Roots of “Roses”

Samuel Heyman

The following is a guest post by Sam Heyman, whose short story “Roses” appeared in issue 21 of Typehouse Literary Magazine.

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During the fall semester of my senior year of college, I was in the eye of a storm. Specifically, a perfect storm of intersecting liberal arts topics and a looming mania, through which my guiding light was storytelling. I finished my first full length play that semester, as well as a TV pilot in play’s clothing—but interestingly, the work that emerged from that period most intact was “Roses.”

“Roses” grew from a seed planted in my mind after reading Hideko Abe’s Queer Japanese for a linguistics research project. It was a small but rich book, and it didn’t take me long to find something of interest. The first chapter of Queer Japanese concerns gay advice columns, such as those found in G-Men, a now-defunct Japanese gay men’s magazine. Getting a chance to read about the true experiences of queer people in Japan sparked a familiar compulsion in me.

“There’s a story there,” I said aloud—a phrase I often use when an event or situation tempts me into plumbing it for meaning, emotion, truth. There are many stories that could have emerged from my reading of Abe’s lovingly crafted research text, but the one I chose to follow was Kenta’s story; a story about a young gay man coming to terms with his identity, while contending with the reality that he may not be the only queer person in his immediate family.

Throughout “Roses”, I found ways to incorporate the lessons that Queer Japanese had taught me, while also reflecting on the stories of same-sex love and attraction that I had internalized when I was Kenta’s age. I knew there was no way that mere cultural appreciation would be sufficient grounds for me to write a story that was fully authentic to Japanese gay male experience, but I also knew that my goal was less about accuracy than truth. 

The yaoi and bara manga that Kenta reads—that I, too, have read—is nearly always inaccurate, even when it isn’t explicit or pornographic. Yaoi is, in most cases, a fantasy genre dreamed up by straight, female manga artists rather than an authentic exploration of what it means to be gay. Bara, while it at least has congruous authorship, is aspirational and exaggerated in the way it depicts masculinity, men and sex between them. Though entertained, Kenta was made to feel inadequate by these stories, and I was too. 

The story I sought to tell in “Roses” was one that spoke back to the manga of my adolescence. It is grounded in the words of real people, earnestly seeking advice for how to come out to their families and receiving a well meaning, if deeply sad response: “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.” It imagines a generation of queer youth that is unsatisfied with the fantasies they’ve consumed, and who crave a reality that, for all its blemishes, can at least afford the sweetness of love requited, the warmth of familial embrace. The truth it tells is hopeful, like a flower’s potential to bloom. 

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Sam Heyman (He/Him, They/Them) is a gay nonbinary writer housed in Nashville, TN. His writing has been published in Hashtag Queer, Ordinary Space and, most recently, Typehouse Literary Magazine. He hopes to create space for queer lives in literature and imagine, through storytelling, brighter tomorrows for humans of all stripes. Twitter: @sheymanCYCO

Typehouse Positions Open for Issue 22

Typehouse Positions Open for Issue 22, May 2021.
Poetry Feedback Editors (1-2)
Prose Regular Editors (3-4)

No other positions currently open

Editor Responsibilities
Read/provide feedback depending on position (see below)
Edit selected submissions for print in the magazine
Proof finished magazine before going to print

All positions will run through the end of May 2021, and can then be continued for further reading periods to be decided each time. Sadly, this is a for the love of it project, as we are still working to bring up our pay to contributors. However, letters of recommendation, summaries of work performed, and paperwork for using for college requirements are gladly provided.

Time commitment will vary, but is very part time. The first six weeks are a probationary period to ensure that it will be a good fit for everyone, and that keeping up with the responsibilities will work.

Guidelines for Submission Reading.
We use Submittable for our submission process. http://submittable.com/. It’s very easy to use, and we will help you to become familiar with it.

Regular Submission Editors (3-4 Prose):
Read submissions as they come in, starting with the oldest, and vote “Yes,” “No,” or “Maybe.” Number expected will vary depending on number of submissions, but will be a minimum 10 per week, including voting on “Maybe” submissions. No feedback will be needed, although a brief sentence explaining a “Maybe” or “Yes” vote is useful.

Feedback Editors (1-2 Poetry):
Read feedback submissions, starting with the oldest, and provide feedback. Read “Maybe” submissions and weigh in with your opinion. Readers will be expected to provide feedback on at three submissions a week, as well as weigh in on “Maybe” submissions. (We do ask that you have experience with writing feedback for prose pieces, and we will ask for sample feedback on a test piece.)

Submission responses will be tallied, and EIC will stay in contact. Weeks off for travel or work can be arranged. All editors will be expected to help proof submissions as the end of the period in order to prepare the magazine for going to print.

If you are interested in this position send an email to typehouse(at) typehousemagazine(dot)com. Include information on your experience with creative writing, publications, writer’s groups, schooling, etc., and whether the time and reading period commitment required will work for you.

We look forward to hearing from you!

Synesthesia: Artist as Witness

Suzanne S. Rancourt photo

The following is a guest post by Suzanne S. Rancourt, whose poetry appeared in issue 20 of Typehouse Literary Magazine.

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Being a witness, or artist, isn’t always a choice if one is gifted with what the western perspective calls “a perceptual phenomenon,” i.e., Synesthesia. I have always stated, as Artists we have a responsibility to take note and “report” via whatever art making modalities we have available to us; using our sensory tools to see, smell, hear, feel with our gut, (and flesh i.e., air displacement,) what is happening in our immediate environment.   

Some cultures and/or practices refer to the phenomenon of activated sensory systems as Zanshin, situational awareness, or hypervigilance. As a trauma survivor, and practitioner, I have heard and seen the negative connotations ascribed to a hypervigilant state. Transmuting these negative connotations, and in some cases the presentation of, to positive, productive skills, requires a supportive culture, environment, and practitioners to facilitate. I’m talking about practitioners competent in facilitating the neurologically calming, (cooling, quenching, tempering- the body, mind, and spirit,) artmaking modalities. Let our narrators tell the stories through whatever artmaking modality the story emerges from.  i.e., writing, singing, pottery, stacking wood, painting, dance, martial arts, hiking/nature.  For example:  I use Aikido, Iaido, and time in nature to facilitate this transmutation of trauma skill sets into tools for life and art making. I do my best to implement teachings from my Indigenous Ceremonies, childhood, rural upbringing- all of which emphasize inner stillness and practice. 

Synesthesia is a tool that an Artist can hone and employ, thus, better facilitating the reader, and audience’s, ability to experience, and relate to the art being presented. Synesthesia can be something we were born with or developed post- traumatic event. Transmutation takes time and guidance to better differentiate the after effects of a Traumatic Brain Injury, or the residual of “near death experiences.”  I had to return to memories of when I felt safe and whole. Through writing I began to remember the natural world. I got back into recovery because I needed to reconnect with natural abilities. I had the help of mentors, and friends. I kept writing without the critic- voice interfering. i.e., free writing, journaling. I continued singing and songwriting which worked my auditory responses from the inside out. I used my hands, hiked, swum miles upon miles, all this bringing my body, mind, and breath into a wholeness where I felt safe enough to engage with memories and all of my senses. I had lots of help along the way – both formally and informally. 

Artist as Witness: experience fully, record, and report through whichever art making modality our response to a given situation emerges from. Allow ourselves to meld our abilities as Artists and Witnesses with, and through, Synesthesia.

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Sundress Best of the Net Nominee, Suzanne S. Rancourt, is of Abenaki/Huron descent. Author of Billboard in the Clouds, Northwestern UP, received the Native Writers’ Circle of the Americas First Book Award, and murmurs at the gate, Unsolicited Press, released in 2019. Old Stones, New Roads, Main Street Rag Publishing, is forthcoming Spring 2021. She is a USMC and Army Veteran who holds degrees in psychology, writing and expressive arts therapy. Suzanne is widely published.  Please visit her website for a complete publication list: www.expressive-arts.com. @FlameSuzy

About “Beirut, Summer 1982”

From the painting Lebanon by Nabil Kanso 1983

At left: A fragment from Lebanon, a painting realized by Nabil Kanso in 1983, expressing the horror of the Lebanese civil war. http://lebanonpainting.com/works.html  

The following is a guest post by Soraya Qahwaji, whose poetry appeared in issue 20 of Typehouse Literary Magazine.

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The basement scene depicted in my poem “Beirut, Summer 1982” could have happened at almost any time of the fifteen-year long Lebanese civil war that lasted from 1975 to 1990. I chose to situate it during the summer of 1982 as an allusion to the siege and carpet-bombing of Beirut by the Israel Defense Forces. This choice was inspired by an American friend who once told me: “I understand Israel, because the people around Israel are Nazis.”

I was surprised by such a piecemeal statement that demonized and justified the killing of thousands of Palestinians and Lebanese, and condoned practices such as occupation, torture and ethnic cleansing. In the Western political narrative, the rhetorical function of comparing a group of people – especially Arabs –  to Nazis, is to imply that their lives don’t matter, and that protections granted by international law and human rights conventions should not apply to them. I wasn’t expecting to hear that from my friend, a graduate of a very liberal – and very expensive – college, and a convert to Buddhism who believed in practicing compassion towards all beings and was planning to become a monk in the Thai forest tradition. I decided to take the incident as a testimony to the hold of negative representations of Arabs on the American mind, especially the younger generation.

My friend had just begun elementary school when the twin towers were attacked. He has been exposed to negative depictions of Arabs for all his life, which has conditioned his mind in a way that his Buddhist values and practice has been powerless to remedy. I felt the need for a counter-narrative. Not a counter-narrative that would fall into the trap of tit-for-tat and demonize Israel or its army – neither are mentioned in the poem – but a counter-narrative that would humanize “the people around Israel.” What I hoped to achieve is forcing the humanity of the victims onto those who deny it.

Beirut, Summer 1982 is also my Ars Poetica. Deep down, I am that mother who wants to comfort and entertain her children, at the risk of her own sanity. This, to me, is the essence of poetry: providing spiritual and moral sustenance. One of the most poetic things I’ve recently heard was on a BBC documentary on Chinese “reeducation camps” for the Uyghur minority in East Turkistan. One Uyghur inmate had written on the bathroom wall: “Oh my heart, don’t break!” The writing itself was not shown on camera, so as not to endanger its author. You could say that the sentence is trite and cliché. The language is unsurprising, the picture, juvenile. But whoever wrote that sentence was trying to remain spiritually, morally and psychologically alive in the face of extreme circumstances. This is poetry. 

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Soraya Qahwaji is a writer of whom nothing is known. Now let’s look at her essay.

Cover Reveal! (Preorder now!)

Volume 8, No. 1, Issue 21, #BlackLivesMatter

Typehouse Cover 21

Featuring:

Fiction by:
Sudha Balagopal, Nikita Andester, Chip Howard, V.L. Seltsam, Kate Lechler, Sam Heyman, Zachary Kellian, Pernille AEgidius Dake, Jackie Bee, Abby Rose Manis, and Ian O’Leary.

Creative Nonfiction by:
Claudia Wair and John Backman.

Poetry by:
Claire Scott, Martha Darr, Magdalena Gómez, Lane Fields, Rick Swann, Peter Grandbois, Lorrie Ness, Mischelle Anthony, Sonia Beauchamp, and Rodd Whelpley

Visual Art by:
Jayne Marek, Lorin Lee Cary, Gaby Bedetti, and Jennifer Weigel.

Shipping the second week of January 2021

Preorder Here!

Writing While Black in a Year of Protest

The following is a guest post by Shawn R. Jones, whose poetry appeared in issue 20 of Typehouse Literary Magazine.

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I sat down to write a few days after George Floyd’s murder, and never had the writing process felt more precarious. In 2019, it seemed so clear. I understood what I wanted to say and who I wanted to speak for, but more recently, my mind has been fraught with hurt, rage, and disappointment.

I am not sure who I am writing for now. Am I writing for Black people questioning their place in America, for my white neighbors whose hellos are suddenly more of an apology than a greeting, or for people who are speaking to me for the first time? 

For instance, my husband and I have been living in a predominantly white neighborhood for over a decade. There are a few neighbors who have refused to speak to us. However, a few days after Floyd’s murder, one of these neighbors pulled up beside us and asked how we were doing. I wanted to respond, the same way we have been for the past 401 years. I wasn’t sure if I should be thankful that she had finally decided to speak or angry that she hadn’t “noticed” us before.

I spoke back, with a hello that had a silent uh… in front of it and a question mark behind it. You see, I had stopped speaking to her because she had never responded and also because I had assumed she was the one who had written, “Niggers Go Back to Africa,” on the asphalt in front of our home. It was an assumption I made based on a gut feeling I have learned to rely on in environments where people can hate me and smile at me at the same time and others can hate me so much that they refuse to speak or smile at all.

In this racial climate, I don’t know what to expect from some white people any more than they know what to expect from me. I rely heavily on a gut feeling when I need to decide who I can trust. Thus far, that feeling hasn’t failed me. I don’t think I have a special mojo. However, I am convinced that many black people can feel racism without anyone even looking in their direction because racism feels more like a being, a spirit that prowls around our country, searching for a host.

So, how do we write about racism? How do we decide who our audience is? As I write this, I am asking myself those same questions while also understanding that sometimes we need to protect our mental health by not writing about events that disturb us. However, if you are compelled to do so, write a visceral response to a racial injustice you have witnessed this year.  Revise later. If you feel ready, choose an incident, and write without worrying about what people are going to think about you.  Become a gutsy writer, and write what you need to write for your own liberation. After you give your piece an honest voice, your audience will show up. 

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Shawn R. Jones is a writer from South Jersey. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, Womb Rain (Finishing Line Press 2008) and A Hole to Breathe (Finishing Line Press 2015). Her poetry chapbook, Womb Rain, is #61 in Finishing Line Press’ New Women’s Voices Series. Her poetry has also appeared in Essence, Challenges for the Delusional, River Heron Review, and Guesthouse. She has poetry forthcoming in Peregrine Journal. Her debut short story, “The Life that You Saved” was recently published by Obelus Journal. Shawn is the owner and operator of Tailored Tutoring LLC and Kumbaya Academy, Inc. She is also a 2019 graduate of Rutgers-Camden’s MFA Program. Twitter: @shawnrjones1

The Practice of Seeing

The following is a guest post by James Miller, whose poetry appeared in issue 20 of Typehouse Literary Magazine.

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We have a long global tradition of writing about visual art—ekphrasis. Anne Sexton’s “The Starry Night” is an important one for me, a poem that captures her longing to dive into Van Gogh’s raw brushstrokes. Sexton seeks a more vivid and dangerous world, one ruled by a “great dragon” that demands absolute commitment to fearless creation.

Many ekphrastic writers follow a similar path. They begin in a self-conscious posture of looking, often at a framed masterpiece on the gallery wall. Their lines seek to animate static images with floods of association, reflection, desire. But poets have also responded to films, theater, and music—all of which unfold across charged minutes. These are arts of entrance, sojourn and exit; to write about them, we explore the subjective experience of duration.

I thought about these ideas when I first saw Gerhard Richter Painting (2011), by German documentarian Corinna Belz. Her film privileges the artist in the studio, working. Mostly we stand behind Richter, waiting with him as he considers… reconsiders… doubts. And acts. He covers a massive canvas with broad swathes of black, yellow, red. Then he steps back, into stillness. Then he lifts a monster squeegee from the table, approaches his abstract slab of paint…and smears color from left to right, or ceiling to floor.

I gasped audibly the first time the squeegee came out. The first time the paint blurred and failed, dropped away to reveal layers of hidden texture, half-memories of a half-hour before, an hour, a day, a week. Part of what excited me about Richter’s method was the slow and steady pace of his movements. He seemed to lean into motion as if shifting a great weight, taking his time. This was far from the flippant wipe we sometimes see between scenes in an old action movie, or the unthinking everyday swipe so characteristic of social media… thank you, next! Richter’s patience was touched by a menacing quality: Let us see what is hidden, he seemed to say. And in so doing, let us distort and blur and misremember and forget. We do all of this willingly, with courage.

What did this film teach me about seeing? In my poem “Gerhard Richter Painting,” I tried to describe his decisive gesture, bringing forms into being while simultaneously defacing or obscuring them. As Richter worked, I thought of warehouses on the shores of memory, filled with piercing remnants of a life, or a culture, or an ecology. The artist can open the warehouse door, revealing an impossibly rich and suggestive jumble. But the artist must also close that door, perhaps wincing at the squeal of metal as it comes down, bringing darkness again to once cherished things.

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James Miller is a native of the Texas Gulf coast. He won the Connecticut Poet Award in 2020, and his poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Cold Mountain Review, The Maine Review, Lunch Ticket, The Atlanta Review, Thin Air, A Minor, Eclectica, Rabid Oak, pioneertown, Juked, North Dakota Quarterly, Yemassee, Phoebe, Mantis and elsewhere.

2020 Best Small Fictions Nominations!

Best Small Fiction Nominations

Our 2020 nominations for the Sonder Press Best Small Fictions awards are:

  • Daddy Had a Dog Named Jesus by Martina Litty (Issue 19)
  • We Float Alone by  Addison Rizer (Issue 19)
  • Dandelion Soup by Emily Behnke (Issue 20)
  • Worry by Deirdre Danklin (Issue 20)
  • Father William by Avra Margariti (Issue 20)

Congratulations and good luck!

2020 Pushcart Prize Nominations!

Pushcart Prize Nominations

Our nominations are:

  • Fiction:
    • Leanne Howard for “Heavenly Bodies” (Issue 20)
    • Ifeanyi Ekpunobi for “To Love Someone like You” (Issue 20)
  • Poetry:
    • Shutta Crum for “We Meet for Coffee at a Crowded Café” (Issue 19)
    • Shawn R. Jones for “The Undertow” (Issue 20)
  • Nonfiction:
    • Elizabeth Fergason for “Soup Day” (Issue 19)
    • Erin Yuan for “How to Make Jiaozi” (Issue 20)

Congratulations and good luck!