Internship Opportunities for ASU Undergraduates

Superstition ReviewInternship Opportunities with Superstition Review 

Are you an ASU student interested in the fields of creative writing, publishing, marketing, social networking, blogging, and advertising? Do you wish you could get marketable job skills while earning college credit? Do you like to have a little fun while you learn? Do you want to join a network of over 250 students who have interned with the magazine, then gone on to MFA and PhD programs as well as jobs in the publishing industry?

Then an internship with Superstition Review is right for you. All work is done completely online through Blackboard, Google Docs, Google Hangouts, and email. We welcome interns from all fields, but especially from creative writing, literature, web design, art, music, film, and business.

About Superstition Review

Superstition Review was recently featured by the ASU Academic Senate as an example of academic excellence. Here is a video highlighting one program from each of the four ASU campuses. SR is housed on Polytechnic, which appears at the 5:45 mark.

Superstition Review is the online literary magazine produced by creative writing and web design students at Arizona State University. Founded by Patricia Murphy in 2008, the mission of the journal is to promote contemporary art and literature by providing a free, easy-to-navigate, high quality online publication that features work by established and emerging artists and authors from all over the world. We publish two issues a year with art, fiction, interviews, nonfiction and poetry. We also enjoy honoring all members of our Superstition Review family by maintaining a strong year-round community of editors, submitters, contributors, and readers through our social networks:

Blog: http://blog.superstitionreview.asu.edu
Facebook: http://facebook.com/superstitionreview
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/SuperstitionRev 
Google+: https://plus.google.com/+SuperstitionReview
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/superstitionreview/
iTunes U: https://itunes.apple.com/us/itunes-u/superstition-review/id552593273
LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/company/superstition-review
Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/superstitionrev
Tumblr: http://superstitionrev.tumblr.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/SuperstitionRev
YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/user/SuperstititionRevew 

2017 Trainees

Trainees will register for a 3 credit hour ENG 394 course. The course will offer a study of the field of literary magazines, it will introduce students to the processes and practices of a national literary publication, and it will include review and reading of contemporary art and literature. Students will be encouraged to create their own literary brand that will help make them more marketable for publishing jobs. ENG 394 students are paired with current interns and are encouraged to participate in #ArtLitPhx, our support of Arts and Literary events in the Phoenix area.

Upon successful completion of ENG 394, trainees will enroll in ENG 484 and become active interns with the magazine. (The internship is not available for First-Year students or ASU Online students.)

Application Deadline: Rolling.


What Former Interns Say:

  • Trish provided valuable experience in my field of interest that is not offered anywhere else. This class has been a huge eye-opener for me and I feel so lucky to have had the opportunity to work in the publishing and editing industry before graduating. The skills I learned have given me a huge amount of confidence as I begin my search for a job, and I’m so glad this course was available. Trish is enthusiastic, knowledgeable, and very trusting of her students. Although all the work for SR goes through her, she allows for students to take some control and engage in the work fully. Thanks for the wonderful experience!
  • I really enjoyed this course and found it to be one of my favorites taken so far at ASU. I feel like the instructor taught me a lot and really challenged me. The class was well structured and I always felt as though I knew what was expected of me, but what I like was that within the structured assignments there was a lot of room for me to work independently and complete assignments in my own way. I would recommend this course and others by this instructor to friends.
  • Trish is extremely personable and is great at making people feel welcomed and she listens very well to her students.
  • Trish is extremely accessible and welcoming. I felt very comfortable coming to her with questions, even if they seem stupid. I feel I got a great internship experience that will help me post graduation.
  • Very organized, and even though it was an online class, the instructor was always willing and available and kept in contact through email.
  • I was able to learn so much about publishing, editing, and running a magazine. There were always tasks that could be completed that were never regarded as busywork. Patricia is very knowledgeable, friendly, respectful, and encouraging. She truly values the work of her students and her students themselves just as much, if not more, as we value her teaching and her.
  • Very personable and involved with the students as to what is going on in their academic and personal lives.
  • Trish is very knowledgeable in what she does. She’s technologically savvy, and very educated in literature and the arts, as well as aware of current happenings in the modern literature and art world.

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Guest Post, Desirae Matherly: Some Notes Toward an Essay on Simplicity

SimplicityIt’s mania when I begin to eye the furniture in my home and plot its disappearance. Once, when I was two and twenty, I so vacated my home of objects that my best reading spot was a plastic lawn chair with a blanket cast over it. To have something temporal meant freedom; I could give it away without sentiment. I sold two-thirds of my books that year. Three comfy chairs and two thrift store sofas gone. Cleaning house is easier when there’s nothing in it.

A year ago I discovered Marie Kondo, and her best-selling book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. My son, a lover of all things Japanese, quickly absorbed her minimalist wisdom. We agreed that it felt better to let go of things from our lives than to hoard them. Before long the two of us were folding our clothes into perfect rectangles, our closets emptied of clothes that didn’t “spark joy.” I’ll admit I failed when it came to clearing my books.

Blessed with a large office, I fill it with volumes. After combing through for expendables, I recycle the paper stacks and folders of the previous year. I strategize how to teach classes without requiring paper assignments. Student lamentations of their printing woes at the front of my mind, I make every assignment digital. It used to be simpler to take pen in hand and scratch away at paper wherever I might find myself; now, it is all about erasing the physical memory of each class and keeping the evidence of my lost time in a cloud.

When I touch paper and books it is similar to touching chalk. My hands itch, I feel that I can’t breathe, I want to rinse them. It’s the dust, a real allergen to be sure. But most of it—the bulk of it—is in my mind. I’m tired of touching what is spent.

The expenditure of time. I don’t want to think about it too much. Occasionally I drive the forty-five minutes in silence to the college where I teach. I enjoy music, audiobooks, and podcasts. But sometimes the silence is all I can tolerate when trying to clear my mind. Not that I’m any good at meditation. I’m frightfully bad, actually. Meditation is only possible for me in movement—walking, running, yoga. But in stillness I begin to panic. There is so much to do, so much time wafting away.

I worry about time wafting, how it drifts into piles then disappears in a swift gust of excitement. Ideas drift like that, which is why I like the silence. I also like numbered lists, and constrained word counts in essays. I like the illusion of control, however tenuous, that comes of numbering things: points I’m trying to make, lists of things I want to remember, essays I want to write, paragraphs, lines . . .

They all go away.

I hear the voice of my teacher–unmistakably his, even when it comes through me–when I say to my students in a workshop: “This is an essay about neurosis.” Obviously, obviously. I recognize students doing what I have done, cauterizing narrative with lyric, and falling down through the tubes of some memory that’s only partly open.

Yesterday I noticed the dust on my dashboard and I knew myself to be existing, to be driving my car mindful of speed and direction, yet also, perfectly still. I said aloud to myself, “Time is vertical, you Dope.” And I laughed because I’d had that thought so many times, each one of those moments, the same moment . . . yet another phase state.

I need the simplicity (I think) because it’s the order apart from what always breaks down. It’s my own conscious awareness of non-jettisoned junk, the still-necessary, the reminder of what I have yet to do in order to accomplish the next task. I have tasks stretching into the horizon. The concrete steps need patching and painting as do the porches and foundation and there sits the paint. Books to my right form two stacks. When my manuscript is done I can take them back to my office shelves. When my manuscript is done I can write an essay about something else. When  . . .

Simplicity means shopping for and finding only what I need. Simplicity means windows that are new and free of grime that open easily when the air conditioning quits working for the third time this summer. Simplicity means simply not using the bathroom sink until I can afford to repair the leak that seems to emerge upward impossibly from the floor around the pipe. Simplicity is sometimes not thinking about the broken things I cannot pay to fix and the debt that I whittle away over endless years.

There is no thought to dating, because the order of my life would be visited by new chaos and questions of what this new person brings and what they take from my life.

There is no time for smoking, though I’d like to have a cigarette very much. There is no money for frivolity. Unless it is for my son, who wants a four-dollar coffee. He is a teenager, and I worry over him catching my illness that counts pennies before ever saying yes.

Simplicity is choosing between three colors from my closet: black, grey, and blue. The first two are in preponderance because they always go together. Simplicity is in my cabinets, when there’s only soup and noodles. I’m overwhelmed by my mother’s fridge which teems with leftovers and expired salad dressing.

The fantasies I have are of less things, not more, and I dream about a tiny house on wheels or an RV when my son goes away to college, which is why I don’t need the couch, the desk, another book shelf. My home is already a tight 773 square feet of entropy, built in the 1940s. I’ll be lucky if I can sell it at all, but I push this thought away.

Simple means having four things to worry about instead of twenty. It means pronouncing no more curses under my breath because everything I touch goes smoothly. In short, I think of simplicity as a kind of chronic peacefulness. I’m sure this is what defines the aesthetic for people who voluntarily undertake simple living as part of a spiritual practice, or those who retreat into the woods, going off the grid.

“Simple” is used to market foods assumed to be organic and whole. It sells magazines and skin products, recipes, financial plans, cell phones, lifestyles, fashions, cleaning products, and is sometimes an acronym. “Simplicity” is a term found in theology, philosophy, and photography. In the popular imagination, simplicity could be cross-listed with happiness or peace of mind. See also, elegance and minimalism, though simplicity is a word that behaves itself impeccably, no matter the context. Simple and simplicity might sometimes depart from one another, aside from being adjective and noun, though I’ve never thought too much about it.

Harder, when I must read simplicity as austerity, when I must choose the beans and rice because I cannot afford to eat more richly. When the choices narrow to one and that’s the option with the sparest design. When all menus point to side dishes and when a boiled egg is my only breakfast.

Counting calories require simplicity, and the best diets push us toward streamlining our choices lest we are taken in by the complexities that beckon. Exercise must be simple else it pushes us away: as simple as putting on shoes and stepping outside, or a bike path at the end of the street. It cannot require too much of us with regard to time or equipment or we won’t do it. Routines that are too complex will never be routine.

Routine is simple. I get up, do the set things I must do every morning, and my day moves slowly through the harmonies of work. I return home and what I most long for is simple: a beer, a couch, a show, my laptop, and the dishes done. However, one night I must meet a friend for dinner and that is never simple. I get home too late to wash the dishes which pile around the sink. My morning will be fraught with cooking pot puzzles and dirty travel cups. I will wash a spoon in order to use one.

Simple is silverware that matches; what my family never had and what I secretly wanted. I bought new silverware almost twelve years ago and I still have every piece. Simple to protect when the rule is they never leave the house. Simple because they are too heavy and cumbersome.

Some people use the word “simple” to denote a person who does not move at the same pace as everyone else. People are simple-minded (simpletons) if they do not engage others easily, if they are withdrawn, slow to word or thought, or even content with staying in the same area where they’ve always lived. I must be simple because I am Appalachian and I choose to live in my home town. I must be simple because I love mountains more than city skylines.

I am a backpacker, and planning for a two- or three-day trip is an exercise in existential simplicity. I know the weight of everything to the gram and I keep a spreadsheet which I update each trip. I’ve weighed everything beforehand so I am careful to pack no more than twenty-five pounds. I carry about ten pounds of food and water. I endlessly ruminate on how to carry less, and whether or not I can dispense with anything in my pack, in my ideal and ritualized unburdening.

A hike is meditative with the comfort of having everything I need in my bag and nothing to do but walk. Simple means essential, or being able to make do, without luxury. Simple is grateful for serendipity and the kindness of others, and simple dreams under the great vault of Heaven.

Simple is tracing the backbone of a 480 million-year-old lifeform, and recalling Dōgen’s “Mountains and Waters Sutra.” He could not have been the first one to say that mountains belong to all those who love them, or that mountains walk, or flow. “You should study the green mountains, using numerous worlds as your standards,” writes Dōgen. I study the mountain every day on my way to work and back, wishing I was there and not driving.

Simple is a hot cup of tea, right now, in my hand. It’s also a way of centering.

I keep coming back to “numerous worlds,” and wonder why we need so many.

Simple is the yoga I haven’t done in a few days, because my life has been too complex. James Richardson writes that “Our lives get complicated because complexity is so much simpler than simplicity.”

In a lecture decades old, Baba Ram Dass reminds that the ego will impede all attempts to liberate consciousness. I find mine does everything it can, ultimately siding with laziness, the sheets tangled around my legs, pillow between my knees, my back supported.

It’s always quiet in the dark of my room, and every morning that perfect silence comes undone as the room lightens.

This too, is simplicity.

#ArtLitPhx: Masculinity in the Mix – Phoenix

Masculinity in the mix Bocafloja“Masculinity in the Mix” presents the artists Mark Gonzales and Bocafloja. The event takes place on Friday, September 30th at 6:00 p.m. at the ASU Art Museum International Artist Residency
Project Space at Combine Studios (821 N. 3rd St. #11, Phoenix, AZ 85004)

In partnership with: ASU Art Museum Project Space at Combine Studios, the ASU Herberger Institute for Design and the Arts, ASU School of Social Transformation.

The event will explore the healing of trauma influenced by social and political contexts through storytelling, poetry, film, and community conversations. For more information visit the Arizona Humanities Facebook event.

SR Pod/Vod Series, Recording: Rochelle Shapiro

SR Pod/Vod Series, Recording: Rochelle Shapiro

Rochelle ShapiroThis Tuesday, we are proud to feature a podcast of SR contributor Rochelle Shapiro reading her two poems from Issue 17.

You can listen to the podcast on our iTunes channel, podcast #234.

You can follow along with Rochelle’s poems in Superstition Review, Issue 17.

More about the author:

Rochelle Jewel Shapiro’s novel, Miriam the Medium (Simon & Schuster, 2004) was nominated for the Ribelow Prize. The sequel, Kaylee’s Ghost (2012) was an Indie Finalist. Her poems and short stories have appeared in The Iowa Review, Peregrine, Atlanta Review, Amoskaag, The Delmara Review, Reunion: The Dallas Review, and more. Her poem, Second Story Porch, was nominated for the Pushcart Prize by Schuykill Valley Review. She’s published essays in The New York Times (Lives) and Newsweek, plus many anthologies. She teaches writing at UCLA Extension.

Shelfie Contest

Superstition Review is pleased to resurrect our Shelfie contest, running Monday Sep 26-Sunday Oct 1.

How it Works:

All submissions must come through Superstition Review‘s Twitter. Please send a picture of your Shelfie in a tweet that includes @SuperstitionRev #Shelfie

What You Win:

Judges will pick the top Shelfie, and the winner will receive a Superstition Review mug.

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Past Entries:

Visit our Shelfie Board on Pinterest to see past poems.

Shelfie Contest

 

North American Review

North American ReviewThe North American Review is now seeking submissions to the 17th Annual James Hearst Poetry Prize. This year’s judge is Major Jackson. The deadline for submissions is October 31, 2016. First prize is $1,000, and all winners and finalists will be published in the Spring 2017 issue. The entry fee is $20.00 and includes a one-year subscription to the North American Review.
This year, all submissions to the James Hearst Poetry Prize will be handled through our online submission system.
Visit our submission guidelines for more information.

 

Contributor Update, Deborah Bogen: Winner of the New Letters Poetry Award

Deborah Bogen

Deborah Bogen

New Letters is a literary magazine that has an annual writing contest. Each year, three writers are chosen to receive $1,500 and publication in the magazine. This year, Deborah Bogen was chosen as the winner in the poetry section.

Deborah Bogen has contributed poetry to Superstition Review twice. To read her poems featured in issue 4, click here. For her work in issue 12, click here.

To learn more about the New Letters writing contest, click here.

Guest Post, Elizabeth Bradfield: In Praise of Jackalopes and Secret Agents

Elizabeth Bradfield

Secret agent in the field

Sometimes, on an airplane, I wonder if the person beside me thinks I’m a pathological liar after they ask, “What do you do?” and I begin to answer.  Or fumble toward answering.

Sometimes I want to lie.

Do you lie?

Sometimes I do.

By omission, if nothing else.  Too many answers when they want one.  I work on ships.  I am run a press.  I teach.  I do website design. And then the real answer, which to many is strange and either provokes awkward silence or too many questions: I am a poet and a naturalist.

At the core of my being, that reply rings and resounds.  Poet and naturalist are callings I heed.  Passions I am grateful to follow.  They are ways of moving through the world.  Words for how I navigate.  They are not careers.

*

A career is paystubs and (hopefully) promotions.  It is marked progress or at least marked time.  It is commerce.

Being a naturalist is not commerce. It is carefully observing the world without humans at its center.  You might get paid to lead a walk or give a talk, but being a naturalist constitutes more than that calendared moment.  Being a poet is the same.

Poetry is not commerce. Sometimes, a little money might come from a poem.  Sometimes.  A little.  But not often.

And that is our freedom, as poets.  The poems won’t pay the rent.  Their value is reckoned differently.  Even after they go out into the world, they are ours.  And we can allow whim and art and passion to make them.  For most poets, there is no “brand” to protect for market-driven reasons, a narrowing of expression which would hinder our making with self-consciousness.  The exploration and the experimentation of each new poem is the thing that makes us poets.

Career: v. move swiftly and in an uncontrolled way in a specified direction. “The car careered across the road and went through a hedge.”

If you’re like me, you’d probably say “careened.”  The car careened around a corner.

In North America, that’s become an acceptable usage of the verb.  But to careen is more truly to turn (a ship) on its side for cleaning, caulking, or repair.  Where I live, we see ships careened in the summer.  Wooden hulks coaxed to float by annual patching.

*

A boat out of the water is a vulnerable and strange thing.  It keens with the weight of its careening.  It does more than list.  It leans.  And it leans hard—maybe against a piling driven into the sand to hold it upright when the water pulls away.

Meander, when I was younger, was one of my favorite words.  I loved the way my mouth had to work around it.  Now, it sounds a little whiny to me, mewling, and I don’t use it in poems.

I would be careened without poems, without the deliberate observation, the delighted surprise that springs from being open to what emerges, that comes from both writing and being a naturalist.  I would lean and break.  I would be a hulk on the shore.

I career between these selves, these lives.

*

Odd hybrids have always held power.  Minotaur, selkie, siyokoy, Anubis, angel, jackalope.

“In the 1930s, Douglas Herrick and his brother, hunters with taxidermy skills, popularized the American jackalope by grafting deer antlers onto a jackrabbit carcass and selling the combination to a local hotel in Douglas, Wyoming.”

Praise the jackalope.  Praise the strange beauty of two lives deliberately brought together.  And the secrets and omissions that conjoining must necessarily entail.

Secrets are held within us, alive but invisible.  Some, of course, can be horrible and dangerous.  But not all.  Some fuel us.

When I am speaking as a poet, talking to students about image or line, the secret of my naturalist life pulses within me.  I am comforted by its warmth.  My shoulders hold an echo of the weight of my binocular strap and my eyes a squint of light on water.  I need the power of that other, more physical life to buoy me when I flounder in the world of words.

When I am working as a naturalist, searching for animals or coaxing people to bend down and look at feeding barnacles, poems sing in me. Lines by other poets, phrases that might become a poem of my own. I don’t share them.  I joke with the crew, drive the boat, do head-counts, take data.  I don’t want to talk about writing poems.  I want that buzz in my pocket, that secret gathering power in its unspoken form.

Sometimes, though, shuttling between poet-self and naturalist-self leaves me disoriented.  As if I’m too much in limbo, liminal, always becoming and never there.

*

Dedicating oneself to two worlds can mean slower progress in each.  There is a benefit to laser focus, to sustained and dedicated effort in one field.  But not all of us are wired for that.  Some of us struggle and itch if we have to offer only one answer to the question, “What do you do?”

I want to honor the power and necessity of that non-singularity.  The energy of that pendulum swing between ways of seeing, ways of engaging.  Poetry and plumbing.  Poetry and psychoanalysis.  Poetry and parenthood.

Many writers (myself included, at least partly, for the past four years) earn a living by teaching writing.  But not all writers are in the academy, and not all writers want to be in the academy.  Some hold writing apart from whatever they do to make money, keep it separate from their working lives, free to range and explore unseen by supervisors or colleagues.  Free to rebel and speak against as well as for.

It’s harder, sometimes, to find these writers.  It’s harder for them to take time to travel and give readings; they don’t have students who go out and share their work.  But their books are out there to be found. Their voices sing.

Writers who have wandered, whether it’s into teaching or doctoring or carpentry, know that I claim you as kin.  We won’t have “careers” as writers, but we will career, and the energy our non-writing life—its vocabulary and systems and specific conundrums—will make the words we explore vital and strange. We will have lives as writers.  As jackalopes, as secret agents of words.