is to use one’s emotions instead of physical violence. It basically describes 101 different ways to kill a cockroach. I know most individuals are freaked out by cockroaches but this methodology allows you to focus on killing them instead of hurting someone else or yourself. I originally meant for the book to be a journal of types where others can be free to write their own processes instead of using violence.

J: A very reserved and rational way to divert angst and rage…sign me up for a copy! Being also a self-starting press/blog/collective founder, I truly value your efforts on the preservation of the creative community. If you were to have a mission statement, what would that be?

R: Right now, I have two missions. The first is to write every poem as though it is my last and the second is to help as many indie artists that I can as much with positive reviews of their work. Our world focuses so much on the negative which is why when I select poetry for my blog to review I am indeed quite picky with what I read. I would like to think CCC is a cleanly curated blog with information that appeals to readers, writers and artists alike.

J: Every collective/press has their own subjective preference in vetting authors to find their best fit. I know that feeling, with the broadside and hint fiction completions of2016 and this new chapbook contest (yes, I said it! Guidelines @ www.thirtywest.submittable.com ). Last one. Are you currently open for submissions for blog interviews/critiques? Do you have guidelines and standards?

R: Yes please, work can be submitted via the contact form on the blog or by emailing me directly at crimsoncoveredcritique@gmail.com. Poets can send three pieces at a time with a short bio, social media links and any publishing credits that they wish to include. I look forward to reading what serendipity has in store for me.

J: Excellent! Thank you again for our very short, yet blooming relationship in the creative realms. I wish you the best in your ventures!

Thom Young: Does your writing suck?

Does your writing suck?  I don't know.  I can't say.  Bukowski said 'only the writer is the judge', and I tend to think he's right, however very few of us are going to have his level of success in writing. That may not mean much because 'success' can be measured in many ways to the individual writer. You may just want to keep a journal or express your thoughts on a blog for instance, or maybe you just like interacting with your followers on social media. All those are great but to some writers there's a need to push themselves to see if their abilities with the written word are up to some friendly competition.  I was at the dentist recently and we got to talking about what I did. I hate this question but I decided to play nice, because anyone with a knife in your mouth deserves respect.  

Anyways, when I wasn't slurping and spitting out years of plaque, I mentioned that I’m a writer. I always say this even if I'm not writing for a living, because it sounds interesting, plus people don't really care what you do they are just practicing the polite societal conversation banter. She perked up her ears and mentioned that she was writing a book, and then proceeded to tell me about how it’s a romantic murder mystery; the bastion of originality. I said that sounded interesting then she asked me what I write. I thought about it a minute, then said 'nothing much'. She looked perplexed until I explained that I never know what I am going to write, until I actually sit down and write it. I might have an idea, but it comes together when the words transfer from my brain to the keyboard. She didn't say much after that so with newly polished teeth I paid the bill, and realized her writing career was going nowhere fast. She's doing just fine as a dentist, and the thought of dropping her career and just being a writer probably seems like the worst idea ever.  

I know I did.  In December 2014, I resigned from a secure teaching job with decent pay and great benefits. Why? I wanted to do something I love doing and that obviously is writing. Now, I could honestly say that I am writing for a living. I don’t' recommend you do this, unless you have a significant amount of savings, or you're independently wealthy. If you want to go for it, might as well. You only get one chance, might as well do something you're passionate about. People are afraid to take a chance and go to their grave asking 'what might have been?' I never want to feel that way. I'm on year three of just writing and it’s not easy, but it's been productive. I wrote a novel which did pretty good initially and my poetry books continue to rank high in their categories. I wasn't sure what this column was going to be about when I sat down to write it, but it kind of morphed into something else than I originally thought. I was going to talk about the ignorance of those that bash literary magazines, and give the many reasons that they are indeed very important. For example, after a hearty debate about them on Facebook in which I just played along getting the other writer whipped up in a frenzy over nothing—this is something I always do on social media by the way—I recently talked to an editor of a mid-level literary magazine that has a circulation of two thousand readers, which is pretty good actually. She said that they get 1500 to 2000 submissions from writers for each issue they print.  Now that's just one magazine from out of the thousands, and many are much bigger and get twice as many submissions then the one she publishes. So that means you're most likely going to get rejected and whether you believe it or not, you're competing against other writers.

So does it require talent?  It sure does. I can hear you saying ‘yeah but it's all subjective’, and maybe it is, but to get published out of thousands of submissions is an accomplishment. Did you ever try out for a team and not make the cut? Did you say well it's the coach being subjective? Ask those that made the team if the process was subjective? If you made the team would you say it doesn't matter because it's all subjective? I didn't think so. So if someone criticizes something they know nothing about, they most likely never tried out for the team (i.e. submitting their writing in a competition). I have and I've made the team over a hundred times. Do I want it more? You bet your ass I do. Does your writing suck? I don't care.

Thom Young is a sophomore contributor to The Weekly Degree and a literary artist of Thirty West. Since his first article, he has been nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Award along with the release of the highly anticipated, A Little Black Dress Called Madness Part II, which has arisen to #1 on Amazon. His chapbook, Don't Wish Me Luck, is available through the 30 W. Shop.

Compass North, An Int'l Interview Series: Rose Lupin

J: What interview can’t start without an introduction?

R: My name is Rose. I’m a great many things, so I’ll name just a few of them. First and foremost, I’m a mother. I have three children. Two girls and a boy. My son has Asperger’s, which falls on the autism spectrum, so that makes me a special needs mother on top of just being a regular mom. It’s challenging but I wouldn’t change it for the world. I’m a writer of poetry and a painter of pictures, mostly abstract. My husband is a writer as well, which makes things interesting. I’m also bipolar. I suffer mainly from depression, as I have bipolar type II. I’ve become quite passionate about mental health and my dream is to one day see the end of the stigma that surrounds mental illness. And last of all, I love to play soccer. I’m in a number of leagues throughout the year. It’s a good distraction from the stressors of life.

J: Has anyone said you look like woman’s soccer legend, Abby Wambach?

R: Yes! I’ve heard that from a couple of people and I take it as a compliment since I love soccer so much.

J: I knew it! So, getting back to your first question, how has life been since your diagnosis with bipolar type II? How do the peaks and valleys of your condition affect your writing? Are you subconsciously aware of these changes?

R: I was diagnosed three years ago and it has been a rollercoaster ride, to say the least. Finding the right combination of meds took years, and it’s only just in the past few months that I truly feel I’ve found the right balance. Depression affects my writing in a few ways. I draw inspiration from it, but at the same time, when I’m severely depressed, it holds me back and I can’t get the words out. I was afraid that going on meds would take away my creative edge and in some cases it did, but that’s because they were the wrong meds and I was more of a zombie than a functional human being. Now that I’m on the right combination I find my creativity is pretty steady. I have definitely been writing less depressing pieces in the past few months and I don’t mind it. I know that I will suffer more ups and downs, despite my newfound stability, and I don’t fear it too much, but try to appreciate the diversity it lends my writing. I would say that I’m more than subconsciously aware of these changes. I can see them pretty plainly as they happen.

J: Whoa. Thank you for the clarity. There have been times where depression has affected me, but more on an acute level. I couldn’t imagine being on a pill regiment for it, and for that, I have much respect for your efforts. So, you seem to have much on your plate, both within your ‘self’ and also your family. How do you manage to balance?

R: Two words. Self-care. I take time for myself quite often. Soccer is one of my “me time” activities. I take myself out for coffee when I feel overwhelmed. I pray. I run (physically, not from my problems). I write. Writing is a great way to maintain that balance. I’m not a great communicator so letting my words take shape on paper helps me interpret my own emotions, if that makes sense. I should also add that having a supportive husband is what makes self-care possible. He’s always ready to go the extra mile for me if I need some alone time. I honestly don’t know what I would do without him in my life.

J: Makes perfect sense. There are times where I must write my compounded thoughts down or else I am to be labeled as a babbling idiot (sometimes). Being married to the renowned “Poetry Bandit”, what grandeur, if any, must stem from that title? How does this affect the creative atmosphere within your family? Have you ever collaborated professionally?

R: I’m not sure how it affects us, because for us, it’s our normal. Writing is seen as a normal every day activity in our house, whereas it probably isn’t in most other households. My daughter is a big writer as well. She’s 10 and her big dream right now is to write and illustrate a graphic novel about her life. Jon and I have not collaborated on any professional level, though we have done a few pieces together. We are always saying we need to collaborate more often. But usually, when he’s writing, I’m dealing with the kids and vice versa, so we’re not often being creative simultaneously.

J: Awesome! So the arts are alive in well in House Lupin. You mentioned that you are also into painting, which I am also a fan. What/whom are you art influences? Writing influences?

R: I have favourite artists, but I don’t know if they directly influence my work. I love M.C. Escher but his style is completely different from mine. Another favourite is Picasso. I would venture to say he does influence some of my work. As for my writing, my main influence would have to be Bob Dylan. He has been my favourite artist since I was 12 years old.

J: Nice. I too have my own literary ‘models’ in which I base my prose off of. Poetry is more intellectual and introspective. If you could name a material that could describe you as Rose Lupin, what would that be? This can be anything from fabric, to wood, stone, leafy/natural, etc.

R: Can I pick a tree? A deciduous tree. It’s always changing and it’s affected by the seasons. I’d like to say I’m the same way. The seasons inspire me so much. I write about summer, winter, spring, and fall often.

J: Interesting. That was actually a test that we at Thirty West to vet our prospective literary artists. First time anyone has ever said a ‘source object’ opposed to the object itself. A tree can be harvested of its bark, leaves, branches, and sap, so your reasoning behind that is compelling to me. Anyways, I remember being in dialogue with you about a literary journal in which you submitted to recently. What challenges were placed before you prior to hitting ‘submit’? Have you heard back yet?

R: Everyone has a fear of rejection but I have an extra dose. I had to sit for a few minutes and mentally talk myself into hitting submit. I had to tell myself to expect nothing but rejection from this. I haven’t heard back from them and I will not be surprised when I do and it’s my very first rejection.

J: Completely understandable. For some, it is a life-changing experience. I had my ‘moment of breaking’ twice over in the past few years, so I can totally relate. I hope they do publish you thought! Ok, last one. Where do you see your creative pursuits within the next 3-5 years? In which discipline are you more inclined to study/experiment with?

R: I try not to look too far into the future but I’d say in a few years I can see myself with a book or two published, either through a company or through self-publishing. I’m more focused on my writing right now. My painting is early stages still. I’m a novice and an amateur and I mostly paint what I feel and learn technique through trial and error. Hopefully in a few years I will be able to see myself as more than just a novice. I’m much more confident in my writing abilities, which actually isn’t saying much. I’d love to take classes in both, not just to learn more, but also to boost my confidence in these areas.

J: Great! You never know where your creativity will take you or in which manner it will mature. You best be sure that I am a fan of your work, and of course of you. Thanks again for a wonderful interview! Make sure to follow her on Instagram @roseclu