Hermione Hoby on naivete, trust, and the gradations of love

Every month, I interview an author I admire on her literary firsts.

Does love exist? Can life matter? Would you try to change the past? These are basically the questions I ask the writers I interview, disguised — some better than others — as questions about writing.

And my latest interviewee, Neon in Daylight author Hermione Hoby, was game for all the oddball questions! Also, she taught me a new word. You know those moving walkways in airports that scoot you along like you’re a piece of luggage on a conveyor belt? Those are called travelators.

Read on to find out if love exists —

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Siel: Neon In Daylight is a coming-of-age story of a girl who moves to New York — with a blurb by Stephanie Danler, who also wrote a coming-of-age story of a girl who moves to New York. I loved both books — and clearly have a thing for coming-of-age novels set in big cities…. What is your favorite coming-of-age novel? Did it or other books serve as a model for your own?

Hermione: Naively, or perhaps plain incorrectly, I never thought of what I was writing as a coming-of-age story, probably because Bill and Inez were as important to me as Kate (the young woman who moves to New York.) I realize, in fact, that I’m really obtuse about the term; I couldn’t tell you what a coming-of-age story is and maybe that’s because life just seems to me a coming of age story – we’re endlessly becoming ourselves.

I don’t think any books served as direct models, but probably a huge portion of almost everything I’ve ever read fed into this book. At a certain point, however, you have to disregard influence and abandon emulation and just become stupid and intuitive and let the book speak to you, rather than the other way round.

I can give you a whole, non-exhaustive litany of writers I love, and with whom I’d be ridiculously honored to be thought of as “in conversation”, but I don’t think that many of them are legible in Neon in Daylight: David Foster Wallace, Don DeLillo, Zadie Smith, Anne Carson, Virginia Woolf, Joy Williams, Lydia Davis, Toni Morrison, Dana Spiotta, Rachel Kushner, Maggie Nelson, George Saunders, Shirley Hazzard, Elizabeth Hardwick and, argh, a load more too. Just in the last few months I’ve had my mind/heart blown by Ocean Vuong, Sally Rooney, John Keene, Olga Tokarczuk, Carmen Maria Machado…

These are my favorite lines of your novel:

“It’s never love, as soon as you feel the next love. Because isn’t that a prerequisite of the condition? That you tell yourself everything that came before wasn’t really it.”

Which makes me ask — Do you think love is a real thing? Meaning — Do you feel a specific feeling called love exists? Or does love exist only in the naming — Is love simply just whatever conglomeration of feelings we choose to call love at any particular point in time and space?

Oh, I’m so glad these lines spoke to you! And oh wow, a phenomenological question. I believe in love, absolutely, but not as an absolute. What I mean is, it’s not the monolith we make it – there are gradations and it’s not a fixed entity because we’re not fixed beings – we’re relational. The problem is that so many of narratives, from all parts of culture, high and low, render it as both absolute and endgame.

On top of writing fiction, you also work as a freelance journalist. I’m curious how you divvy up your time between these different modes of writing — if at all. And is one form of writing more important to you on a personal level than the other?

When I’m writing fiction the journalism just seems so much easier. It’s like that moment when you step onto a travelator at the airport; you’re still walking and still lugging your suitcase behind you but it’s way speedier and with that mechanised speed comes a sort of levity; one might even be compelled to walk backwards, essay a spot of moonwalking.

Conversely, if I’ve been writing journalism, which is necessarily formulaic, and then I go back to fiction, it feels like freedom.

I love journalism, I believe in the profile as a way to illuminate cultural narratives through an individual, and I’ve seen writers make great literature out of the form, but fiction will always be more important to me. It’s embarrassing to use words like “sacred” but the truth is, it’s always been that for me. It requires more of a reader, for one thing. The reason people cry at novels is because they bring themselves to the narrative – without even knowing it they weft themselves in with the characters, it’s a mutual construction. I’ve always been hopelessly moved by the fact of that mechanism – that communion between writer and reader.

If you were to go through the entire first book process again, from acceptance to publication, is there anything you might do differently?

Oh god, I’d take out a large loan; it’s quite hard to survive on freelance journalism rates, and money-terror is just about the most destructive, suffocating thing for creativity. I wasted so much time, in that respect. It feels almost impossible to inhabit that loose, associative, dreamy, open state required to write fiction when you physically can’t breathe properly out of anxiety about paying the rent. I wish we had a culture that lent more financial support to artists but, well, that’s wishful, and we have to work with what we have. Same old story, same as it ever was.

What are you working on now?

It feels overblown to call it “A Second Novel” because it’s, like, twenty five thousand words right now, but it very much feels to me like it might become a novel. It seems to be telling me where it’s going and what I need to do and I trust it. Although: a month or so ago I told an older and much more accomplished writer that it felt so fluent and great compared to the first (which was excruciating) and how brilliant it was to feel this momentum and yada yada. Whereupon he gave me this grim, shrewd look and asked how many words in I was. I told him, he nodded and then he said, “Ah, the honeymoon. Just you wait.”

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Boxwalla’s Lavanya Krishnan on the politics of our pleasure reading picks

Every month, I interview an author I admire on his literary firsts–except this month, I’m interviewing a book subscription box creator.

There’s something strangely enticing about book subscription boxes. Sure, you can buy the books on your own, but you won’t get all the pleasures of having someone buy them for you — the expected yet unexpected package in the mailbox, the joy of unboxing a prettily-wrapped gift, the discovery of books you didn’t pick out for yourself.

With Boxwalla Book Box, you get all that plus the chance to expand your literary horizons by discovering writers from around the globe. Each book box comes with two international reads that’ll put you in touch with cultures foreign to you and human emotions that feel intimately familiar.

I got a chance to interview, Lavanya Krishnan, cofounder of Boxwalla, who revealed her tips for successfully recommending books and her perspective on many Americans’ insular reading choices.
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Siel: What inspired you to start a subscription book box?

Lavanya: As immigrants ourselves, we were surprised to discover that the readers, of a nation of immigrants, do not engage with literature from the rest of the world.

In the U.S, unlike in other parts of the world, readers are obsessed with their own literature. This is possibly a good thing, but only to an extent. The lack of curiosity, about literature from outside of the U.S., is actually quite disturbing. Most people in the U.S. do not read writers from outside the U.S., and they do not read translated literature. And this is reflected in the fact that only 0.7% of all the books published in the U.S. comprises translated fiction and poetry.

The Boxwalla Book Box is our attempt to change that, since there are amazing books being written all over the world, that American readers are largely unaware of, or even resistant to. And so we decided to scour the literary landscape, so to speak, to bring the best books from all over the world, to whoever wanted to read them.

One of the things we have observed, is how the insular reading choices of even the more erudite American reader, is actually symptomatic of events that manifest itself outside the literary landscape.

Let me illustrate this point. When Trump emerged as the President, he was portrayed as being representative of a particularly conservative segment of American society, something that most erudite American readers believe they have nothing in common with. But as it happens, the process of democracy always throws up a leader who accurately represents a very unique characteristic of that society. A characteristic that represents the entire society, even if the society fails to recognize it as such at the time. In this case, Trump represents the self obsession, the indifference and the disinterestedness in deeply engaging with the rest of the world, that is a very peculiar characteristic of the American society, regardless of people’s political affiliations. And this indifference is reflected, among other things, in the reading choices of even the more well-read American readers.

So, if you step back and think about it, the serious American literary reader actually has quite a bit in common with President Donald Trump. We would rather not have that be the case. Hence our valiant attempts. 🙂

How do you go about selecting the books for your box? What comes first — the theme or the books? Is there a specific process you go through for each box?

The books definitely come first. We have a list of books that we’ve read and that we think deserve to be read. The theme is based on which books we decide to pair together, The pairings depend on which books might work well when read in a sequence (both within a box and across boxes), or might complement each other in some way (without being tediously similar).

I’m curious what your own reading habits are like. Does your reading list resemble the selections you make for Boxwalla — or does it range more widely?

Initially, when we started the Boxwalla Book Box, we focused on living writers, so the list was a subset of what we read. But recently, we’ve switched to showcasing both dead and living writers, so as to be able to showcase both forgotten greats as well as contemporary greats who aren’t as well known as they deserve to be. So now it is a closer reflection of what we read.

Of course, there are several well known writers, whom we love as well, who may not feature in our box, but only because our subscribers have probably already read them (Flaubert, Tolstoy, Hemingway, Faulkner, Pamuk, George Eliot come to mind). But our selections for Boxwalla do reflect our tastes, as well as our personal attempts at reading outside our comfort zone (but still within the realm of great literature).

Any tips or best practices for how best to convince friends and strangers to read a book you’ve read and loved?

Ah – that’s the tricky thing to achieve – to convince someone to read a book you’ve loved.

We have found that people are very particular whom they will take reading advice from. Everybody has limited time to read, so for somebody to read something you recommend, requires a certain leap of faith, or a recognition of kinship in terms of reading tastes. So something like, ‘oh, I see you loved Book A. I loved it too. If you loved Book A, I think you will love Book B’, could work.

It becomes easier once somebody takes that leap of faith and likes something you’ve recommended. Then they are more likely to be convinced to read that second book you recommend…. 🙂

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Earlier:

Boxwalla: A Book box for world literature lovers
The TNB Book Club: Get literary gems delivered to your door for under $10
* The Book Drop: Handpicked reads delivered from an indie bookstore

Patty Yumi Cottrell gets evasive with invasive questions

Every month, I interview an author I admire on her literary firsts.

Los Angeles lost another great writer to New York when Patty Yumi Cottrell moved back to the east coast last year. But the author of Sorry to Disrupt the Peace, this month’s giveaway, got a lot of writing done while she was in the City of Angeles — so you can expect to read her hilarious-sad work in the months to come.

I got to chat with Patty about doing things differently and writing for a whiskey company and getting conflated with her novel’s protagonist. Enjoy the interview —

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Siel: If you were to go through the entire first book process again, from acceptance to publication, is there anything you might do differently?

Patty: I would meditate more often and look at social media less frequently. I would try to be more flexible and less demanding. Expect anything to happen and nothing at all. It’s all the same anyway.

Because, like your character Helen Moran, you’re a Korean adoptee and your parents live in Milwaukee, many readers have conflated — or have been tempted to conflate — your own life with that of your protagonist, Helen Moran. I too have noticed a tendency for readers do the same with my novel-in-stories although I’ve never said my fiction is autobiographical — and I feel like this is a challenge that many writers have to address about their work. Do you have any tips for dealing with it? 

The way people read my book doesn’t bother me too much. In many ways, the book doesn’t belong to me, it’s up to the reader to supply the meaning. So if a reader wants to understand the book by conflating me with my narrator, I can’t control that.

But I dislike it when journalists categorize it as an autobiographical novel, as if that’s a fact, especially during interviews. One thing I’m learning how to do is to be evasive. Don’t answer questions you don’t want to answer. In person, if this happens, I try to start talking about something else, even if it seems rude. If someone asks me an invasive question, I’ll start talking about Fiona Apple or the NBA or a book I’ve read recently or how my digestion is going.

You said in an interview that New York was, for you, “a terrible place to write a novel” and that Los Angeles gives you “more freedom” as a writer. Then you left L.A. and moved back to NYC. What is up with that? Also, how’s the writing going these days?

Yeah, I’m back in New York City. It was time for a change. My girlfriend lives here, and there are teaching opportunities, so that was that.

Right now I’m mustering up the motivation to write another novel. I like to get lost in long projects that take up a lot of mental space. My writing has felt heavier lately, not as thin and spare. This summer, I was asked to write a short story for a whiskey company (Bulleit). It’s about an Asian man with a girlfriend and he’s miserable. At the time, I thought it was the worst thing I had ever written, but now, after several months, I can see that it’s good. Everything is always changing!

What were you working on, writing-wise, while you were in L.A.? Or was your time taken up with Sorry to Disrupt the Peace stuff?

I wrote my novel, some short stories, a poem, and an essay. So that took up a little time. When I wasn’t doing that, I traveled a little, took walks, met with friends, etc. I was teaching, too.

How do you decide what to read, and what books are you looking forward to reading in 2018?

People recommend things to me. I like to read interviews of writers I admire, and read the books that they like. I can tell if I’ll be into a book by reading the first chapter, but this doesn’t always work. The last one I wanted to set down after reading the first chapter was Outline by Rachel Cusk. I was mistaken, and it turned out to be brilliant.

There are so many novels I’m looking forward to, but the best story collection to appear in 2018 is Rita Bullwinkel’s, Belly Up. I feel certain about this. Her book is so funny, weird, and intelligent. She’s incredible.

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Chiara Barzini says fiction is your secret lover

Every month, I interview an author I admire on her literary firsts.

Coming-of-age stories set in Los Angeles: It’s a subgenre of sorts that’s growing in size, that holds within it wildly different books. I love these L.A. stories so much I wrote one myself — and read with a thrill Chiara Barzini’s volatile and beautiful novel Things That Happened Before the Earthquake too. (full review here)

Chiara was born in Italy but spent some formative years in L.A. and other places in the U.S. before moving back to Italy. This novel’s actually Chiara’s second book; the first was a collection of short stories titled Sister Stop Breathing. But in addition to writing fiction, Chiara’s also a screenwriter and journalist, with work in publications ranging from Vice to Vogue.

In this interview, Chiara talks about her choice to fictionalize memoir, L.A.’s transformation and stasis through the years, and daughters with artistic fathers.
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Siel: On the LA Review of Books podcast, you mentioned that you first started writing your Things That Happened Before the Earthquake as a memoir. How did you realize it needed to be a novel?

Chiara: I felt like I had more freedom when I didn’t feel blackmailed by the hard facts of life. I could break things apart and rebuild them again elsewhere on the page. It was very liberating.

The girls in your novel are artistic, independent, and often lonely. They could be described as latchkey kids, with the freedom and daring to take incredible risks while their parents aren’t watching–yet the girls are also caged or trapped in many ways, often expected to serve their parents’ ambitions and desires instead of exploring their own. Is this just a basic feature of female adolescence, do you think, or a tension more specific to children of artist parents?

I definitely think that the children of artists, on this regard I saw a great documentary about Julian Schnabel by an Italian director named Pappi Corsicato, are often bound to carry the weight of their parent’s creative field. This weight can go in different directions. It is electrifying and sublime to be close to the art of parents, but it can also be confusing in terms of your own independent creative identity. Daughters are often required to take on the weight of their father’s ambitions. Hard not to muddle them with their own, especially when you are young. Eugenia tries to break free from this pattern.

You’re a filmmaker and journalist as well as a novelist. Do you find that you use the same creative energies in all these roles–with the passion for them coming from the same place–or does each one fulfill a completely different need?

I am lucky to work in these three realms because they very much inform each other. Journalism gives me the thrill of discovering stories and doing research, which is to this day one of my favorite parts about the writing process in every field. Screenwriting holds the promise of visual satisfaction. Fiction is your secret lover.

I love the nostalgic “Valley Girl” personal essay you wrote for Vogue, where you write your heart still aches for Southern California — especially the “wildness and violent winds” of Topanga and Malibu. I’m not sure how often you visited L.A. these days, but I know you did come through recently on book tour. In your view, has L.A. mostly changed or mostly stayed the same?

Los Angeles has changed immensely since the 90’s, socially, culturally, and politically, but its nature, as we’ve seen, has not. It is still a land of terrifying fires and mud slides and quakes. Glued in front of the television watching the flames in the last weeks, I was reminded of how relentless the nature of the city can be, wild and completely unpredictable.

What are you working on now?

I am working on a very fun film project in Italy and starting research for the next book.

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Photo by Jeannette Montgomery Barron

David Rocklin on worthwhile risks and addictive highs

Every month, I interview an author I admire on his literary firsts.

If you’re plugged into the L.A. literary community, you know about Roar Shack, the eclectic monthly reading series in Echo Park with its impromptu live write competitions. And if you’ve been to Roar Shack, you know its host David Rocklin, the energetic writer who’s been putting the monthly series together for five years now.

I first met David when I first read at Roar Shack in 2013 — after which, out of curiosity, I picked up David’s first novel The Luminist (Hawthorne, 2011), a historical novel inspired by the life of photographic pioneer Julia Margaret Cameron. Reading it, I got to enjoy a lyrical novel with feminist underpinnings and also learned a lot about the advent of photography —

Julia Margaret Cameron has in fact inspired David’s second novel too. The Night Language, officially out from the local Los Angeles indie press Rare Bird Books Nov. 14, 2017, stars a fictionalized version of Prince Alamayou of Abyssinia (Ethiopia today), who in real life was photographed by Julia (full review of The Night Language here).

In this interview, David gives advice to second-time authors, reveals the benefits of working with a local press, and describes the addictive high of a literary reading series.
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Siel: This is your second novel with an indie press — but your first with a local indie press! Did it make a difference in the publication process, working with a press based in Los Angeles?

David: It’s made a huge and wonderful difference that coincides with the difference in my position as a writer this 2nd time around.

The first time, I was fortunate enough to be acquired by a wonderful lit press that wasn’t located here in my hometown. They were good to work with and did their best, but I wasn’t ever quite a fit with them to begin with (they tended toward edgy material, and my first novel, The Luminist, was period lit fiction set at the beginning of photography), and I didn’t have roots in their venue. On top of that, I didn’t come from an MFA program and didn’t know anyone in that lit community, or any other one.

Since then, and as a result of touring for that novel, I’ve developed relationships with authors all across the country, and especially here at home. So now comes The Night Language and everything is here in L.A. The community of writers that I belong to has been just astonishing in their support and enthusiasm (present company included!). The publisher feels like a friend around the corner. We know the same people and places, and they’ve embraced the novel and what it stands for. There’s a platform beneath me, which is a wonderfully supportive feeling as this odd publishing journey begins for the second time.

We hear a lot of advice aimed at first time authors, but not as much for those on the second go around. What words of encouragement or advice would you offer to those seeking to write and publish a second book? I’m really just asking for me —

Like you need it, successful Cake Time author extraordinaire!

I guess I would say this: if you’re fortunate enough, like me (and holy shit, am I lucky) to be traditionally published twice, you obviously intend to make this your work (and supporting your ability to do that work, and do it the way you want/need to, is a whole other topic that I’m more than happy to expound on), so do yourself the favor of treating it like the profession it is.

Be aware of what your contracts (publishing and agent, if you have one – and if you don’t have one, think seriously about getting one) provide for. Become a collaborative partner with your publisher on everything from cover design to reading locations to promotion (as in, how much and via what mediums). Understand that your art is paramount, but sales do matter because your publisher, or perhaps your next publisher, will look to the numbers you moved in deciding whether your next book is a worthwhile risk to undertake.

Network with your lit community, with bookstores and libraries, as you would in any other field of endeavor – making those contacts means that they’ll remember you when it comes time to support you with word of mouth.

Protect your writing time. There are lots of distractions in life, but if you think about that other job you hold, you’d never let yourself clean your office or work space rather than help a customer. Don’t do it with your writing, or else you’re guilty of the very thing we all hate when we hear it from friends or family who don’t get it: you’re treating your writing as a hobby that can always be interrupted for something else.

Both your novels were inspired by photography. Has visual art always been an inspiration for your writing?

Everything I write seems to begin with a visual prompt – an image of a moment – but not alone. It needs something hard to strike against and spark up, and that hard thing is always a stray fact that, when coupled with the image, starts my wheels turning.

With The Luminist, it was one of Julia Margaret Cameron’s images coupled with the fact that she’d lost a child at birth. From that came the story of a woman obsessively determined never to lose someone to the frailties of memory again; photography would forever hold them still.

With The Night Language, it was another of Ms. Cameron’s images, one of the actual prince Alamayou as a boy, coupled with the fact that he died so young in life (I won’t tell you how it turns out in the novel). The spark that struck was this: I wanted to write a life for Alamayou that he never actually got to live in reality. That became a love story, because of course.

Your monthly reading series Roar Shack is a beloved part of the Los Angeles literary scene. What inspired you to start this series — and what keeps you motivated to keep doing it now, years later?

It grew out of the book tour I did for The Luminist. All along the way I was exposed to one community of writers after another, and when it was over, I really found myself pining for that sense of belonging that I’d experienced reading alongside other remarkable and accomplished artists. I’d been exposed to so many amazing series and venues, and one in particular, up in San Francisco, really made an impression and inspired me to try to create a series here in LA.

In the best “hey kids, let’s put on a show” tradition, I honestly was too clueless to comprehend how hard it would be to create a reading series out of nothing and build a following, but I reached out to LA-based writers anyway. What I found was what I continue to experience each and every time I interact with our lit community. Inclusiveness, support, enthusiasm, and love for each other and for each other’s work. It’s inspiring to me, and now I can proudly say I count some of the most amazing writers as friends. That’s an incredible feeling for me, as is the awe that comes over me when someone I’m not familiar with, or someone thoroughly unknown, comes out of nowhere and kills it at Roar Shack. It’s an addictive high, to see a writer reach for something they might never have thought themselves capable of, and the audience respond. That keeps me going. It’s a joy.

What are you working on now?

I’m at work on my new novel, The Electric Love Song of Fleischl Berger. It’s a love story across time, and it’s also about the accidental discovery of the electroencephalograph. I’ll pause while you take that in.

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Santa Monica Review’s Andrew Tonkovich on dream jobs, dream worlds

Every month, I interview an author I admire on his literary firsts–except this month, I’m interviewing an editor.

Editing a literary journal, I think, requires a certain level of masochism. We’re talking, after all, about publications with teeny tiny readerships that nonetheless get deluged with thousands of submissions from would-be contributors, most of whom haven’t bothered to pick up a single issue of the journal. Editors have to slog through this massive slush pile day after day — usually for little to no pay — with few thanks and many complains from writers, both accepted writers who think they should be paid or paid more for their contribution (but with what money?) and rejected writers who decry your form rejection notes as impersonal and callous and demand personal letters that explain why you said no to their work (but with what time?).

Or maybe editing a literary journal just requires a lot of commitment–to writers, to readers, to literature, and to the community that, over time, coalesces around the journal.

Santa Monica Review‘s one journal that’s been sustaining its community for nearly 30 years now. And since 1998, Andrew Tonkovich, editor and sole employee–save the occasional volunteer–has been reading nearly every submission.

Yes, Andrew himself reads the 50 or so submissions that come in each week. From those, he picks 30 a year to publish in the journal’s fall and spring issues.

In this interview, Andrew talks about how a literary mentorship changed his life and what commitment means to him.
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Siel: So — how does one become the editor of a literary journal? Or more to the point — What was your journey to becoming the editor of Santa Monica Review?

Andrew: I was, with my wife Lisa Alvarez, a student-writer in Jim Krusoe’s legendary (!) creative writing workshop for many years in the eighties. It was, continues to be, the best thing that happened to me (and, I believe, so many) by way of mentorship, careful reading, urgent engagement with all kinds of literature and of course encouragement from a terrific writer and committed, serious students.

After entering the MFA program at UC Irvine, I eventually moved to Orange County (where Lisa had accepted a Senate faculty position at a local community college) and reluctantly left the Santa Monica College workshop. Weirdly, I started team-teaching a class in Sociology at Santa Monica College (another story). Anyway, my office hours were in the campus cafeteria. One evening Jim walked through and said hello, holding a big bag full of submissions. Lee Montgomery, who had edited the magazine for a few years, had relocated, resigned, and the position of editor was unfilled.

Jim seemed frustrated, and indicated that he was sitting on hundreds of mss. On seeing me, and being a spontaneous fellow, Jim asked me to be the editor, no kidding. I assumed he was kidding, sort of. I went home, told Lisa, and sent a submission to the magazine, a story.

The next week, same scene. Jim walks through, with more mss. Sees me. Is happy, but explains that sending a submission was a fine thing, sure, and no doubt he would like my story but, Andrew (he said), there is no editor and I want you to be the editor.

I finally got it, conferred with Lisa, who knew that this was a dream job for me, and called Jim the next morning and, finally assured that he was not putting me on or kidding, became the editor.

This is more a good story about Jim, who put some real trust and responsibility in me. I also think he understood that I had experience as a community organizer, grant writer, activist, was a pretty committed reader and would surely do my best, or try my hardest — how to put this? — to make my hero, mentor proud. That was in 1998.

What would you say most distinguishes Santa Monica Review from the hundreds of other literary journals out there? Do you make it a point to focus on writers or themes related to Southern California?

I notice I use the word committed a lot. The magazine’s size is small but its reputation perhaps big. I am pleased when, a few weeks after an issue is out, I get queries from agents and editors asking to be put in contact with specific contributors. That is a very satisfying occurrence and, indeed, many of our contributors have gone on to public collections, novels and more. And we’ve been included in nearly all of the end-of-year prize story collections, too. Finally, I have a few shelves at home of stories and novels with some variation of the phrase “first appeared in Santa Monica Review…” That’s also gratifying.

We try to feature a majority of West Coast or what used to be called Pacific Rim writers, but not to exclude others. I have fudged the boundaries of the West considerably, frequently finding amazing writers from well beyond the Rockies or even the Mississippi River because, well, if you get a submission that is remarkable and fine, and the writer sees herself in your wheelhouse, excellent work, then any editor would jump on it.

How have your own literary tastes changed in your years of editing Santa Monica Review?

Jim advised me in only two specific ways. First, drop poetry. Mostly because he wanted us to establish a niche. Also, we did not have a poetry editor, or funds to pay one. Just salary, as it were, for the equivalent of teaching a class, for the editor. Me.

Second, to be as idiosyncratic as I wanted to be. This has been not all that hard. My own taste and interest tends toward word and voice-driven narrative, the fabulist or dream-world, political allegory or fable, poetic language, and ecological and scientifically-informed work. I admire wit and humor. I don’t mind long sentences, in fact adore them.

My own tastes are secondary to the direction of the magazine, but of course easy to spot. But I really am open to both experimental work and solid realistic writing. I’d like stories to start right away or, alternatively, to be captivated, engaged by the voice or premise. Not a lot of time to read through pages of set-up and situation and back-story.

Beyond reading and responding to submissions, what does the job of being a literary journal editor entail?

The job entails bragging about the magazine, as I have done, above. But also maintaining the database, answering queries and correspondence, representing the magazine publicly, promoting it at conferences and workshops and in classes. I respond to subscriptions and organize the mailing, answer requests for back issues. I write thank-notes to especially generous supporters and send free copies of the journal to incarcerated women and men. I visit creative writing workshops, have been hosted at numerous local colleges and university, as a sort of “visiting editor.” This year I organized four readings, including our usual at the Edye but also at Beyond Baroque and both LA and SF LitQuake.

I am on the staff at annual summer workshops at a writers conference, the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley. I find participating there and visiting colleges and occasional writing conferences to be helpful in finding work, meeting writers. So in addition to the CoW, I of course I look at a lot of submissions from UC Irvine MFA grads, Krusoe students, Antioch and other workshops where my reader and friend Dawna Kemper and Jim and others have taught.

Many lit journals — especially those of the online variety — seem to pop up then disappear every year. What advice do you have for would-be lit journal editors on keeping things going for the long haul?

I can’t really give advice regarding the organizational or financial or administrative angle, as SMR is so lucky to be sponsored by Santa Monica College. Except for asking people to subscribe, offering ads for sale and occasionally inviting a big donor to donate, I haven’t had to do much fundraising. On the one hand, we will as a result likely never get too much bigger, or print more than twice yearly. On the other, the school has been sponsoring us for nearly 30 years!

We participate in the annual Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, where for most of the life of that festival Santa Monica College has hosted a booth featuring us, and we distribute a couple of thousand free copies. That makes me happy too, being able to offer people a gift from the college, as part of its mission to promote literacy and the literary arts, and support writers. The only year I missed was when my wife went into labor the night before. Some really good pals, students of Jim’s, writer-contributors and fans of the magazine stepped in for me. So, more commitment.
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Earlier:
* Jim Krusoe’s workshop: Legendary (and affordable!) westside creative writing class
15 literary journals for Los Angeles writers

Photo by Brett Hall Jones