Internship Opportunities for ASU Undergraduates Spring 2020

Superstition Review

Internship Opportunities with Superstition Review 

Are you an ASU student interested in creative writing, publishing, marketing, social networking, blogging, or 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? 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.

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.

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.

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.)

Applications are open on a rolling basis.

What 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 control and engage in the work fully. Thanks for the wonderful experience!
  • 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. 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.
  • Trish is very knowledgeable, friendly, respectful, and encouraging. She truly values her students.
  • Trish is very knowledgeable. 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, Jill Talbot: Distance, A Compendium

road

When Superstition Review asked me to write a post for this blog, I wanted to write something related to my essay, “On Being (Lost),” which is about distance and direction and the longing to leave. I thought I’d write a craft essay about how to create distance in writing, and as a way to begin thinking through the idea, I performed a Find search in every essay I’ve written, looking for lines with one of these five words—road, distance, missing, highway, and longing—copying and pasting each one into a document. As a way to look even closer, I printed out the pages and grabbed the scissors, separating each line into a single strip of paper and then I sat down and arranged them into categories, but then, I wondered if they might turn into an essay of their own, so I started arranging again, bringing the lines into conversation, losing many of them along the way because they were redundant or weren’t engaging with the concepts in interesting—or syntactically compelling—ways. My intended craft essay gave way to this compendium, and each fragment here is a line from one of my essays. The exercise helped me to see my work from a distance, to think about how and why it’s a recurring theme in my work and to think about how I can push myself, in future essays, to find new ways to write the distance.

I.

Out here, the triple train tracks run alongside the road.

I pulled up to the hotel sun-tired and road-weary, thirsty for the booze I needed to put at least a hundred more miles between me and that brick two-lane out of Lubbock.

Deeper Into Texas, deeper into distance, deeper into the trouble I was dragging through the desert like a carcass.

Maybe I needed to know what I would choose if another reality came into view, like a gas station on a long, empty road.

Back then, a bottle of Barefoot Chardonnay cost me around ten bucks.

He was from down south, a town called Marathon, dust and tumbleweeds, rust and empty roads, store-front signs that whine in the grit of the wind.

We watched the mountains in the distance, counting the headlights of cars blurring
the curves. Those lights reminded me of something, but I couldn’t name it.

It was like sitting inside the missing.

II.

I don’t think it’s ever been about missing him at all.

I was like those tumbleweeds in Marathon, always tossing myself toward some rusty-
edged road.

Maybe it’s dust from another summer, the one when he and I stood in a Colorado river, sand swirling into a cloud before setting into us so that we would always carry each other across the distance. Maybe what I carry is the distance.

Empty
downtown buildings, train tracks, Highway 82 out of Lubbock—a road
I wore out in my twenties
every time I tried to unravel myself from that town.

It’s all thunderstorms in the distance.

I don’t want to lose my capacity for longing, for missing, for wondering what might be, for yearning for what has come and gone before I had the chance to save it. I want a window to stare out of or a dark bar where I can buy my dissatisfaction another drink.

I write because I used to be someone I miss.

III.

Sometimes a direction calls us from the distance, and for me it’s always been west.

When I think of October, I think of deep ochre, a south Texas highway that traces the Davis Mountains, a fire’s shadow undulating against the limestone laccoliths of Big Bend at night.

Leaves bring back a lost season, and I keep writing, building a map so that I can spread out the pages and point to a phone call, a room, or even a breeze, and say, here.

IV.

Give me distance, and I’ll give you an essay. Here:

She once drove that truck all the way to some New Mexico road and pulled over at a gas station to wonder why the pay phone she once called him from had been ripped out, holes where there had once been bolts rusted dark.
Wind in the distance.

She had a flat highway inside her, a sign that told her she was 381 miles from some no-account town.

Her missing him was like an oversized map spread out across the floor.

V.

I understood that, understood that driving hard down one dust-soaked road after another will never make a difference.

Days and nights almost seem wasted, at least borrowed, when you’re counting down to leaving. Not knowing where you’re leaving for makes those days and nights a map of creases that have worn away entire cities.

There’s a small bus center off the highway, where a Greyhound could take me back to all the cities I’ve pulled away from so that I could climb the steps of a post office or duck into a wood-floored diner or stop by to see if the same clerk’s behind the counter.

I like these nights, when the Chardonnay climbs the rungs of memory to the roof of the building, and I can see the city the way it was then.

In my mind, those moments shimmer the way hot air on roads bends light.

The road I keep trying to lose is in South Fork, where I once stood in front of a house willing the man I had known there—the one who had long ago moved away—to step out to the front porch.

I have empty streets inside me. Streets that have built cities, maps of trouble.

I imagine pushing the pedal all the way down that flat road, the horizon a razor, the pump of oil jacks a steady lulling of the landscape.

The pull of the wrong direction, so I took off and drove west into New Mexico until my Jeep rumbled a dusty road toward a bottomless lake.

I do remember leaving town the next day, chasing the distance, the space I couldn’t see, the grit in the wind. And I can admit it now, I’ve always stayed gone.

Authors Talk: Alison Mandaville

Today we are pleased to feature Alison Mandaville as our Authors Talk series contributor. In this podcast she speaks with her partner and takes the time to reflect on how her journey as a writer has progressed and how she got to where she is today.

For Alison, “poetry was always there” from a young age and she recounts some of her earliest memories of writing poetry. Like many other writers, there was a time in her life when writing took the backseat to other priorities, but Alison came back to writing later in life. She discusses the events and inspirations that have recently fueled her creative writing such as her work in Azerbaijan, where she made connections with other writers, and her choice to go back to school. She claims that it was experiences like these that “opened up the page ” for her to get back to poetry. She also discusses her work with translation and how it helped her to write poetry. She notes that translation is a way you “take something that was already beautiful and get to make another beautiful thing out of it.”

Along with her close work with the intricacies of language, Alison gives credit to her experience with creative residencies where she has been able to collaborate with other writers who are serious about their work. She gives advice on how to apply for these residencies and the benefits of attending them for aspiring writers. Here is a non-profit resource for finding these residencies designed for artists and creative writers.

You can read Alison’s poetry in Issue 23 of Superstition Review.

Contributor Update, Alison Stine

Join us in congratulating past SR poetry contributor Alison Stine on her debut adult novel The Grower! The novel is forthcoming from Mira (HarperCollins) with expected publication in September 2020. The novel centers around a girl from a farm in Ohio who follows her family across the country and ends up meeting some misfits that need her help along the way. The Grower will be followed by another novel entitled Trashlands in 2021.

Alison is the author of three books of poetry, including Wait, winner of the Brittingham Prize, and Ohio Violence, winner of the Vassar Miller, as well as two books of YA fiction. Her writing has also appeared in The Kenyon Review, The Atlantic, The Guardian, and many other publications.

For more information about Alison and her work visit her website. You can also read her poetry featured in Issue 22 of Superstition Review.

Congratulations, Alison!

Intern Update: Dustin Diehl

Today’s Intern Update features Dustin Diehl, who worked as a nonfiction editor on Issue 4 of Superstition Review.

With a BA in English Literature, a minor in Religious Studies, and a Certificate in LGBTQ Studies, Diehl recently started working as the Director of Strategy and Performance at Digital Current.

He has also worked as a freelance writer for both Here Media publications (including OUT Magazine) for 5 years and East Valley Tribune for 9 years, delivering both editorials, travel writing, and pop culture content.

We are so proud of you Dustin!

If you’d like to learn more, you can visit Dustin’s LinkedIn page here.

Guest Post, Jessica Goodfellow: Consciousness of Humans and of Trees

pines

A few years ago, my 80-year-old father had a bad accident and broke his neck. For a time, we did not know if he would survive; when he did, the extent of his paralysis was the next unknown. My father’s recovery, full or partial, from his traumatic brain injury depended on his grasping the
seriousness of his condition and cooperating with therapy regimes, an ability his compromised brain seemed to no longer have.

Within a year of my father’s accident, my best friend of over 30 years began having an unrelenting series of strokes, hundreds of them, with an unknown trigger. For a period of time, not so short, it was not clear if she would survive. Then, when it seemed she would, the extent of the damage done to her brain was not fully known. And then it was, but how much she will recover was, is, uncertain.

I live in Japan, far from my father and my best friend. While waiting many time zones away to hear about first their survival, then their prognoses, and later still the extent of their brain injuries, I wrote the poem “How I Know My Grief” which appeared in Issue 22 of Superstition Review. The poem begins:

Nothing green
grows faster
than bamboo.

This is how
I know
my grief’s

not green.
Pine trees,
season-

blind, are green.
This is how
I know

my grief
is green.

In English, the word pine means both ‘the evergreen’ and the verb ‘to yearn’. The Japanese word for the pine tree, matsu, also has multiple meanings, including 松 (matsu) ‘the evergreen tree’, and 待つ (matsu) ‘to wait’. During the period when no one knew what would happen to my father or my best friend, I grieved for their futures or their lack of futures, while later I grieved for their pasts, their memories, which included memories we shared, or perhaps no longer did—I would have to wait and see. Waiting, it seemed to me, was all about yearning. Later, after each of these two patients stabilized, yearning became all about waiting, waiting for something to be different, even if only waiting for the pain of things never being different to become less unbearable. Waiting and yearning: pine and pine.

Many years ago, I read in The New Yorker about a sacred tree in Madagascar under which people leave offerings such as slaughtered goats, rum, and money, in hopes of gaining good fortune in child-bearing, business dealings, school entrance exams, love, etc. The tree is called kakazotsi fantata, which translates as ‘the tree whose name nobody knows’. That is, the name the tree is known by is, apparently unironically, ‘the tree whose name nobody knows’. Knowing is a function, chiefly, of the brain—though of course also a function of the body, the bones and muscles too—but foremost of the brain, which is itself part of the body. With brain injury or strokes, what is known becomes the unknown, becomes the thing that nobody knows—not the patient, not the people who observe the patient, and certainly not the people who love the patient. What is it for patients to not know what they don’t know? What is it to not know the person you
have always known, to not recognize them, or be recognized by them? Is this not grief?

Recent research into the social systems of trees has revealed the surprising extent of their interconnection and interdependence, in contrast to the previous notion our species had of trees as competing with one another for sunlight and other resources. For example, we now know that the roots of trees, together with underground fungi, form mycorrhizal networks through which information is passed, mainly about distress and danger. There are mother trees, with extensive fungal connections, who sense struggling younger trees and divert flows of nutrients to them. Under attack by foraging deer or insects, certain trees emit pheromones, alerting their neighbors to increase their own production of foul-tasting substances in their leaves which might help them escape a similar fate. Whether or not there is intent to warn, however, is controversial, with some scientists disputing such an interpretation.

Regardless, there is an entire complex system among trees that, until recently, we did not know about. I tend to lean against anthropomorphizing, against generalizing the sort of consciousness we have to trees, despite their signal-sending. But how I want to be wrong about that, and how wrong I could be—we honestly don’t know. Here we can find hope in what we do not know—what might be true. I want it to be true that trees communicate with intention and compassion. I want trees to know things, to remember, even while I know that this would only bring them grief. I want, in a very human way, for trees to be more like us in the few ways that we as a species are good—I want kinship with a thing that will surely outlast me. Mostly though, I want to believe communication occurs that is unobservable to me—be it communication between trees or communication with patients who have had significant brain issues.

Robert MacFarlane, in his book The Lost Words, reports that the Welsh phrase dod yn ôl at fy nghoed means “to return to a balanced state of mind”, or literally “to return to my trees”. I’m happy to report that both my father and my best friend are slowly, slowly returning to their trees, with effort and determination and often with great frustration. In the meantime, I follow The Ice Age (@Jamie_Woodward_), twitter feed of Jamie Woodward, professor of physical geography at the University of Manchester. One day in August of this year he tweeted, “There are trees in the north that remember the wolves.” Contrast that with what poet Dorianne Laux has written: “If trees could speak, they wouldn’t.” Both of these statements, it seems to me, sound about right; both have hope in the consciousness of trees, yet both are laced with notions of grief. Hope, but also grief. Ever green and yearning.

Resources:

Grant, Richard. “Do Trees Talk to Each Other?” The Smithsonian Magazine, March 2018. https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/the-whispering-trees-180968084/

Laux, Dorianne (2005). “The Life of Trees” in Facts About the Moon. New York, New York: W. W. Norton.

MacFarlane, Robert (2017). The Lost Words. London: Hamish Hamilton (Penguin Random House).

Shoumatoff, Alex. “Our Far Flung Correspondents (Madagascar),” The New Yorker, March 7, 1988, p. 62+. http://www.dispatchesfromthevanishingworld.com/our-far-flung-correspondents-madagascar/

Intern Update: Carter Nacke

Today’s Intern Update features Carter Nacke, who worked as a developer on Issue 2 of Superstition Review.

With a BA in Journalism and Mass Communication, Carter recently started working as Event Assistant for Four Peaks Brewing Company and coordinates events alongside a marketing team.

For seven years, he worked on KTAR News as a Digital Content Manager, covering breaking news, original content, viral content, and more. He has even received the Edward R. Murrow Award on multiple occasions for his broadcast journalism work.

We are so proud of you Carter!

If you’d like to learn more, you can visit Carter’s LinkedIn page here.

Authors Talk: Cathy Ulrich

Today we are pleased to feature Cathy Ulrich as our Authors Talk series contributor as she answers interview questions regarding her new book Ghosts of You.

Her book is a collection of flash fiction stories that aim to subvert the trope of victimized women in the mystery and crime genres by telling the real stories of her female characters. She wished to go against the way the genre commonly “takes the humanity away from the woman, makes her a plot point.” She also discusses her inspiration for the book as well as her experience with writing it. Ghosts of You will be Cathy’s first book and she notes that she is “so incredibly lucky” to have the opportunity to have it published.

Cathy’s book is available for pre-order here and will be officially released on October 15th!

You can also read Cathy’s work in Issue 18 of Superstition Review.

Contributor Update, Ephraim Scott Sommers

Today we congratulate Ephraim Scott Sommers, poet and singer-songwriter, on the publication of his second poetry collection Someone You Love is Still Alive. The book is forthcoming from Jacar Press in November of 2019 and has been chosen by poet Mary O’Donnell as the winner of the Jacar Press Full-Length poetry contest.

The beautifully-written collection which deals with the challenges of being human and life’s many complications has received much advance praise for its artistry from other notable poets and authors. We can’t wait to read it and we know you can’t either!

To learn about Ephraim Scott Sommers and his work you can visit his website for more information. And take the time to check out his interview with Superstition Review featured in Issue 19.

Congratulations, Ephraim!

Guest Post, Amy Stonestrom: All in the Family

Writing

All writing stems from the author’s obsessions. This is what Dani Shapiro told me and a room full of writers in a workshop held in Minneapolis this past spring. Whatever we can’t let go of, she said, whatever we keep coming back to, is most often what we end up figuring out on the page. I hadn’t thought of a writer’s subject matter in this particular way before but I nodded wildly in agreement from the front row.

My obsession exists in the form of a rough manuscript and it is aging, I hope, like a good wine (or at the very least an okay cheese) in a document on my desktop. The obsession in question, what my brain tumbles around like sneakers banging in the dryer, is the story of how I removed myself and my son from the once beloved religion of my childhood and how I inadvertently broke my mother’s heart in the process.

Like so many writers, voicing my obsession and maintaining peace within my family are at odds with one another. I need to decide what’s more important, getting this out or keeping my mother and I intact. This seems strange since I did not, in any way, have a Glass Castle childhood. (It’s a rare thing for a memoirist to admit, but my childhood was an embarrassment of stability and fond memories.) However, I know that publicly voicing opposition to my family’s long held belief system would cause my mother to feel deeply betrayed. 

As a result I’ve kept this project a secret from Mom which feels, I must say, pretty lousy. 

I accidentally found a temporary remedy to this conundrum when I set out to write Every Bird in the Nest, an essay that was published in Superstition Review’s 22nd issue. In order to authentically record an ill-fated fishing outing with my dad when I was six, I needed to corroborate my story.

After writing the first draft I called my parents. Dad did not remember the event in question but Mom, at age 81, remembered minute details down to which coat I wore that day. I collected her memories and she handed over the phone to Dad who answered all of my fishing and geography-related questions. Between the three of us, over several days and many drafts, we recreated a factual story forty years after the event. 

And that felt pretty darn good.

I honestly don’t know what I will do with my virtually dusty manuscript that I’m quite certain my mother won’t approve of. But I do know that my obsession surrounding this subject matter won’t leave me. I may just need to open it up, let some light in and . . . dial the phone.

Intern Updates: Asonta Benetti

Today’s Intern Update features Asonta Benetti, a former Superstition Review Nonfiction Editor who graduated from ASU with a degree in English Literature. In addition to being a Configurations Specialist at AAA Arizona, Benetti has advanced her career in writing by working freelance at Screenwriting Goldmine for the last nine years. There, she has contributed to Screenwriting Goldmine’s Open Door, by conducting interviews as well as writing articles and event compilations. She was a screenwriter for the Sitcom Trials and even a finalist for the inaugural SoCal Screenwriting competition. Benetti holds a lot of experience under her belt as both a freelance proofreader, script reader, and travel writer.

If you would like to know more about Bensetti, you can visit her LinkedIn here.