JL and Molly Andrea-Ryan get existential as they discuss the idea of writing to find meaning. They chat about their oddly similar post-university experiences of dealing with burnout whilst working retail and the terror of attaching your name to creative non-fiction.
Molly also reads an excerpt from her story, Idle Hands.
Listen to the episode here.
JL chats to fellow lit mag editor Kevin M. Casin about the stress of running a magazine and dealing with the eternal urge to take on way too many projects. Kevin talks about the importance of representation in the lit scene and why he’s proud to give a platform to queer and BIPOC writers.
Kevin also reads an excerpt from his story, The Binding of Light and Fire.
Listen to the episode here.
On the first episode of the Idle Ink podcast, JL chats with Courtenay Schembri Gray about the often-ignored issues within the online lit community. Why are we so quick to cancel people? When is it okay to call out a problematic writer? And why are we all so competitive?
Courtenay also reads her poem “June Bug”.
Listen to the episode here
Kepler-186f was the first planet of a similar size to Earth to be found orbiting in the habitable zone of its star. It is a rocky planet, which probably has some liquid water, and it is in the constellation of Cygnus, the swan. A day on Kepler-186f could be weeks or months long. Its star is dim – the brightest it gets at noon is as bright as our sun an hour before sunset. The red star might mean that plants using photosynthesis are red instead of green.
No one followed me out here. I looked back every ten feet or so to make sure I wasn’t being followed, and then I doubled back through the long, rusty grass and into the swampy woods for a little while for good measure. Not that I was doing anything wrong, I just wanted to be alone. Ever since the earthquakes started, alone time was hard to come by, and to be quite honest it was driving me crazy. I know, I know, we are blessed to be able to serve those who have lost more than my family did, those who lost their homes and their family members and came rushing to the coast to escape the fires, the destruction and the unpredictable ground-shaking. But I needed a break. We all need a break sometimes.
Time ploughs through,
straight as a waterfall
gravity condemned.
Space splays out,
tumbles toys in tsunamis,
chokes where sun meets sand.
Today I walked six thousand and thirty-nine (6,039) steps which I appraised as ‘acceptable’.
I consumed five hundred and thirty-one (531) calories for breakfast in the eating of one bagel (254) with cream cheese (100) and smoked salmon (177).
I shed twelve (12) tears whilst crying on the phone to my dad about the fundamental question: “Am I willing to be hurt in the same way by this person again?”, which I resented but had to concede was #growth.
Winter 1959
1
The Memory Merchant cursed his fate: A mixture of ice and snowpack covered the road. What should have been a 12-hour drive took almost 24 hours with tires that had seen better days. The old truck’s brakes weren’t better, screeching with every skidding stop. The pickup also needed new spark plugs and a timing belt. He suspected the ball joints were hanging by a thread or whatever ball joints hung by.
“Why do you do that?”
I turned around, halfway up the stairs, and pretended I didn’t know what he was talking about.
“Do what?”
“Slap your leg?”
We were in his basement, which had a same-leg staircase.
“Wanna play horse?” I asked.
He paused for a second, and then said, “Sure,” before running past me up the stairs.
I don’t know how it started, these little games. But they still linger. The initial motivation might be gone, but they’re worn in place. Products of habit. Annoying tics that my wife can’t stand.
We didn’t expect her to be much fun and we were right – she wasn’t. Not that any of us blamed her: she had been through a lot and was destined to go through a lot more over the following year. All this while she herself was getting … well, getting less and less. It was right, though, that our hosts, Ann and Bradley, invited her to our annual Christmas get-together, along with the usual crew: me, of course, then Dana and Emory, and Ann’s oldest friend, going all the way back to secondary school, George, the homeopath, therefore the only one among us who did anything ‘interesting’, that is, out of the ordinary run of professional occupations that people like us normally follow: an accountant, an advertising art director, a doctor, and a sports and talent agent, that sort of thing.