Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 51, November 2021

TO OUTLAST

by Michele Parker Randall

To Outlast

The last cigarette clutched at my fingers, stretched
my lungs, and drew smoke into me, hide-n-seek-
style. It’s been a while; my doctors tell me not
long enough, not lung enough, and quite frankly,
I am fine if I’ve heard the last at your age
already. But, what lasts? What doesn’t? I don’t
want a last cup of coffee, last glass of Malbec
half-drunk on the banks of sky-lakes, good
argument (no one cares who started it), candied
orange peel dipped in dark chocolate, cathedral
spire on blue photo, ideas for novels I’ll never write
(at my age…), fresh images, late-in-the-day name
the clouds with my sons on the lawn, comfortable
silences between friends. No final fortune to hear
the ring, the gods ch-churning the machine. No more
conversations interrupted by meteor shower.

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Soft the Wrist of Morning

Leafing with life, love is the tallest tree her book-holder-opener shows her place.
on the planet. We listen to the unweaned Our dreams curl like hands and fold
wind, ink notebooks word-full in a rush like blossoms. Lately, our evenings fall,
to remember crinoline slips, stilettos, unopened pinecones. All the tests show

fat lashes, and lip pencils, irons and curlers your health is failing. I order another
and powder. The waitress sings along coffee, butter dry toast, and down the road
with the Bee Gees though she can’t be old a plane pulls out just on a signalman’s flag.
enough to remember—water’s running A hurricane waits not for signals.

hard somewhere—metal sink, plastic bin, A tree breaks the ground. A river cuts
plastic bang on metal plate. The next table deeper. The windows, open like mouths,
over two girls compare class notes, maybe, let in a mewling cry of a saxophone
from University, could be high schoolers. a street over, the song swaying. You tell me

Next to them, a first date (bad news, son, sleep is only fear of awareness of a dream
she has kept her purse on her shoulder, paler than the one we’ve lived. It’s a vision
and you’ve been here ten minutes). Bells with heavy eyelids. A vision I don’t share.
and whistles unwind, but will soon still Dishes clap against each other, diner glass

like marble. You hold a ragged book in rings crystal. The girls lean in whispered
your hand, someone’s poems, traces of conversations, the song changes, though
conversations, hybrid hyacinths blued the Gibbs boys are still carrying the room,
by morning. August, and we don’t care. the worm static, staid in her position;

We cannot pull pathos forward as the world a couple enters and he orders for both
spins along. At the counter, a bookworm, while she texts her approval. The date
chrysalissed, sits upright, hair up tight oscillates sunward; on the back of a chair
in a bun, glasses at half-mast out of respect; now, a purse hangs. (Good news, son.)

About the Author

Michele Parker Randall is the author of Museum of
Everyday Life (Kelsay Books 2015) and A Future Unmappable,
chapbook (Finishing Line Press 2021). Her work can be found
in Nimrod International Journal, Atlanta Review, Bellevue
Literary Review, Tar River Poetry, and elsewhere.

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EQUUS

by Fara Spence

Equus.

We called him Equus, a black horse bucking inside a desert corral because he wouldn’t be broken.
He was still feral, they said. Stubborn as a mule. Later we discovered a group of wild horses coming
down the mountain to drink from the river. It was evening, the sage still warm beneath our hands. A
foal pranced in the shadow of its tribe, unaware of the fine thread between this world and the next.
You drove me to the airport. Dirty rain, the slush of tires. Children walking home from
school. I thought of us naming the orchard trees like the bent tree that leans away from the
others, yet dropped at our feet the fattest honeyed peaches. You once found a baby quail
and snared it between your fingers. Freedom for freedom, you said. Authentic as flesh.
At the departure gate we embrace, then disconnect. Snap. Glancing back (you knew I
would), you shrug into your coat and drift toward the cool air. In that instant, I wanted
it to be a movie where I tear through security and ravage you with a blade to cut the
tethering of all your worlds. But the serrations only fit the bones of your father’s heart, and
as he bends, you too shall bend toward the thieves of mercy as all wild things do.

About the Author
Fara Spence is a journalist with three published books. A
former teacher, she received an award for poetry from
Memorial University. She lives in southern British Columbia
where she teaches Creative writing.

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I WILL BE YOUR
HERO

by April McDermott

I Will Be Your Hero”
Fate gives us all pieces to make a puzzle of our life,
They show us our love, our happiness, our strife.
I had enough pieces for my own work of art,
But I noticed you struggled, as if missing a part.
You couldn’t save yourself from the inner battle you fought,
You instead looked to the outside for the savior you sought.
That was when I fell for you, I fell so fast, so deep,
I would do anything to have your love to hold and to keep.
I will be your hero, it that’s what you need,
I will stand by you, believe in you, I’ll fight and I’ll bleed.
I will protect you from anything that would pose a threat,
With me, you would have no worries, no reason to ever fret.
But puzzles change over time, as life does, too,
I found I needed to change myself so I could better fit you.
Your picture was transforming as the years went by,
I guess it’s true what they say, you have to let your heroes die.
So you can be your own hero in this convoluted story,
I wasn’t supposed to be center stage, you needed your own glory.
It’s then that I realized it’s not love that you need,
But someone who knew just how to make you bleed.
You needed someone to feed off of, someone to hate,
After all, it’s victory over evil that makes a hero great.
I will be your villain, if that’s what you need,
I will torment and torture you, make you fight and bleed.
With every move I make I will pose a threat,

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I will keep you on your toes, give you every reason to fret.
So in the end I will be what you need me to be,
Your hero, your villain, there is no real me.
For you see, I no longer have enough pieces for a puzzle of my own,
I’ve squeezed all my pieces to fit you, so your puzzle could be shown.
And the only thing I’m left with is the knowledge you’ve never known,
Of how empty it feels to be left all alone.

“Usurper”

I walk the long hall, I am a joke to him,
Once so familiar to my mind But perhaps a lesson too

Now the faces that line the path are strangers, These strangers are his,
No warmth or welcoming do I find That sneer and glare at me

My echoing footfalls come to a halt, But he was once mine,
On the cold, unforgiving stone And what must be will be

Surrounded by a mass of people, He motions with his hand,
Yet I stand alone The fake king decrees

The fake king grips the arms, I am shoved to the ground,
Of my once throne Brought down to my knees

Now it is my life on trial, I have submitted myself,
For him to condemn or condone As all can well see

A new crown of polished gold, As I once ruled him,
Sits upon his head Now he rules me

He rules over all, Will he learn as I did,
In my stead The corruption of power

Without saying a word, How you can build yourself up so high,
He tosses on the ground But it takes just one stone
to collapse a tower
A clink of tarnished gold,
Is the only sound The people who once adored me,
Now demand my head
I look down upon,
My shattered crown Their once beloved king,
Is now only wanted dead
Handled like trash,
Broken and thrown down The fake king shrugs with a smirk,
Asks what is there to do
My eyes linger on the crown,
A symbol of what is lost Then he laughs in triumph,
But I laugh too
I think of my actions,
And all that they cost I can see him falter,
His smirk does not stay
Then I meet the usurper’s eye,
And find humor in the blue For he does not realize,
I still have one more card left to play

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This usurper was foolish, “Monster”
He thought he knew all my tricks
I am a monster
But he made his palace out of straw, At least that is what I was told
When he should have used bricks But it was my fault for believing
In the lie that they sold.
And I know that playing with fire, Some say monsters are born
Is considered a sin Others claim they are made
But it’s the monster who knows what he is
But the only time I accept losing, That makes people afraid.
Is when I know no one else can win They know exactly what they do
They know exactly what they say
All these people are strangers now, And they know that mischief and misery
No one I hold dear do I see Are games that monsters play.
But does it make me a monster
So if I must burn, Because I had to learn the game?
I will take them all down with me For an act of survival
Am I to blame?
This fake king thinks he can get away, Or did my adaption reveal a truth
But I am his bane I had long hidden within?
Did I become a monster
I shall go down smiling, Or did the monster already inside just win?
Knowing that no king will reign I didn’t like the game
But I refuse to lose
Only ash shall remain, Sooner or later
Ruins of what had been We all must pay our dues.
So I play the game
And thus ends just another story, And I play to win
In the history of men. Maybe that makes me a monster
But I do not think it is a sin.

About the Author
April McDermott lives in Tewksbury, Massachusetts and
currently works in banking.

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TOWN PICNIC

by John Grey

Town Picnic Some gray-haired bank managers
and truck drivers
Stomachs full, are gathering on the bandstand
time for softball, with their instruments,
maybe a splash in the lake, ready to bless us with some
or a wander through the stalls tuneless Sousa music
with beer in hand, once Elvis leaves the park.
checking out the artefacts,
the honey made by local bees, It’s the same every year at the town picnic.
the fudge. We guys just take on different roles
as the years pass by.
There’s music to listen to – We’d just scream and jab each
an Elvis impersonator other in the arm once.
though most of the kids Now, we’re adolescents on the make.
don’t know who Elvis was. In times to come,
And there’s a living statue, we could be head of a family spread out
a young woman painted green, on a blanket.
holding up a torch – And then, once of those would-be musicians,
either the Statue of Liberty bassoon tucked under the arm.
or a Martian.
A couple of old-timers sit on a bench,
Of course, They watch the activities
there are always girls to look at, but partake of none.
so many of them We’ll never be them.
in t-shirts and skimpy shorts, We have to draw a line somewhere.
giggling together
while we pretend lack of interest
by strutting through their sight-lines.

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Your Music Man Adelaide Literary Magazine
A Daughter’s Poem

Want to know why She doesn’t have her father’s phone number,
my body’s swaying. nor his address, and only a rough idea
of the part of the country where he’s living.
Because there’s melody in me, So she can’t call or write to him,
a head orchestra, give the usual news bulletin on
the kid’s sicknesses and recoveries
a heart soloist, and how well they’re doing in school.
even a colon rock band. Nor can she relate Tad’s latest job,
how he’s enjoys the job
That’s why my fingers snap but it doesn’t pay so well.
or tap on tables. He could be in California,
because he always said
Or I hum when all that’s where he was headed
else is quiet. when he met her mom.
But he may just as easily have
I never inquire set up camp in the Arizona desert,
why you are so still. or the Colorado mountains,
anywhere a man can go
For I don’t want to know that’s just this side of oblivion.
that your bones If she knew, she might even visit,
though she hasn’t got over her anger
can’t play an instrument, from when he’d left.
your flesh is atonal, But he’s her father -
the only one she’s got,
your bloodstream the only one she hasn’t got.
wouldn’t know a platelet

from a G natural.
Let’s just continue

making sweet music together.
So what if I’m

rocking, jamming,
on the stage,

and you’re down there
cramped and soulless in the audience.

The result is still
some kind of show.

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Oncoming Revista Literária Adelaide
Those Death Notices

They’re an interminable current, I read the death notices,
a stream aching for an ocean to be lost in, over coffee, in the morning.
but they’re backed up now, Then Martha calls.
spilling to the sides At last, a life notice.
or flowing into the ones behind.

They come from nowhere.
and voices urge them back there.
Or greet their arrival
with a sneering “no.”
By the time they reach the border,
they’ve heard everything.

Mothers press against gates.
Children beg with their eyes.
But there’s nothing they can say
that can get them past the guards.
It’s all small and lonely voices
where they come from.

About the Author

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently
published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review
and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and
“Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon.
Work upcoming in Lana Turner and International Poetry
Review.

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THE PAIN OF
WINTER

by Douglas Polk

The Pain of Winter A Kearney Afternoon

The tips of fingers numb with cold, October in Nebraska,
Pin-pricks, sharp, Overhead, cranes and geese dance on the wind,
The pain, bone chilling, Keeping time with their songs, and honking,
Thoughts of boyhood, walking the tree breaks, Winter soon here,
Hoping to shoot a pheasant, or Fall over, the harvest done,
duck off the pond, The year remembered now, the
Food for the table, hard work, and the crop,
Chores before school, the return of school, Fortified with the memories, to survive the
Where the pain of winter, not only physical, upcoming year.
Icy stares cut through the
patches on my clothes,
And my country ways.

About the Author

Douglas Polk is a poet living in the wilds of central Nebraska
with his wife and son, two dogs and three cats. Polk has had
over 1,000 poems published in hundreds of publications.

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MOTHER AND
DAUGHTER REGRETS

by Linda K. Miller

They Came. They Saw. They Left. sure, some movies destroy the
Earth with ETs that chew us up
Driving through the soft rolling hills of and spit us out or cook us for dinner
Arkansas at 3 AM we saw the speeding but these aliens that check us out
lights of a UFO cross the next ridge, hesitate, and take a few and leave,
then flash into the unknown universe. they’re like Picard and Kirk and Janeway
but with wiggly antennae
We blinked rapidly, laughed nervously. well intentioned
teaching and learning
We missed our ride. They’d gone on lifting and edifying
without us, but perhaps they had others.
at least one can believe so
Damn, to speed into the stars
join coalitions of aliens one can drive the lonesome byways
the glorious adventure of it send out welcome auras
races through us as we stare attract the wild stars
after the contrails, gasping to one’s wild heart
as we collapse
emptying wishes into the skies
begging them to wait

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Mother and Daughter Regrets

I was 16—married December 20th one year and the next year on December 30th, a child was born—my
first boy. I quit school after 8th grade. A wife to an ex-Navy sailor in Chicago. WWII was over, and the
economy was booming. My husband was 22 and feeling his oats. Rowdy and drinking; going out with
friends. Having jobs; losing jobs. A year later, December 18th, we had a baby girl. And now we were a
family of four. Nowhere to live; no money to speak of. We went back to my parents’ home. Cincinnati,
Ohio. But there was a catch. I had to give up my beloved piano or my pa wouldn’t let us move in. No
choice really. He was a hard man. So, I did. I was carrying our 3rd child. But always chubby, no one knew.

I did not know my mother. Could’ve been the times. “Spare the rod
and spoil the child.” “You’re not their friend; you’re their parent.”
Could’ve been not enough time left in her day to spend with me…other
children, other tasks claimed her notice. There was no knowing.

Life was a bitch at pa’s. But my husband got his feet under him. Got a job
back in Chicago. And a place for us to live. We were able to move out. Out of
that place where we were under that old bastard’s rule, that old bastard who
backhanded me across the room if I spoke up. Anyplace would be better.

So many novels of mothers and daughters being best friends, sharing
lunches and confidences or, even mothers and daughters always at
odds: the mother demanding, the daughter not good enough. But
what of the families where mother and daughter never talked about
anything more momentous than what time do you need the car?
Lunches? Never. How uncomfortable that would have been.
Nothing to say to each other; long pauses waiting for food.

Back in Chicago, we were better off but a 3rd kid? Our doctor said he knew a couple who were
desperate for a kid, who would pay a lot so we’d be able to get rid of some bills and take care
of the family we already had. It was tempting. We did it and no one knew what we’d done.

Later, much later, when TV shows talked about adopted children and how they
fared, we changed the channel. There was always guilt. But when that lost daughter
grew up and found us, I welcomed her with open arms. I wanted to know her.
My husband did not. He made her promise not to tell our other children who she
was or what we’d done. He never spoke to her again. But she and I wrote lots.

Could it have been guilt that built a wall between us? The absent child
given away at birth…another daughter who was a cost too much to
bear…Given away (“sold”) to a family, childless, desperate, common

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practice in the days following WWII when baby boomers were born
in droves and families were stretched too thin to feed yet another.

And so, we had our little family, one boy and one girl and
tried not to think about the one we gave away.
The job lasted; we saved money and bought a house in a suburb. Life
was good. The neighbor women became my friends.
My husband worked on the house, making improvements.
I kept the house, cooked the meals, took care of the children. So much better than Cincinnati.

9 years later, I got pregnant again. This time we kept the girl.
And 2 years later, we had another boy. Our last kid.

Menstruation finally became a topic as I became of age. Mom gave
me a booklet and said to read it: How the female body works.
It was an eye opener for sure.
Did I have any questions? (She couldn’t look me in the eyes.)
I took her cue and demurred silently.
And when the day came and there was blood in my
panties, I told her, and she gave me pads which were
pretty much self-explanatory. All very hush-hush.
No coming-of-age ritual in our house.
Just whispers and silence.
A feeling of shame for being female.

And maybe that’s what kept my mother silent. A feeling of
shame for being a woman. Or maybe shame for giving away
her third child and then having two more. She passed away
before anyone found out, so she never had to answer for it.

And we never got answers for it except from my father
who lied at first to protect her and then spoke the truth
which was unsatisfactory. A family that was broken when
she died was further destroyed by a new sibling.
For being so silent and behind the scenes of family
life, she was the core for my father, for my siblings.

For them, not me. I never knew my mother.

We kept our secret til after I died. I’m glad I never had to explain to the kids. Though there were
some things I had to answer for. A few months before my death, my oldest girl was getting divorced

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and on her own. She suddenly became friendly. She started coming over every Sunday. She talked
to me about everything. She took me out to dinner. Really made me nervous. Of all my children
she was the most different. All the others dropped out of high school. She went on to college and
graduated. She never got in trouble with the police. Never got into drugs or drinking or anything
on the down low. I was always helping the others with money or rides or support. She never
needed me for anything. Then one day she asked why I had ignored her. She said she always felt
guilty that her brother got in so much trouble and she didn’t. She felt that everyone looked at her
like she was an outsider. She cried. She didn’t belong. I didn’t know what to say. I said nothing.

My first marriage ended, divorce ensued, and
for the first time I was living alone.

I knew my father (you were wondering I know). Mom was a cypher.
Every Sunday I went back home. Had dinner with them. Talked with
her, tried to draw her out. Took her out to dinner and a play. She
was accepting but uncomfortable. What did we have in common?
Not much. How sad I felt. 6 months later she
was gone. And now I’ll never know.

Finally, I lay in a hospital, head ablaze in pain, knowing somehow that I
wouldn’t live through it, this burst artery, and I found the words.

You were always so independent. You didn’t need me.
I did love you, but your brothers and sister needed me more.
I’m sorry.

I hope I said it out loud.

Finally, as my Mom lay dying, she said I was so independent, she
didn’t think I needed her. That’s why she spent so little time
with me. But she loved me. Of course, the guilt washed over me.
What a shitty daughter I was to make my mother feel bad on her
deathbed. I said it’s okay, it’s okay, don’t worry about anything.

I hope she heard me.

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About the Author

Linda (Stormyfalls) lives in a world where ERA is the 28th amendment to the Constitution,
Black Lives Matter, democracy thrives, climate change is taken seriously, and walls are built
only to decorate not divide. Linda has two books of poetry. Her first was called Coming to be.
Her second is available on Amazon: Poems to Amuse, Bemuse, and Entertain. She also has
had poems published in books (A Vision, A Verse Volume 1; All-Time Favorite Poetry Book;
The Poets Choice; and On Earth as it is in Poetry, 2018 Anthology) and magazines (The Spoon
River Quarterly, New Earth Review, Bardic Echoes, and The RTL Proxy). This year three of her
poems appeared in Pandemic Evolution Days 1-100 with Matthew Wolfe.

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PRIDE PARADE

by James Orrock

Standley Chasm to Trephina Gorge, aerial view

Sun glissades a minute crack in time Above furrows of dark-chocolate rock
as cycads fizz in slotted space and ploughed in sine waves on tilt
milk-smooth dolerite boulders incubate holly grevillea, emu bush, chaotic silver mallee
in the yoked light and shade; outline the Trephina Gorge arena
from Cain to Kabul nature devours grace, set deep in sand-riverbed meander;
we cannot get ourselves back to the Garden. nearby John Hayes Rockhole bows in adoration.

Magma squeezed up has twinned Tjoritja Spinifex splashed with biscuit-black scat
then hissed, spat and brazed like cured hashish (pointy is rock-wallaby,
MacDonnell range melt-still interstice; rounded is euro) maps the prickly trail
Angkerle Atwatye, the gap of water to naked and alone Corroboree Rock,
opens out, offers safe passage its cinnabar-brown felspar crown sat down
beside a bug-frenzy algal pool. on the shoulder of some entombed avatar.

Simpsons Gap retreats among triodia whose Hawking dot paintings at Alice hotel bars
punk-mohawk spines protect the curious an outsider in town for a spree squats
smiles of black-footed rock-wallaby; then skids on piss in Todd Mall.
the Lutheran Mission became Arrernte refuge
from speared-cattle frontier struggle time
so Christ-bells rang atop Mount Hermannsburg.

Dried mud rammed inside hollow river red gum
last Yeperenye flood time has hooked
twigs and bark angled by eucalypt nooks;
leaves flutter down, beak-
snipped by green parrots
pecking Emily’s raucous silence
in this caterpillar dreaming place.

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Pride Parade

Ride a cock-horse through Darlinghurst floss
to see a frocked lady upon a pale horse;
with rope in her fingers and rings on his toes
she shall have bondage wherever he goes.

Raw, stripped down with barely a scintilla of sleaze
unveiled Salomés dance in platoons frantic to please;
a Fred Nile head served up décapité as festive treat
while butch squadrons on Harleys growl up the street.

Glitter ball girls and stud-leather strap boys
raise sequine-gloved fists pumping for joy;
pure hearts so sureand set free from pity
hell-bent on upending this too straight city.

With drug, hormone and scalpel sex is gendered
so muddled girls with huddled boys are blended;
bifurcate biology erased by brass-proud decree
as all-night revellers step high over a busted polity.

From Byker to the shores of Botany Bay 1950

Dance to thy daddy, sing to thy mammy,
Dance to thy daddy, to thy mammy sing,
Thou shalt have a fishy on a little dishy,
Thou shalt have a fishy when the boat comes in.
[From a traditional folk song originating in NE England]

Long lines of up and down Tyneside terrace flats
Run cheek by jowl steep down to the foggy river
Outside lavvy, cobblestone back lane, drainpipe rats
This post Hitler-war England, victorious pauper -
A Northumbrian tripod of coal, steel and ships
That’s cracked, sliding down, on the slips.

For a canny bonny lad fingering Mozart concertos
Armstrong Whitworth naval yard gates at dawn

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Easy beats gannin’ doon pit or tickling a foundry furnace.
Turning a dockyard lathe in the dark winter morn
Face, ream, knurl, groove, tap with chuck and mandrel
Swarf curling in tight-cling ringlets off shorn.

His father, a Pentecostal pastor offered four wise jewels
When the son downed tools for the RAF gunnery school:
A standing prick has no conscience (more so in drink);
No tattoos (gives the poliss too much head start);
Don’t soil your own nest (get away if you must stink);
Steer clear of backdoor huckles (playing the tart).

The Geordie lass joined the Wrens to free a man for the fleet
A Pitman shorthand typist, she worked convoy freight
The tail gunner sergeant could dance, swept her off her feet,
Her father was chapel folk, laced up tight and straight
Mam was a good-time hinny, gave Da his first twirl
Desire quick unfurled makes a bairn, a lovely girl.

Win and Jim, ten pound Poms on Glasgow’s Empire Brent
Courtesy of Sir Bob Menzies’ assisted passage scheme,
A southerly migration far from Byker, meagre savings spent
Enter Sydney Harbour, a new land off the starboard beam,
Brilliant blue skies, eye-piercing light, in summer lots of flies
Strine vowels, easy-open faces along with homesick sighs.

Partners with Len and Mary, two Micks from West Cork
Wrapping orders in butcher paper without a knife or fork,
Learning to peel fifty pounds of praties real fast
Gut, scale and fillet the gill-spiked flathead last,
After draining fryers and hosing out the shop
Crawl upstairs late at night and into bed to drop.

Back then Sabbath was kept by a consensus of right
And fish on Friday was the dreaded money night,
Six o’clock swillers spill from wide doors of the pub
A dazed slugfest crazy on overtime and Reschs beer,
Jam-packed punters shouting orders in sweaty hubbub
Later a few stragglers mean the end of shift is near.

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Back home Clement Attlee’s nationalising a welfare state
Australia brings them through the small business gate,
Dawn trips in a Chevrolet Deluxe without rego or a door
Dodging coppers, secret bream and whiting on the floor,
What a spree, making piles of quids on the edge of legality
It’s the migrant way, long hours grafting a new reality.

About the Author
James Orrock: I am the son of immigrants who left an impoverished England after WW2 for
a better life in Australia. I was born in Sydney and have lived here for most of my adult life.
I have, however, travelled in several countries in East Asia (Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia,
Hong Kong and China). I have cycled and walked in many parts of Australia, namely Tasmania,
Western Australia, Victoria, Northern Territory, New South Wales and South Australia. Eureka
Street, Quadrant and Wavelength Magazine have previously published my work.

217

AUBADE

by Sofia Lemay

Aubade Invasive,
Yet welcomed
Deep in the thick of darkness Each going about their business
Of the darkest night Orange setting the line
Stars laboring to shine Between the world and the sky
Even through the veil of blackness On fire
The moon merely a sliver of light Pink slowly turning the clouds
Not strong enough to illuminate To puffs of cotton candy
The path Sweet on carnival night
Of the lonely figures below Purple swells
Proudly puffing its chest
And then, To fill the entire sky
Suddenly As all the shades in between
Somewhere between the Drift in chaotic unison
horizon and the future Wandering the sky
Faint at first Putting on a spectacle
But then For the lonely figures below
Growing stronger
The tiniest strip The song of dawn
Of hope Sings the song
In the form Of hope
Of light The sky draped
Of sunrise In the colours
Slowly expanding Of a new day
Filling fields of vision Vying to be brighter
Washing light Than the last
Over the lonely figures below The sunrise is a pledge
From today,
Slowly, the colours creep
Into the sky 218

Promising to be better Revista Literária Adelaide
Than yesterday.
The Day I Learnt to Dance
The song of dawn sings
And the music fills the ears Dancing in the dying light
Of the lonely figures below Of day
The sky brightens Twirling under the rising moon
And the colours fill the faces Finding love I didn’t know
Of the lonely figures below Was there
And suddenly, Bare feet grazing
They are not so lonely Green grass
Anymore. The sky coloured in shades
That never quite belonged
Clutching empty plastic cups
I like to pretend I’m a sophisticated drinker
Not a little girl drinking water
But maybe-
We’re both drunk on love
Sweating in the shadow
Of a walnut tree
Dancing to the tunes of your childhood
Find your memories
As I make mine
Tripping over plastic chairs
Laughing as I
Step on your toes
Hair in messy buns
Lone strands clinging to our necks
Reciting poetry
By long forgotten Spanish poets
Words never sounded
So melodious

I love you
Why is the moon so white,
The world so beautiful?
Maybe it’s the filter
The veil of love
Clouding my vision

The sun gives in to the moon
Music becomes poetry
And my resentment
Eclipsed by love
Today is the day
I find the love
That matters.

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Death Of a Star, Too Quiet to Be Called Onomatopoeias of a Nightmare
a Supernova
Clop, clop, clop
There was a moment Nightmare
In which you stood Growing nearer
In front of me Rumble, rumble
So close I could see Ground shaking
The stars in your eyes Nightmare here
A whole infinite galaxy Clink, clink, clink
Of swirling nebulas and sparkling suns Dark rider
Constellations telling the stories Not a knight
Of distant loves who fled In a shining armour
Into the sky Neigh, neigh
Astral bodies dancing Nightmare rearing
In the bottomless pit Whoa, whoa
Of your gaze Rider calming
In that brief moment Whoosh, woosh
With you Blood in my ears
I was Thump, thump
Whole again Heartbeat quickened
Broken pieces magically brought Crack, crack
Back together Bones breaking
But then you whispered I’m
Goodbye Trampled
The words like particles of stardust Clop, clop, clop
Floating in the void Nightmare leaving
Left when you Sudden quiet
Slipped away Silence
Back into a universe The sound of a
Taking with you Broken dreamer
The light of the stars
So that my world
Is plunged
In darkness
Once more

About the Author

Sofia Lemay lives in the careful balance between school
and writing, scrawling poems on the back of her math
notes. She has an obsession with inspirational quotes and
hoards notebooks like there’s no tomorrow. Sofia lives in
Canada with her family and her dog, Toto.

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NEAP SONG

by Daniel King

Alnitak Globular Cluster.

Kalki will come. Hundreds of years must pass. And rubies cue the way for us in space
Kalki will come. We wait. Dark garnet stars a halo after Christ.
Galactic outcasts spiral carmine, lost
Trapped we crave our son The far stars call In clusters like these, globular and old.
Locked in local space Those kilns coax hard Our thoughts fall on Lohitaksha, Red-Eyed:
Dark, this backlit box But walls will fall Vishnu, preserver and the Lord of all.

Kalki will come. Hundreds of years must pass. Those drops of blood are the revenge the void
Kalki will come. We wait. Exacted for the Dreamer’s gift of life.
Omega Centauri reminds our foes
Alnitak is bright The best O star That Bowmen arrows wound like laser light.
Cobalt boiling blaze In black cloaked mist Atman and endless being of Kalki,
O Kaustubha’s sign And avatar Shiva, destroyer, always shape our way.

Kalki will come. Hundreds of years must pass.
Kalki will come. We wait.

Alnitak brings hope And calls our son
Horsehead cirrus bathed It spurs our dreams
Devadatta’s light The colt’s end run

Kalki will come. Hundreds of years must pass.
Kalki will come. We wait.

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16 Psyche

And like butterflies in a guided flight but then careening wild
The descents commence and the flowers of force are spread and hotly red
And metallic legs that now concede the need of man unfold in space
Then with a ferrous kiss attach to Psyche’s brow, a dream of ore fulfilled
In an exultant leap towards that far steel mace.

Soon the concentrate is amassed in tanks and drones assay the float
A commodity from an asteroid to form our future fleet
Now possessed by us and worth the blaze we made with every topaz spark
And every memory of the trajectories we have coerced from rocks
As a corollary of those enforced hard arcs.

So we Centaur men of the Delta K have gained another world
And the amethysts and the emeralds that arm our very souls
In the Freeman quest once more inspire our will to roam tomorrow’s sea
A time when galaxies will flame their joy on us and arm the greatest one,
The One of sixteen years, our God, the Lord Kalki.

Presignaling Kits

Arks accretion disk ensnared
But skirting Sagittarius A
Now await the gate they dared
Await the age, the vast delay
There they pray.

Kainite pale their jetsam rests
And shifts, equipment drifting, kits
For signals, metal stretched and stressed
Signs of triumph split, moonlit.
There it sits.

Foes’ igniting last alerts
Are pointless lapses, faint decrees
Laser-fading sparkles, spurts.
We laugh and turn and leave, carefree
With Kalki.

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Neap Song

In Tau form the five moons, ecliptic-aligned, lift
And pen lines like bright poets low in the green dawn
As moons 1 and 4 turn and trace ‘K’,
My own sign, a badge Gatemen galaxy wide heed
With high feats performed far from home and the Four Arms.

This moon-tag of lime tides exalts us, a neap song
Of coast tones that soar north and herald each jade day
And each night with sea notes the air reads,
From low pole to dry karst, a music no gale blasts
And no bolide‘s high tonnage smashes to spindrift.

I think then of Lord Vishnu’s power, his wild rays
And name Kavi, seer-poet, authoring apt deeds;
His mind-pent aplomb touched the grey past
As Lord Brahma, five-headed, surging when Lord Shiv
Attacked, gazed and made real the race that Kalra warned.

Those five heads were time lines the future and past need;
Our prime astral ship, not a pentagon-core craft,
In late ages targets the far rift
And glides through the blue wisp pleroma to foes born
On old worlds to force recompense for their outrage.

The five moons are high now and promise a new calm -
The sea, flat, reflects them in gaps below high cliffs
And ten disks like bloodstones are now shown
As I make my way back to base round the teal bay
To spacecraft I see calmly launching to moon speed.

About the Author

I am an Australian same-sex oriented writer, with a strong
interest in Hinduism (particularly pertaining to Kalki, the
10th and final avatar of Vishnu, the Preserver, incarnating
now and forever together with Shiva, the Destroyer),
mysticism in general, and astronomy. As a surfer, I am also
strongly influenced by marine imagery.

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INTERVIEWS



LAURA MUNCIE

Author of the children’s book
WHAT LOVE CAN DO

1. W hat Love Can Do is your first published book. Do you remember
when you wrote your first story and what it was about?

As a kid I kept a diary with mini-stories about the day’s events and sketches, those were my
first attempts at writing. I also enjoyed writing scripts and persuading my unwilling brother
and friends to act them out. In school, I really didn’t enjoy Maths so I would have a “doodle
day” sketching and writing stories on paper scraps and hiding them under the maths books
when the teacher looked over. There was a strong focus on academic achievement at school,
so sitting doodling and writing silly stories would have been considered a waste of learning
time. But for me, it was necessary because I’m a creative person. Maths, for me anyway, was
so dry and boring, that paying attention was like trying to hold my breath underwater for
long periods of time. Doodling and writing were my oxygen.

2. What inspired you to write What Love Can Do?

Many events over a few years shaped and inspired ‘What Love Can Do’, including sad expe-
riences.

In 2018 we lost my brother Stephen to brain cancer - it was a shock to everyone who
knew him. Stephen remained amazingly positive throughout his treatment which included
brain surgery. Saying goodbye to him was a very low and dark time for my parents, family,
and Stephen’s friends. The only thing that sustained us was the generous outpouring of kind-
ness and love shown to all of us. Stephen was a truck driver and his work colleagues named
a new truck after him. Friends who we hadn’t heard from in a long time stepped back into
our lives. It was really special, and if there is more room in a broken heart, fortunately for us
it was filled with the kindness and love of friends and family. The reoccurring star motif in
‘What Love Can Do’ was inspired by my brother’s love of astronomy and ‘Star Wars’.

At the same time as my brother becoming terminally ill, we lost our unborn baby at 22
weeks. This had an impact not only on myself and my husband but on our 3-year-old son
who was desperate for a sibling. I remember a friend asking me how I was coping with two
deaths in a short space of time. I remember saying that it was taking a lot of love just to get

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through the days. Navigating all the raw feelings at home, among the wider family, coping
with my own feelings, was difficult. That’s when I returned to sketching as a way to escape
and process some of those emotions. I remember reading “When I turned to face grief, I saw
that it was just love in a heavy coat” and thinking how true that was and so I channeled that
into early ideas for ‘What Love Can Do’.

More of the prose was written sometime later in the labour ward when having our
daughter Lucy. Germany had just entered its first lockdown and at that time there were no
treatments for Covid or vaccines. It was a high-risk pregnancy as Lucy was originally a twin,
but her twin had died at 11 weeks and I had become diabetic. When we arrived at the hos-
pital, we were quite nervous about Lucy’s wellbeing, and with a deadly new virus taking life I
had to remain alone in my room, that’s when I remembered I had notes for ‘What Love Can
Do’ on my phone. So I got out my phone and started typing to pass the time in the maternity
ward.

Other images and words for the book evolved after seeing what people were doing on
social media to keep their chin up during the pandemic. One friend has daughters who high-
land dance and they were in their street dancing. I loved seeing that, along with videos on
social media of people singing on balconies, dancing, playing with their pets and some of
those things found their way into the picture book.

3. Y ou are also the illustrator of What Love Can Do.
What came first: the text or the images?

The words and illustrations mostly arrived together. I’m very influenced by music and listen
to the radio and this is often when little characters arrive in my imagination dancing or acting
out the song lyrics. Music can spark an image in my mind about how a character should look
or act which then combines with memories, experiences, and things I see or read.

Sometimes the ideas have something worthwhile in them, sometimes not. But I have to
catch them before they fly off, even if that means pulling the car over and writing them down.
But the words always arrive with a mental image attached which I then develop or discard.

4. Can you tell us about the techniques you used to illustrate What Love
Can Do and the struggles, if any, you found during the process?

Technique wise I have discovered my own process is to write out words on my iPad even if
they aren’t full sentences, then using Procreate I sketch roughly the accompanying visualisa-
tion of those words. If it feels like things are on a roll, I keep refining the images. If the initial
spurt of creative energy has passed, I’ll leave it and return to it the next day. If I feel the well
of ideas has run dry completely, I might start to experiment with a colour palette and see
what colours suit the story. Sometimes choosing colours can reset the imagination and stim-
ulate ideas, or I switch on the radio and see if music throws an idea my way.

I also ask my 6-year-old son what he thinks, because little kids come up with great ideas.
In the case of ‘What Love Can Do’ my son laughed and laughed at a sketch of a dancing dog
I drew, so that had to be included.

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There were a lot of struggles with the illustration, mainly because I submitted the book
for consideration too early. I wasn’t fully satisfied with my work but couldn’t see how to
make the artwork better. In my early illustrations, the human proportions weren’t quite right,
the characters had arms that were too long, or the pose was a bit rigid. My dissatisfaction
was keeping me awake at night, so I went back to the drawing board, drawing puppets into
every character to find out what was wrong with them. I consulted another experienced
artist to get her opinion. Ultimately, I redrew many images and then asked Adelaide if she
would consider the revised images. I’m very lucky she said yes!

5. W hat Love Can Do presents a diversity of characters. How does
that reflect your own understanding of characters?

I wanted ‘What Love Can Do’ to represent people around the globe. I didn’t want to illustrate
it with the typical Mum, Dad, and kids throughout because families come in all shapes and
sizes. Some of my characters are Dads on their own, Mums on their own, some are Grand-
parents looking after children, some are siblings looking after each other. I have a very di-
verse family and circle of friends, so that was incorporated into the artwork. Diversity is what
I know to be real life and it should be positively represented in all books. So I tried to reflect
on real life in the characters, from diversity in the clothing for example to the hairstyles.

6. What other authors and/or illustrators are an inspiration to you?

I’m a big fan of German illustrator author Rotraut Susanne Berner, especially her Wimmel
books, which are picture books with no words. I love them because hidden in the busy street
scenes are many mini-stories. For example, on one page of the book, a gust of wind catches
a letter with a heart on it, on the next page the letter is picked up by a crow, you can follow
the crow from page to page until on the last page the bird drops the love letter onto a kissing
couple. There are dozens of these mini-stories inside her street scenes, she’s brilliant.

In another book, there are children in an art gallery and there is a tiny painting of The
Gruffalo and on the painting and she has written AS for Axel Scheffler the illustrator of The
Gruffalo. The painting is so tiny you almost miss it. I had the good fortune to meet Axel Schef-
fler at a book event and mentioned that Rotraut was one of my favourite illustrators and he
grinned and said, “yeah Rotraut is a friend of mine”. I love that she does this with her books,
hides stories inside stories, and gives nods to other illustrators. The street scenes are so well
crafted and observed with timber-framed houses nestled beside towers of concrete flats.
That’s very typical here in Germany, she captures German life beautifully.

7. What were your favorite books when you were the age your readers are?

‘The Magic Blanket’ by Stella Farris was a childhood favourite. It’s about a boy who flies on
his blanket and thinks he sees objects in the clouds but when he gets nearer the clouds re-
veal something else. It maximises the power of the page-turn as you find out that what the
boy thinks is a flying saucer is really a dragonfly, and the pop-up images are amazing - as a
little kid they look gigantic. I also loved ‘Molly Mouse Goes Shopping’ by Caryl Koelling. It is
an interactive book with a little mouse on a string that goes on an adventure. I loved putting

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Molly on the record player and making her go round and round. It’s a book ahead of its time
with its clever interaction between child and book. I have hopes of creating an interactive
book one day.

8.  Your readers are not only the children but also the parents, educators, etc…
How do you expect What Love Can Do to impact both and influence their dynamic?

Picture books do differ from other genres because the audience is both the adult who reads
and the child who is looking and listening (and possibly chewing) the book. So, this presents
certain challenges. The language has to be simple for the infant, but it can’t be too boring
for the adult. The setting has to be familiar to a little child; home, school, park are common
settings, but then you need to make that original. I also wanted to consider life as we are
experiencing it. The pandemic has been traumatic, families have been separated due to so-
cial distancing, people have missed out on key moments. We haven’t been able to celebrate
events like the birth of a new baby, weddings, or mourn.

My hope is ‘What Love Can Do’ might create a soft caring space for caregivers and young
children to just be together and experience something cosy, safe, and gentle. I hoped to
remind people of their families despite this separation, by including multiple generations in
the artwork. So there are Granny and Grandpa figures included that might allow the adult
reader a moment to remind the child of all those who love them. The pandemic also placed
additional demands on families with kids because working from home was necessary and
childcare and schooling were disrupted. I often felt as a parent that I wasn’t doing enough for
my children because of those demands. But kids are very adaptable and while we couldn’t
go out and do fun things as a family, there were other small gestures that were possible. Just
brushing their hair and telling them it looks sensational or doing a silly dance, counting the
stars before bed, reading together.

I hoped my book would reassure parents and caregivers that however stressful the day
might have been, they have shown care and possibly not realised it, and therefore shouldn’t
be too hard on themselves. I also made sure the book wasn’t too long. When it’s bedtime
parents are tired too, so a short snuggly bedtime book can be helpful for everyone.

9.  Are you working on new stories/illustrations right now?
Do you have any other books in the oven?

I recently completed a German colouring book “Zum Bunten Wald” and had it printed locally
- it’s available in bookshops in and around my town of Obertshausen. I have another book
that is in development called “Penny June Plays Bassoon” and I hope with some time and
attention this book idea could become a real book. Penny has a long way to go to be ready,
so I’ll be busy with her for a while.

10. What advice would you give aspiring writers and illustrators?

Make sure those around you realise that what you are doing is real work. It’s easy for
non-writers to think of writing and illustrating as a hobby or an excuse to sit around gazing
out the window. Make sure key people in your life realise it’s a job. Schedule time to develop

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your craft, and if like me you have one shared PC in the home, book time on the PC, and
don’t allow yourself to get sidelined or distracted. The biggest challenge for me as a Mum of
2 little children, was making sure I could manage their needs while developing a new career.
The key was being flexible, grabbing any spare moment even if it was only 30 mins a day.
Most writers have other jobs and/or childcare responsibilities, so grabbing spare moments
is vital. You get better at maximising those snippets of time the more you use them.

Secondly, send your manuscripts to be critiqued by agencies who specialise in supporting
writers. These agencies don’t just tell you what isn’t working they also identify strengths
and that’s important to know. I have acquaintances in writer-illustrator circles who are really
talented but can’t get a publisher or agent. Manuscript analysis can identify what is tripping
you up, it can save time and avoid the disappointment of repeated rejection.

Finally, surround yourself with people who believe in you. They will help when you feel
like giving up. My circle of friends and family with an encouraging phone call or message on
Facebook stopped me from giving up many times. They did more than they’ll ever realise,
and I’m grateful.

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LEWIS J. BEILMAN III

Author of the children’s book
LITTLE ÖZIL

1. Tell us a bit about yourself – something that we will not find in the official author’s bio.
For this story, I think it helps to know that I lived in Germany for about three years when
I was a kid. My family moved to Düsseldorf, and I attended first through third grade at an
American international school there. Despite going to an American international school, my
neighborhood friends were German, and, since they didn’t play sports like football and base-
ball, I learned to play soccer at a pretty young age. When my family moved to Houston, Texas,
after our stay in Germany, I continued to play soccer in the United States.
I’m also a quarter German, on my dad’s side, so, between that and living in Germany for three
years, I have a certain affinity for the country. Even after my family moved back to the United
States, I continued to root for the German National Team (Die Mannschaft). I still root for them to
this day and enjoy watching German club teams--particularly Bayern Munich--in the Bundesliga.

2.  Little Özil is your first children’s book. Do you remember when
you wrote your first story and what it was about?

As a child, I wrote stories for English classes, but I don’t really remember them. The first story
I remember writing--where I took writing seriously--was when I was in eighth grade. I must
have been about 13 years old at the time. I don’t remember many of the details of the story,
but the main character, who was a child himself, lost his brother. It was heavily influenced by
the James Hurst short story, The Scarlet Ibis.
The reason that it sticks out in my mind is that my English teacher then, Ms. Blair, was so
moved by the story that she read it to our class. I believe she said she had cried when she
read it. I was both proud and embarrassed for having my story singled out. Still, I didn’t really
begin writing regularly until I was 16. At that point, my focus was on poetry, not short stories.

3. You are also a soccer player. Was that the inspiration behind Little Özil?
I think you’re being a little generous with the phrase “soccer player” when you apply it to
me. I play in the second division of an adult over-40 league, and I’m at best an average play-

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er. (Shout out to my team, Hamden United.) I’m definitely no Mesut Ӧzil. Still, I don’t think
I would have written Little Özil if it wasn’t for my love of the game and the enjoyment I get
from both playing and watching it--but, the inspiration for the story goes a little beyond my
fascination with soccer.

I found my inspiration for Little Özil at the intersection of where sport meets societal forc-
es. I thought it was interesting that the German National Team, of which Mesut Ӧzil was an
integral part from 2010 to 2018, really caused the German people to evaluate what it means
to be “German”. The team was full of players who were of non-European heritage--including
players like Ӧzil, whose family was of Turkish descent. The team’s success, especially in the
2010 and 2014 World Cup matches, led to many Germans having a greater acceptance of
immigrants and the children of immigrants.

When I was first writing the story (back in 2014 or 2015), I saw parallels between German
society and society in the United States. I was hoping--and still hope--that the children and
adults who read the story will treat immigrants and the children of immigrants with the
same respect they reserve for those whom they consider to be more traditional citizens of
their country. The United States, in particular, is, after all, a nation of immigrants, and its
history is enriched by the diversity of its culture.

4. W hen you were writing Little Özil did you consider the
interaction between the text and the illustrations?

Not really. I wrote the story as a stand-alone story about six or seven years ago. It was pub-
lished in 2015 in Balloons Literary Journal in a slightly different version than the version that
currently exists--and it did not have illustrations. When Adelaide Books decided to publish
this story as a standalone book, we spoke about having an illustrator bring the pages to life,
which I think Lamya Sharaby (the illustrator) did beautifully. Through the publisher, I gave
Lamya a little guidance on how I pictured certain characters and how the story should be
set in Florida, but Lamya took it from there. I have to give her credit for making this story so
visually vivid and moving.

5. L ittle Özil presents a diversity of characters. How does that
reflect your own understanding of characters?

I think diversity is very important, especially in today’s United States. And I don’t invoke
diversity merely as a way to pay lip-service to an ideal which this country is supposed to live
up to. The initial findings of the most recent (2020) census data show an unprecedented
increase in U.S. residents who identify as people of color--particularly those who identify as
multiracial. The country is changing, and most writing set in the contemporary United States
should reflect that.

Generally, as a writer–in Little Özil as well as in my short-story collection, The Changing
Tide–I want the characters in my stories to reflect the diversity of this country. Of course, as
a white, middle-aged writer, I have to be sensitive that the cultures of the characters in my
story are portrayed accurately. I have attempted to do that--hopefully successfully--by hav-

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ing people from different cultural backgrounds read my stories and provide feedback so that
I can remove any inaccuracies and correct any misunderstandings.

6. What other authors are an inspiration to you?

Since I primarily write short stories, I have been influenced by books like In Our Time by Er-
nest Hemingway, the Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri, and Cathedral by Raymond
Carver. I also enjoy reading novels by J.M. Coetzee, Kurt Vonnegut, and Milan Kundera. Of
course, much of this is pretty standard stuff, but I still find satisfaction from reading plays
by William Shakespeare, poems by John Keats and Robert Frost, and recountings of Greek
myths by Edith Hamilton. If I had to choose my absolutely favorite books, I would choose
Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut, Hamlet by William Shakespeare, and The Complete
Poems by John Keats.

7. What were your favorite books when you were the age your readers are?

Of course, when you asked about my favorite authors, I spoke of those who influence me
as an adult. I was a kid once, though--even if it might seem like a long, long time ago! When
I think back to my childhood, I really enjoyed the playfulness of Dr. Seuss’ books. My mom
also used to read to me from illustrated versions of Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom
Sawyer and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. And, in fifth grade, my English teacher in-
troduced me to The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis. I still find those stories, particularly
The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, fascinating today.

8.  Your readers are not only the children but also the parents, educators, etc.…
How do you expect Little Özil to impact both and influence their dynamic?

I expect Little Özil to provoke discussion. Many children may wonder why the other kids in
the story picked on Mustafa. They may ask their parents, “What is a Muslim?” They may
wonder why Mustafa’s mother wears a hijab. And, if the children reading the story are Mus-
lim, they may find it heartening to read a story in which the main character is someone with
whom they can identify. Overall, I think the book will spark conversations among children
about different religions, cultures, and practices--hopefully in a positive way.

For parents and educators, I think they may relate in different ways. They may identify
with a story that centers around a family of first- and second-generation immigrants and
how that family deals with discrimination. They may struggle with questions of how an im-
migrant family is expected to assimilate culturally. And they may ask the broader question
of what it means to be “American” in the United States today. These are all issues they can
discuss with their children or students if they feel those children are ready to discuss these
issues.

Of course, they can all--children, parents, and educators--read the story on more straight-
forward terms--as a story about a child of immigrants who uses his faith, family, and soccer
skills to overcome the prejudices of his fellow students and teammates.

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9. What message should the readers retain?
I would rather not tell readers what message I think they should glean from Little Özil. I
would rather leave that discovery to them individually. But I would ask each reader to come
to the story with an open mind and to read it with compassion. I think, if readers open up
their hearts to this story and its characters, they may uncover some valuable messages that
I did not foresee.
10.  Are you working on new stories right now?

Do you have any other books in the oven?
I continue to write short stories in my spare time. Most of these stories are directed at more
of an adult audience. The story I’m currently revising is called Chewie and the Sock Boy and
is loosely based on a string of incidents that occurred when I was a high school student. The
band in the story even has the same name as my high school band, The Garden Weasels.
Unfortunately, the band became a forgotten footnote in musical history--as Chewie and the
Sock Boy is likely to become a forgotten footnote in literary history.

As for books, I have enough short stories to fill a couple of books at this point. The difficult
part is arranging those stories in coherent and engaging formats. Soon, however, I intend to
compile them into a couple of collections, one which I anticipate calling Damaged Lives and
the other which I anticipate calling Modern Myths and Fairy Tales.

I also keep telling myself that I should dig out my old poems and put some of them to-
gether in a collection. Since most of those poems were for or about women I once loved, I
would title the collection either, simply, Love Poems, or To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before--the
latter as a nod to the great and enduring Julio Iglesias and Willie Nelson song.

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LALI TSIPI
MICHAELI

Israeli Poet, Author of the poetry
collection PAPA

1. T ell us a bit about yourself – something that we will
not find in the official author’s bio?

During the Covid-19 lockdown I was invited by my French book publisher to make a poetry
presentation with a Palestinian poet that lives in Tulkarm via Zoom. From this moment on,
we began a poetry dialogue between us, a critical mass of poems, prepared previously for
another collection of my poetry book. There was an idea to create a common book of poetic
dialogue in France, because of the initiative of our mutual publisher in France. It is not, by
all means, a political book. It doesn’t suggest any solution to the long and bloody Israeli-Pal-
estinian conflict. But it is a real dialogue with open hearts and all the pain it involves. It is a
very human book that emphasizes the common and not what divides the two banks of the
Jordan river. It was an experience of trying to unblock the blockage. We are two poets trying
to make a change in the reality we live in.

2. Do you remember what was your first poem about and when did you write it?
It wasn’t my first poem since I began writing poems at the age of thirteen. But the poem
“Paint Me Ablaze” was immediately translated into ten languages became the most identi-
fied with me. When walking in the street following the publication of the book, passersby
were recognizing me and commenting as such: paint ME ablaze! That poem is an erotic love
poem, a feminine explosion, at the same time it represents the burning era we live within.

3. What is the title of your latest book and what inspired it?
The title is “PAPA”. This poetry book was written after my papa passed away. It is a kind of
Kaddish, an ancient Jewish religious text in Aramaic used during the burial ritual in the Jew-

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ish tradition. Only men can read it in Orthodox Judaism. As a woman living in Israel, I could
not read that last prayer to my papa. I felt that I was silenced, my voice was taken away. I
wanted to scream my loss. Within two months I wrote my own Kaddish to my papa. I called
it “Elegy” that a musical term for a eulogy.

4. P rof. Gabriel Moked, the Israeli editor and critic, defines
you as an erotico-urban poet, why?

Gabriel Moked edited two of my poetry books FRONTWOMAN and TRACTATE OF FACES. This
definition was included in his important book ‘In Real Time’. I suppose he was relating to the
bursting out, exposed, stormy erotic side of my poetry when the urban background served
as a platform of action. It seems that he also referred to the genre of Poetry-Video-Art I
created on the public space, where my feminine and poetic physicality got a kicking mani-
festation.

5. What is the status of the city in your poetics, and is it always Tel Aviv?

It is definitely Tel Aviv, but it may also be New York, Paris, Rome, Madrid or any other city
across the globe. I visited many cities in the world and each city unveiled to me its inner soul
and engaged me in different ways. In my poetry, a city is much more than a Geographic place.
A city is a lifestyle, a dialogue with voices, languages, smells, colors, patterns, and move-
ments. It’s an exposition of choices and viewpoints. A metropolis is a human space where I
meet different characters, develop anonymity, get lost, rub shoulders with ideas and absorb
inspiration. Tel Aviv, for example, is a city that never sleeps. It’s there for me 24/7. It always
invites me to new experiences and happenings, real or imaginary occurrences, while enrich-
ing my poetry. I love Tel Aviv. I live in Tel Aviv and hole my book THE MAD HOUSE created as
a dialogue with this city.

6. How long did it take you to write a poetry book?

It depends on the book. The last book “PAPA” was completed within two months after his
passing. The previous book “THE MAD HOUSE” was written over two years. My next book to
be published was written during the Covid-19 period. Parallelly, I am writing a book for the
past seven years and I cannot see its end! It was inspired by the family historical core follow-
ing years of research in archives, interviews, reviewing documents and historical background
of that period. And I can tell you, I am going deeper and deeper into darker labyrinths. I am
requested to complete pieces of narratives from my imagination according to the Gestalt
method. Another book still in process includes poems written over the last few years in dif-
ferent locations of the world.

7. Do you have any unusual writing habits?

My basic habit in writing is to be with an open heart, a direct stare, and a waterfall of imag-
ination. I am a poet 24/7. I am capable of writing poems anytime anywhere. The availability
requested of me is emotional and intellectual and not by time extent. The setting is a state

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of mind. Poetry is a genre that does not request planning of location and time. In essence.
Words haunt me. I just need to linger and weave the magic.

8. Is poetry the only form of artistic expression that you utilize, or
is there more to your creativity than just poetry?

Poetry is the only genre I write. Poetry pulled me in jealously back to its heart whenever I
had attempts to flirt with other forms of writing.

I am lucky. More often I feel that poetry chose me more than I chose it.

Following my poetry, I created a Poetry Video Art with different videoart artists. Actually,
it is a filmed presentation of my poetry.

9. Authors that have influenced your writings?

Since I came from the world of literature, comparative literature, I have been exposed to a
wide variety of world literature of poets like Homer, Dante, Mayakovski Brecht, Alexander
Block, Anna Ahmatova, Ahmadolina, Yates, Poe, Valerie, Rambo, Verlaine, Baudelaire, Bu-
kowski, Block and others that mingle inside me me with Anne Sexton, Mary Oliver, Sylvia
Plath, Maya Angelo, Pat Parker, Sharon Olds, Louise Glück, Jim Morisson, Allen Ginsberg, and
Israeli poets as David Avidan, Jonah Wallach, Yehuda Amichai and others. But my inspiration
comes not only from poetry but from visual art, architecture and music. Artists like Alexan-
der Calder, Giacometti, Rothko, Kandinsky, Malevich etc. Of course, philosophers throughout
history conducted a constant dialogue with poetry.

10. W hat are you working on right now?
Anything new cooking in the wordsmith’s kitchen?

Except the book already in editing process, I am writing simultaneously three books. They
are written on and off while the poems are filled in into separate folders. One of the books,
I can certainly say is a lifetime project, which rocked my world. I am surprised to the extent
in which this book was streamed to me through a magic wand. I feel a transcendental con-
nection from a parallel world. It scares me and excites me at the same time. It is going to be
a family case that took place during the Stalin era.

11. D id you ever think about the profile of your readers?
What do you think – who reads and who should read your books?

Well, poetry stands by itself. It is 24K gold. Actually, even if no one reads it, nothing will
change its character. Readers are just an extra bonus. But I will be very out of touch if I
say that after the writing process, that is the most powerful experience I felt, without care
whether anybody will read it or not. Poetry like all fields of art is a communication act.

I love to flirt with my readers while I manage a serious and ironic dialogue with them
through my poetry and my readings onstage.

Following six poetry books published in Israel and another twenty-two books abroad, I
can certainly say that the variation of my readers is astonishing.

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I know that my readers can experience life through words and get excited from a surpris-
ing, kicking and daring poetry. My motto is “the whole poetry is rebellion”. You can accept it
or oppose it. But you cannot stand indifferent to this type of poetry. My poetry is taught in
high schools and universities therefore the young audience reads it. However, my last poet-
ry book PAPA, attracted new readers. This is another age group that was exposed to death
of somebody close and capable to comprise loss. Anyway, my readers are an audience that
evaluates interweaving different language layers.

Since we live in the 21st century the answers my readers are searching for are issues
found in my poetry - an age that offers us ecological challenges, many existential questions,
more complicated than ever, because of the technological project and Genetic Engineering,
wonder about the human condition and its nature in general, while on the stage there are
dancing robots, complicated relations and alternative families, coping with questions about
our identity, foreignness, refugees, immigration etc.

12. What are the materials and components folded within your poems?

Poetry and world walk engagé to each other. I cannot imagine how we can ever separate
them. From that point on my poetry materials are pumped up from life itself, even if they
transform poetically. Getting sublime. Upgraded to an imaginary level. My dreams and my
ambitions are part of my life, thus part of my poetry. My writings are an act of contact with
people worldwide. I yearn for communication. I want people to listen to me, to look at me,
to refer to my physical and emotional existence. To get a feel of me through my poetry. There
is something in poetry that is absent of other writing genres.

It tickles in all capillaries of the soul. Shakes me up, harasses me and throws me up high.
It expands my heart and shrinks it at the same time. The physical reaction poetry causes is
a product of the human experience it lifts. There is human power in poetry. It demands to
itself space, consideration, and the will to change something in it. In that matter it is political.
There is a scream and rage, a burst of horrors. Removing the mask, unveiling the curtain. In
a musical way it orchestrates the human sorrow, the disappointment and loss. It opens the
mind to million other minds. Realities we live in does not pass over my poetry. There is a
responsibility taken of what is happening to us on earth.

In my Poetry Video Art project, I read poetry in public spaces and that’s a political act
par-excellence by the meaning of creating change within the space. I am changing the mean-
ing of my environment by the physical and verbal movement in the public space.

13. Do you have any advice for new poets?

Be yourselves! That’s the main thing I can tell everybody especially young poets. All the rest
is occupied. Be powerful. Be yourself the most you can be, even if you are weird, strange,
avant-garde, unaccepted, stay yourself. Only when you are connected with your inner self
you can carve authentic poetry that can move others. Don’t imitate anybody but have open
channels to capture the Zeitgeist of the era you live in.

Since language is our tool, let’s occupy it! Deeper and wider. Make it yours. In my poem
“A Young Poet” from my book “THE MAD HOUSE” there’s a phrase “And write the silence”

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Writing silence is a big deal that demands deepness, wideness and courage. Beethoven
has a lot of silence in his sonatas. The length of these silences when they come precise, clean
and true, create great poetry.

14. What is the best advice about writing have you ever heard?

Somerset Maugham said:

“There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.”

The number of tips as the number of writers in the world. Each period and style invite
advice they believe in. The most correct advice I heard during my writing years was: Go your
own way. It allowed me to develop an independent imagination, an independent language
and to bring my most personal content into poetry with boldness and courage.

15. H ow many books you read annually and what are you
reading now? What is your favorite literary genre?

The Corona period opened up the world of podcasts to me. I close my eyes and listen to
short stories, interesting essays on poetry and the state of the climate, the state of humanity,
philosophy and science. I’m currently reading The “IMMIGRANTS” by W.G. Zebald. He writes
about the Holocaust indirectly. It is a form of writing that he adopted because he did not
believe that anyone who did not experience the horror could appropriate the pain for him-
self. He said that it was difficult to write about the Holocaust being aesthetically and morally
correct, that the subject was too threatening.

That statement is based on the famous saying of Adorno from 1949 “to write poetry after
Auschwitz is barbaric”.

The human axis went wrong, and art, including poetry, had to give representations.

Poetry, had to give new representations to this awful disruptive disruption. So how to
write the horrors of the great human atrocities in a new way. Convincing. Zebald tries the
representation of touch-not-touch horror and challenges the last human remnant, memory.

Memory is a subject that I deal with quite a bit in my poems. In my last book PAPA, for
example, there is a poem called Memory Is You where I’m juggling the deceptive essence
of memory.

16. W hat do you deem the most relevant about your writing?
What is the most important to be remembered by readers?

When you go into a restaurant and hang up your coat on the hook, you allow others to see
through it your identity. The shade, size, material, brand and the cut. It betrays your choices,
your character. The same with the poetry I write. I want my readers to identify my heart-
beats through my poetic choices: the verbal imagination, structures, silences, revelations
and concealments. It is important to me to be known that not once I put my life in danger
because of poetry, but the one who really saved me from life is poetry.

I married to poetry.

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17.  What is your opinion about the publishing industry today and

about the ways authors can best fit into the new trends?
We see that the poetry economy changes shapes and forms. The needs changed and are
still changing, and accordingly the means of advertisement and marketing. It is a wonderful
thing that is happening. When the first print machine invented, people complained. I consid-
er myself fortunate that I am still publishing actual books, we can touch and smell the paper.
But I know, a day will come there will be no more back cover books.

All contents will be online or as audio clips on the network. I have sentiments to my books,
therefore I wish they could be sent to the moon. Who knows how long earth will survive?

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JOHN PICARDI

Author of the novel NINCOMPOOP

1.  Tell us a bit about yourself – something that we will
not find in the official author’s bio?

I am a painter, chef, playwright and an adjunct professor. I had two plays produced off-broad-
way by Urban Stages. Both have been produced throughout the USA and are published.
One of my plays, The Sweepers, is in the Billy Rose collection at Lincoln Center. I have won
numerous grants from the National Italian American Foundation for my plays. I earned an
AS in Culinary arts from Johnson & Wales University. I worked as a chef for two years then I
became a Flight Attendant for three years, and traveled the world. When I left that job I went
to The University of Massachusetts/Boston and earned a BA in English/Creative Writing. A
year after graduation I was off to Carnegie Mellon University where I earned my MFA. I have
been painting for the last five years and happy to say that I sell my work. I am grateful I can
fulfill all my passions.

2.  Do you remember what was your first story
(article, essay, or poem) about and when did you write it?

I was a Freshman in College and wrote a story about a man who worked in a dog food fac-
tory because he loved to eat dog food. It was a silly, fun story and when my professor read
it to my classmates I was absolutely thrilled. I started writing other stories and my professor
read them all to the class; he said I wrote like James Thurber and of course my ego went
into high drive. I thought I was just amazing. I was a ridiculous, naive young man. However,
that experience unleashed the writer in me. I loved the feeling of creating my own world
and characters. It was huge turn on. I became lost in my writing and couldn’t stop. It was all
I wanted to do. I feel the same way about painting.

3. What is the title of your latest book and what inspired it?
The title of my last novel is, “Nincompoop” the story was inspired by my friends and my
experiences while living in NYC. My friends and I were fresh out of graduate school and new
to New York. We were all artists, actors, writers, and we had odd jobs and worked for night-
mare bosses. I was also intrigued by the many people I knew who were pursuing careers in
show business. Their ambition and my own dire need to “make it” always seemed unhealthy

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to me. Through different experiences I discovered it was about ego, pleasing people, a des-
perate need to be loved and to fit-in and to make bundles of money. It had zero to do with
art or being an artist. All that foolishness and desperation clouded my art work and who I
was as a person.

Many year ago a Professor had said to me that you have to do your art work for yourself. I
never understood what he meant, but now I do. For me it means to express yourself authen-
tically without interference. The more you create from your heart, the more it will resonate
with your audience. The truth will always touch people. Which doesn’t mean that you don’t
listen to constructive criticism. I mean this in terms of creating art without the idea of how
sellable the finished piece will be or how loved and admire you will be for creating it. Maybe
it’s possible to create with that all in mind, but that mind-set never worked for me. Every
time I created for myself and kept it pure and honest, my best work was created. It’s always
a good idea to be authentically you. For example years ago when I was shopping around
“Nincompoop” I was told by agents and some publishers that a gay protagonist was not sell-
able and it limited audiences. They wanted me to change my protagonist into a heterosexual
man. Times have changed, thank goodness, but I’m glad I stuck to my vision and waited for
the right time to publish it. My protagonist may be gay, but he is a human being first and is
identifiable to all. I am proud of that fact.

4. H ow long did it take you to write your latest work and
how fast do you write (how many words daily)?

I wrote Nincompoop tens years ago and put it away. Two years ago I took it out of hiding and
slowly started working on it.

When I start something I write a first draft rather quickly, we call this the vomit draft. By the
time I am done with edits, that first draft is gone into cyber heaven. I don’t know how many
words I write, I can hardly count to ten.

5. Do you have any unusual writing habits?

I can write anywhere; libraries, coffee shops, my sofa and in bed. I just do it, no routine, not
rituals, no specials times and no special food that I need to eat while writing. I am not that
quirky or unusual or special. I am a regular guy who loves to write, paint and cook. I let my
passion dictate where it’s going to take me.

Yet, I do believe there is something spiritual and invigorating about creating, for me it feels
personal, scared and mysterious and a part of me fears sounding pretentious so I will stop
here.

Is writing the only form of artistic expression that you utilize, or is there more to your
creativity than just writing?

I cook, and also paint. Painting is now my first love, I don’t care if I am good or bad at it. I
can do it all day and night. I get totally lost in it and love being in my own world of colors and
imagination. Painting is similar to writing, but painting is immediate. I see results quickly, I

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show people and get a reaction, there is no waiting months for people to read your work. It’s
truly fantastic to have found a new passion at my age. It makes me completely blissful and I
feel absolutely connected to myself while I do it.

As far as cooking goes; I love it too. When I was young and in Culinary School it was like
being heaven day in and day out. I love food, I love talking about it, making it and sharing it. I
lived in Italy for six months a few years ago. I spent some time in the Emilia-Romagna region
with a family and they taught me how to create a positively delicious Lasagna Bolognese and
homemade Tortelloni. There were many other simple dishes I learned to cook there as well;
many of them using only a few fresh ingredients. One dish I’ll always remember is mush-
rooms sautéed in butter, fresh black pepper, fresh thyme, Parmesan and all tossed with
Bucatini. It was perfection and so simple. I spent five weeks in Rome and I ate spaghetti Car-
bonara, and I am not kidding, at least three times a week at a restaurant near the Trastevere
Train Station. I now make the best Carbonara in all of Boston and I dare anyone to challenge
me. I am also passionate about the classic French dishes too. I make an outstanding Country
Pate, and my soufflés are pretty darn good. I like complicated, long recipes that take days to
make; things that need to be marinated or aged are a real turn on for me too. I don’t feel like
an artist when I cook, I feel more like a scientist if that makes any sense.

6. Authors and books that have influenced your writings?

Since I was a boy John Steinbeck has always intrigued me. When I first read East Of Eden I
was very young and became lost in it and because school was tough for me both academi-
cally and socially, it provided escape into a whole new world. That book ignited the reader
in me. I savored every word of it even though I didn’t fully understand a lot of it, but I felt
something that I was not quite sure of, but I liked the fact I was placed into another world by
words and that alone fascinated me. The complexity of the characters made me curious and
I wanted to know more about human nature. After reading East of Eden I wanted to be an
adult and just get on with my life. I believed at thirteen years old I was ready for the world
even though I was the worst student imaginable. I thought those characters actually existed
and I wanted to runway to Northern California and be with them. But there I was stuck in
school for years to come and my dreams of working on farms, hanging around tortured char-
acters and rolling down grassy hills would have to wait.

I read all of Steinbeck’s novels after that experience with East of Eden. I thought I was
brilliant and above all my boring and dopey classmates who were reading Lord of the Flies. I
love Steinbeck’s short story, “The Chrysanthemums” to me it was one of his most sensitive
stories and it made me love him even more. And I will never forget the beautiful ending of,
“The Grapes of Wrath” it is something that has always stayed with me and it said to me that
no matter how bad life can be, there is goodness, love and hope in the world.

As a playwright, I adore, Tennessee Williams, William Inge, Arthur Miller. I admire their
sensitivity and compassion for their well-rounded and at times, desperate, tragic characters.
I wholly love the work of these three playwrights. They had a great influence on me not just
as a writer, but as a person. When I read or saw these plays performed, I didn’t feel so alone.
When a writer can make you connect or identify with a character, it’s pure magical brilliance.

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The writer I admire most is Toni Morrison. I don’t think I have read a writer who has
changed me as a person or as writer like Morrison has. Her exploration of characters are
beyond magnificent. She made me aware of racism, my own racism, the plight of black
women and men and freedom in America. She writes masterfully about human connection
and survival. She writes about the difficulties of life so vividly you can almost smell and taste
her words. Her writing is alive; it’s more than words on paper, her words dance inside your
head and embed themselves deep in your mind. I feel she is the best there is, period. My
dream was to meet her one and I was devastated when she passed. Morrison made me a
better teacher and I hope a better person. Her incredible ability to write well-rounded char-
acters is awe-inspiring. For example, “The Bluest Eye” was such a difficult book to read, and
so extraordinarily well-done, that at the end of the book, I couldn’t believe I was actually
feeling badly for a character who does the most despicable of thing to another human be-
ing. I pitted him with all my heart and it confused me at first, but then I understood how we
are all victims of our situations, good or bad, we are born innocent until life happens to us.
I looked at people differently after that book, it woke me, brought me to conciseness, and
it made me an even more compassionate person. This is one of the things that good books
should do for people.

7. W hat are you working on right now?
Anything new cooking in the wordsmith’s kitchen?

I am looking over some unpublished novels I had written years ago; they are pretty good, but
need some work. I don’t talk about novels or plays in progress or show paintings to people
before I feel they are ready. For many reasons it can really mess-up my process.

Did you ever think about the profile of your readers? What do you think – who reads and
who should read your books?

Well, of course my crazy ego wants the entire universe to read my book so I can become
super wealthy and control the world and fly to the moon in a penis shaped spaceship and
then paint and write for the rest of my life. However, logically, I want a person to pick up
my book and say to themselves, “This is not for me” Then I want them to give it a chance
and read it. I want my novel to challenge people, change minds, help them find a deeper
meaning to their own compassion and to understand the importance of it. I would like my
novel to somehow make them a better person because that’s what good novels have done
for me. I am also confident that my novel will appeal to those who are on a quest to grow
intellectually and emotionally.

8. Do you have any advice for new writers/authors?

You must read and read and read some more. Don’t write to make money or to be famous
or for your book to be made in to a movie because more than likely none of that will happen,
but let’s hope it does. The only thing that is truly your business is to make absolutely certain
that you are writing for yourself. All that other stuff is a major distraction and clouds your
visions from being truly your authentic creative self.

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Every time I wrote for myself I have had success. Whenever I wrote or painted with want-
ing to please others or to sell, I always made a mess. It’s never good. Ignore what’s selling
and what’s topical, all that stuff comes t later. Don’t let the market dictate what you write,
let your writing dictate the market.

Don’t be a boring cliche. Make sure you work so you can pay your mortgage or rent. You
do not need to “suffer for your art” to be a good artist, there are millions of other ways to
build your character and to experience life’s challenges. You do not have to be a booze-bag
or take drugs or any of those yawn induced, embarrassing stereotypes. It is absolutely pos-
sible to write and paint and hold a job. You can have a drink or two, and be mentally stable
and be a successful artist as long as you know what “successful” means. If you are producing
work and it resinates with people you are successful. Period. If you have a drinking and drug
issue, if you are struggling, hungry and tortured, seek therapy and food stamps, but contin-
ue with your art work. I detest cliches and that image of the “starving, struggling artist” is a
thing of the past. Make it work, it is possible.

As far as writing and coming up with ideas. I talk to a lot of people, ask questions, listen
to their stories, and I am always observing my surroundings. When something bothers me or
I see or hear about something that is unjust, I start asking myself questions; why do I care so
much about this? Why has this triggered me? How can I tell a story using this situation, what
needs to be said? How can I say it? For me whether I am writing, painting or cooking it is all
a big puzzle to figure out.

Other random advice; being an artist you are rejected a lot and it can be depressing and
difficult. You have to maintain a constant state of truly believing that something new and ex-
citing is around the corner waiting for you. Otherwise, you will be doomed because the con-
stant rejection can be intense and discouraging. Go back to what I said earlier; just do your art
for yourself so that one day it can be for everyone. Work, pay your bills, eat delicious food, be
kind to yourself, stay positive. Being able to express yourself is amazing and brave. It’s a gift.

9. What is the best advice (about writing) you have ever heard?

Write for yourself. The rest will fall into place. Don’t compare, be you. Don’t show your work
until you’re done and feel ready to show. When I was in college I disliked reading my work
while it was still in process. It didn’t work for me and it ruined my vision for the piece. It rare-
ly helped me. When I had a complete draft and went into workshop, it was amazing. I love
feedback and it always helped.

10. H ow many books you read annually and what are you
reading now? What is your favorite literary genre?

I read about 6 books a year, that’s not enough. I am pretty busy. I am always painting or writ-
ing or cooking or correcting my student’s papers. I guess need to take my own advice and
read more.

I like books about the human experience, how people survive, character driven stories.

I recently finished reading, A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara, it was very good. I found it
emotional, powerful and at times disturbing. One of the interesting things in the book was

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that at times it felt repetitive, but instead of feeling annoyed it somehow helped me feel
completely immersed in the character’s lives, it was like I was a part of their everyday life. I
also felt that the love that certain character had for one another was real, I believed it. That
is what stood out the most for me. Not an easy thing for a writer to do.
11.  What do you deem the most relevant about your writing?

What is the most important to be remembered by readers?
I hope my readers leave my novel feeling like they went on a journey and have an emotional con-
nection to the characters. This is how I feel when finishing a good novel. I loved the feeling of be-
ing in another world, learning something new, longing for more, and changing how I feel about
things. I always hope that my readers find my characters well-rounded and that they understand
their motivations. I want my readers to love my characters and feel compassion for them; even
the not so nice ones; it’s about personal growth and helping make the world a better place.

What is your opinion about the publishing industry today and the ways authors can best
fit into the new trends?

Let’s skip this question.

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