Contributor Update: Thomas Legendre

Join us in congratulating author and past SR contributor, Thomas Legendre! His newest novel Keeping Time is set to be released from University of Cincinnati Press on March 15, 2020. The book centers around Aaron Keeler and his time-traveling journey where he meets a younger version of his wife. During his travels, Aaron must face the challenges of his marriage, save his family and deal with the ancient mystery that launched his career. The book is inspired by his shorter fictional piece “Ultraviolet” which was published in Issue 18 of Superstition Review.

Thomas is also the author of a novel entitled The Burning, various critical and creative essays, and a few dramatic writing pieces. In his everyday life he works as a professor at the University of Nottingham.

To learn more about Thomas and his writing, visit his website and find more information about Keeping Time here.

Congratulations, Thomas!

Intern Update: Christine Truong

Today’s intern update features, Christine Truong, an art editor from Issue 9 of Superstition Review.

With a BA in English Language and Literature, Christine has recently begun work as a college counselor for Fulfillment Fund, which aims to help people attend college who otherwise couldn’t for financial or other reasons by giving them a support network.

She has also worked as an academic leader in A Place Called Home, an organization dedicated to supporting young people in economically hard times by offering programs for tutoring, counseling, nutrition, and many other helpful resources.

We are so proud of you Christine!

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

Intern Update: Sarah Murray

Today’s Intern Update features Sarah Murray, who worked as a fiction editor on Issue 9 of Superstition Review.

With both a BA and MA in Creative Writing as well as involvement in various communities from HEAL International to the LGBTQ Coalition, Sarah has been directing the AIDS Walk in Los Angeles for the past year, promoting the event and overseeing its execution to help combat the HIV/AIDS epidemic.

She also works as a Digital Operations Editor for Fairy Tale Review, co-managing communications and outreach in addition to supervising the submission-to-publication process.

We are so proud of you Sarah!

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

Intern Update: Tana Ingram

Today’s Intern Update features Tana Ingram, who worked as a fiction editor on Issue 8 of Superstition Review.

Not only does she have a BA in Literature, Writing, and Film as well as a BS in Human Nutrition, she also has MS in Nutrition. For the past year she has worked at Mountain Park Health Center as a registered dietician, supporting health however she can.

She also worked as a Clinical Dietician at Dignity Health before transferring right here in Tempe, continuing her efforts in preventative nutrition care for her patients.

We are so proud of you Tana!

If you’d like to learn more, you can visit Tana’s LinkedIn page here and her MPHC page here.

Contributor Update, Jami Attenburg

Join us in congratulating past SR interview contributor Jami Attenburg on the upcoming publication of her newest novel All This Could Be Yours! The book tells the beautifully woven story of a dysfunctional family, centering around a woman who starts to uncover the troubling past of her father who is on his death bed.

Jami is a critically acclaimed, internationally published author and this will be her seventh book! She has also written for many notable publications such as The New York Times Magazine and The Guardian. All This Could Be Yours will be released on October 22! Check out her interview with Superstition Review in Issue 20 and visit her website for information about her and her work.

Congratulations, Jami!

Intern Update: Samantha Vélez

Today’s Intern Update features Samantha Vélez, who worked as a content coordinator on Issue 8 of Superstition Review.

With a BA in Interdisciplinary Studies and concentrations in Spanish, literature, writing, and film, Samantha recently began work as an Outreach Coordinator at the University of Wyoming, particularly the Wyoming CarbonSAFE program and the Center for Economic Geology Research (CEGR). Here, she assists the director as a professional writer, her tasks including creating media releases and news articles and preparing presentation materials and editorial concepts for publication materials.

She has also worked as a graduate teaching assistant for English to receive her Master’s at UW and is two years into a PhD program for Marketing at their College of Business as well.

We are so proud of you Samantha!

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

road

Guest Post, Jill Talbot: Distance, A Compendium

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.