She is picking lazily at the scab on her knee, lifting the edges, trying to glimpse healing. I am caught holding a romaine lettuce shell, patting its veins dry as I have done with ninety-seven pieces previously. When she looks up it is at me. The Jesus prayer is throbbing through me and I cannot remember when or how it began. I shut my eyes against the bright morning light turning her into shadow. When I open them everything is blue-green and she has gone outside. One hundred and one. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, the sinner. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, the sinner. One hundred and two. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, the sinner. I do not believe in God. I did not choose to pray. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, the sinner. She is bringing wild daisies into the house, dirt moons beneath her fingernails. One hundred and three. I have not been remade by good news. No grasping breath after my death. The thirst she has as she greedily swallows water, some droplets dampening down her shirt. The prayer, pulsing hot, burning like the eye of the sun I used to look directly into as a child. I will die thirsty.

A. D Lin is a writer, teacher, and lactose intolerant turophile.

Q. What motivated you to start Barrelhouse?

A: The Barrelhouse origin story is a pretty simple one. The founders (which, to be clear, does not include me; I became the NF editor in 2010) were in a writing group in DC together and became good friends. After many beers and many discussions about their dissatisfaction with the literary landscape, they decided there was a void they could fill: high-quality work that still had a sense of humor and embraced so-called “guilty pleasures.” Since then, we’ve worked hard to produce the best possible work but also to carve out a niche as a place where people can send their poems about Back to the Future, for example, or their essays about Magnum P.I. and pro wrestling. Not that people have to write poems about Ed Asner to end up in the magazine, but one of the fun things that has happened is we’ve become a place where serious writers can have a little fun.

A student of mine once sent an email to say he checked out Barrelhouse and really liked it because “it’s just really good writing for people who don’t have a stick up their ass.” That was basically the goal.

Q. When it comes to choosing a literary magazine to read these days, we have an outrageous number of options. Pretend for a minute that we don’t read yours, and tell us why we should.

A: Because we are producing writing that is not solely meant for writers. From day one, we’ve worked incredibly hard to publish a journal of great literary merit that can nonetheless be enjoyed by people who don’t care at all about MFAs, small press publishing. They just want good stories.

I know, I know. “We publish good stories.” Pretty flimsy sales pitch. What can I say? Read an issue, read the stuff we’re publishing online, check out annotated versions of the issue 11 materials on our site, and I’m confident you’ll want to read more.

Also, and I don’t think I can understate this: we pay writers. It’s been a long haul to reach this point, and we totally understand why a lot of other great journals can’t afford to pay their contributors. But still: a Barrelhouse subscription means you’re actually helping to financially support underpaid writers. Which is pretty cool.

Q. I recently read a piece in which Steve Almond called the literary pursuit “an incestuous contraction.” In other words, the majority of readers these days seem to also be writers. Barrelhouse offers writing workshops, major events for writers, and a podcast about books, as discussed by writers/editors. Do you think there’s some truth to what Almond says? And if so, in a sort of chicken/egg scenario, do you think lit mags created that contraction or have we maybe evolved in response to it?

A: The more active I’ve been on social media, I’ve become increasingly worried about the incestuous contraction of the lit world. Some days, it seems like everybody knows everybody else and the same roster of 300 writers are just publishing their stuff on a rotating basis in the same 30-40 magazines.

I know that’s not necessarily true, and even in the cases of a certain set of indie writers who are ubiquitous (for better or worse), I know there’s nothing malevolent about it. Those writers just know how to hustle, and they are working their asses off, and each individual editor happens to like their work.

Still, I get it, that concern. It’s easy to feel like you’re on the outside looking in, like you’re the only one at AWP who doesn’t know the secret handshake or the code word or whatever. But in the end, if you get to know the people involved in indie lit, the thing that becomes clear is that, with very very few exceptions, everyone who is doing this thing is doing it only because they love it and they want more people to love it like they do and it kills them that they can’t get their non-literary friends to share that passion.

Short answer: I think that sense of contraction is a safety thing. Writers and readers are marginalized, so it’s only natural that they would withdraw, surround themselves with like-minded people, and build up their defenses. That can lead to creating a vibrant subculture, but it can also be a problem: it can effectively make us disappear.

Q. Speaking of major events, Barrelhouse hosts Conversations and Connections, the Indie Lit City Summit, and Barrelhouse Presents in DC. What’s your favorite thing about being a part of these events? Have you thought about branching out to other cities for any of them?

A: These events actually make me feel a lot better about the concerns re: the “incestuous contraction” S. Almond is talking about. Obviously, these events support the indie lit community (our C & C conference pays about 50% of the money directly back to small presses and small press authors), but they are primarily designed to to address this exact problem of alienating people who aren’t already a part of the club. At the C & C conference, we get 150-225 attendees who are largely not part of the indie lit infrastructure and may not even have friends and family who write or want to talk about books. So we give them the opportunity to meet great writers, to talk to them during happy hour, to begin developing those relationships that help the community to grow.

In short, my favorite part is that we get to meet a lot of really cool, talented people who we otherwise might never meet.

As for branching out, we started running the conference in Philly last year, and it was such a success that we’re now viewing it as an annual Fall event at The University of the Arts (9/28 this year; all other details TBA). We do occasional reading events here in Philly too, especially with the Temple University Library.

Q. What have you read recently that just blew you away?

A: inscriptions for headstones by Matthew Vollmer. Best book I’ve read all year. So good it made me worry that I was doing everything wrong in my own writing.

I really liked The Antagonist by Lynn Coady, which I read recently, and I’ve already found myself re-reading passages.

Also, for a class I’m teaching, I just reread a portion of Donald Barthelme’s The Dead Father, specifically the inset book-within-a-book A Manual for Sons, and found it just as hilarious and heartbreaking as I did the first time around.

Q. Is there anything you want to tell us that I haven’t given you an opportunity to mention already?

A: Yes! There is something. Two things.

1)      We’ve just started publishing books. Our first book is called Bring the Noise. It’s an anthology of the best essays we’ve ever published, plus five new essays. I’m obviously biased, but I think this book is really great, and also if you’re trying to get a sense of what Barrelhouse is all about, this book will answer every question you could ever have. You can buy it here.

2)      You mentioned the podcast, but I want to mention it again. I’m the co-host of Book Fight! along with our fiction editor, Mike Ingram. Our mission is similar to the one that started Barrelhouse so long ago: we want to have serious discussions about books and writing without being so god damn serious. Think of it like going to the bar to meet your writer friends for some drinks, with all the tangents, occasional profanity, and unfiltered honesty that entails. Go to bookfightpod.com to listen.

Tom Mcallister is the Non-Fiction editor at Barrelhouse. His memoir “Bury Me in My Jersey” was published by Villard in 2010, and his shorter work has appeared in Black Warrior Review, elimae, FiveChapters, and some other places. He’s the co-host of the Book Fight! podcast and he’s on twitter @t_mcallister

visit Barrelhouse’s website

Today I’m on top of things. Usually I’m in the middle of it, hard objects whizzing at my head, or under it all like a turtle in a mudslide. But now I’m on top of things, so on top of things that an eerie green light pulses from my body & surrounds all the things I’m on top of. When I stride into my house my wife murmurs from the kitchen, My God, you’re on top of things, & sidles toward the knife block. At the top of the stairs I meet my son—mediocre student, athlete distinguished more by energy than skill. But here my boy fills the hall, striking the hard-thighed stance of a man who’s just gotten on top of things. I throw open my arms in delight. A metallic object flashes in his hand. From the floor I regard him as one might a stele to a martyr of the nation. The light around his young body is almost blinding. Into the carpet I whisper, Way to go, son.

Mark Seidl loves New York’s Hudson Valley, where he lives and works as a special collections librarian, but each spring the scarcity of dogwood trees in the region saddens him. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Alice Blue Review, Birdfeast, NAP, and Thunderclap.

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People seem to be making a fuss over this interview with Claire Messud about the main character of her novel The Woman Upstairs. Apparently the question about whether Messud would befriend her character is not the kind of question one might ask a male writer, or so that seems to be the complaint. That’s not why I’m linking it. I’m linking it for this: “If you’re reading to find friends, you’re in deep trouble. We read to find life, in all its possibilities.” I wouldn’t go so far as to say I know why everyone reads, but there’s something there.

Attack of the Copy Editor at the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn.Vigilantes for grammatical justice.

The Atlantic asks “What’s in a name?” and tries to find their answers from NPR’s reporters.

In The Rumpus, Elissa Bassist offers her take on the “American Woman Novelist,” at least as far as Wikipedia is concerned.

Fiction recommendation comes from The Collagist this week. It’s called “A Humiliation of Sparrows” by Michael Stewart.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

Treehouse nonfiction editor Casey Mills interviewed Karyna McGlynn of Gulf Coast, a Journal of Literature and Fine Arts.

Q: In a sentence or two, how would you best describe Gulf Coast’s aesthetic?

A: Describing Gulf Coast’s aesthetic is always tricky since we’re a whopping 250+ page journal with a rotating editorship that publishes poetry, nonfiction, fiction, hybrid work, art criticism, reviews, interviews, and visual art. That said, our founding fathers were Donald Barthelme and Phillip Lopate, and I think we’ve strived to keep their vision alive—both with the type of writing we publish and our commitment to visual art. We like work that is well crafted and considerate of the reader, of course, but we want that same work to unnerve us, to flirt with possible failure. Many of our favorite pieces end up being the ones that shouldn’t have worked, but did.

Q: That said, what is a piece in the current issue that encompasses that idea?

A: In our Winter/Spring 2013 Issue see “Marie Antoinette’s Husband Was a Total Baller” by Jess Novak, or “Approximately 36 Toilets” by Rebecca Evanhoe. In our Summer/Fall 2013 Issue see Craig Reinbold’s “Holding the Plank” or Simeon Berry’s series from Monograph.

Q: Your issue section includes “Nonfiction/Lyric Essay.” Beyond the lyric essay, what other types of nonfiction writing fit into the Gulf Coast world?

A: We publish a lot of lyric essays—and don’t get me wrong; we like them!—but that’s just what a lot of writers are shopping around these days. We’d love to get more travel writing, reportage, memoir, science writing, and food writing.

Q: Many online literary venues publish work under a category that defies “genre.” With so many lines blurred and so many hybrid forms (flash fiction, lyrics essay, prose poem), what do you believe constitutes genre-bending?

A: Gulf Coast has always appreciated and published hybrid forms. In fact, our annual Barthelme Prize for Short Prose is geared specifically toward flash fiction, micro-essays, and prose poems.  That said, we have a more conservative reputation than journals like Ninth Letter or DIAGRAM, so people don’t tend to send much truly genre-defiant work our way. The fact is, we have a dropdown menu on our submissions page where people have to choose a genre. That’s telling. But I think we all read between genres quite fluidly. We try to take people at their word—if they say it’s nonfiction, it’s nonfiction—but occasionally we’ll forward stuff around between genres. That’s when you know you’ve got a true hybrid on your hands—when you don’t know which editor to send it to!

Q: What distinguishes Gulf Coast from some other high-quality lit journals out there?

A: Aside from what I’ve already mentioned, a couple of new developments come to mind. First and foremost, I think our commitment to visual art sets us apart. It’s never an afterthought for us; rather, it’s an integral part of how we put an issue together. In fact, we’ve recently partnered with Art Lies to curate an ongoing expanded art section that will feature critical art writing, retrospectives, and textual/visual hybrids. Another development (which has been rather hush-hush until recently) is our increased contributors payments. We now pay a minimum of $50 per page in all genres, which makes us the highest paying student-run literary journal in the country.

Q: Beyond the world of online publishing, in your opinion, what was the best new book of 2013?

A: I think it’s still too early for Best of 2013 lists! But I can tell you what our favorite books of 2012 were: in fiction, Julian Barnes’ Sense of an Ending, and in poetry, S.E. Smith’s I Live in a Hut.

visit Gulf Coast’s website

1. A Season in Hell

2 oz habanero tequila
3 dashes Worcestershire sauce
3 dashes pepper
3 dashes celery salt
3 dashes Tabasco sauce
1 tsp horseradish
1 tsp Dijon mustard (optional)
Tomato juice

Build the ingredients in a highball glass over ice cubes. Top with tomato juice. Mix well by rolling back and forth from one glass to another. Garnish with pitchfork.

2. The Dice Cup

1 oz vodka
1 oz coffee liqueur
Cream or milk
Cola

Pour the vodka and coffee liqueur in an old-fashioned glass with 6 ice cubes, fill with equal amounts of cream and cola. Shake and roll.

3. Capital of Pain

1 bottle tequila

Serve straight.

4. Earthlight

3 oz Tonic water
3 oz Gin
Garnish with a wedge of lime

In a highball glass filled with ice cubes, add gin and tonic. Drink will glow in black light. Goes well with companion drink Claire de Lune (chilled vodka served over dry ice).

5. Jaundiced Loves

1 oz Limoncello (chilled)
4 oz sparkling wine (chilled)
5-6 fresh blackberries or raspberries
Crushed ice

Place a spoonful of crushed ice in an old-fashioned glass and top with fruit. Combine the sparkling wine and Limoncello in a mixing glass and stir lightly to mix, being careful not to destroy the bubbles. Pour over the berries and ice. Drink anywhere you think toads might gather.

The biplane banks off the coast of Myrtle Beach,
a strip of paper the size of a cookie-fortune
attached to it by a thread:

Will You Marry Me, Gwendolyn?

Five miles inland, at Panda Wok, three prep-cooks struggle
to stuff an oversized banner into a fortune cookie:

WILL YOU MARRY ME, WENDY?

Gwendolyn decides on the Chicken Lo Mein.
Wendy, hearing the sound of a plane,
looks up for a moment, then returns to her book:
Bang, about a young girl who finds an antique revolver in the field behind her house,
a chrysalis of some kind lodged in one of its chambers.
What happens next
changes everything.

Chris Fox has been published in The Blue Collar Review, The Black Fox Literary Magazine, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, Wavelength, and Rosebud, where his poem “You” was a runner-up for the William Stafford award. He is the author of the No Wave joke book NO-YES//NOISE, which he composed while doing stand-up during the years 2009-2011. He currently resides in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

See Chris’s list of 5 Things You Should Read in our ongoing contributors’ series.

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