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ANNOUNCING THE 2021 FICTION PRIZE WINNER

We are excited to announce the winner and finalists of the 2021 Fiction Prize, judged by Kali Fajardo-Anstine. Many thanks to everyone who submitted their work and made this year’s prize possible!

2021 Fiction Prize Winner

“Seance” by Suphil Lee Park

Kali Fajardo-Anstine says, “Seance is an imaginative gem of a short story that evokes feelings of adolescence while gripping the reader from the very first line: “The dead girl’s indoor slippers got on everyone’s nerves, but no one in the class 7 had the gall to throw them away.” Wholly inventive with characters like The Class Clown, The Poet, and The Thinker, Séance is also filled with nostalgia, those leftover echoes of adolescence and its shared communal spaces of education. This a short story set within its own universe, a world that is as striking as its realistic and lifelike characters. Seance is a warm, inventive, and charming short story.”

Finalists

“Tank” by Jenna Abrams

“Cabin” by K.W. Oxnard

“Faceless Styrofoam Heads” by Holly Pekowsky

“The Precarious Births of Giraffes” by Keya Mitra

“Poochi” by Avrina Prabala-Joslin

The winner will be published in the Winter 2021 issue of Indiana Review.

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ANNOUNCING THE 2021 POETRY PRIZE WINNER

We are excited to announce the winner and runners-up of the 2021 Poetry Prize, judged by Zeina Hashem Beck. Many thanks to everyone who submitted their work and made this year’s prizes possible!

2021 Poetry Prize Winner

“What Happens Next” by Sarah Burke

Zeina Hashem Beck says, “’What Happens Next’ is a poem I kept returning to, discovering something new with each additional reading. The poet skillfully uses both directness and indirectness to speak about the female body, as the reader is taken from ovaries to chimes, from parade to empty churches. I love how the first and last stanzas echo each other in their first lines, “This is how the ovaries shut down” and “This is how a person wakes up.” What might be perceived as an ending becomes an unexpected beginning in the body, a freedom, a celebration.”

Runners-Up

“Coyote on the Side of the Golden State Freeway” by L.A. Johnson

“The End of Sorrow is Not Happiness” by Jamaica Baldwin

Finalists

“Persona poem” and “Root canal” by Nina Dahan-Reljich

“The Company Sign” by Emma Jones

“Swing Low Sweet Chariot Stop and Let Me Ride” by Brionne Janae

“A Trans Man’s Guide to Finding a Partner” by Arien Reed

“Kill the Messenger” and “Phone Sex III” by Fatima-Ayan Hirsi

The winner will be published in the Winter 2021 issue of Indiana Review.

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Don Belton Fiction Reading Period: Free Submissions for Black and Indigenous Writers

Indiana Review is currently able to offer free submissions for up to fifty Black and Indigenous writers for the 2021 Don Belton Fiction Reading Period! Each entry includes a year-long subscription to IR. Click here to submit.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

As with our general submissions, we seek literary fiction that has an intelligent sense of language, assumes a degree of risk, and has consequence beyond the world of its narrators. We are drawn to vivid, fresh characters and plots we haven’t seen before.

Before submitting, please note that all manuscripts must…

  • be works of fiction: novels, novellas, or story collections.
  • be under 80,000 words, not including the table of contents or an acknowledgements page.
  • consist of a single .doc, .docx, or .pdf file.
  • be double-spaced with standard margins.
  • be unpublished (portions of the manuscript, such as individual stories, may have appeared in other publications, but the manuscript as a whole must remain unpublished.)
  • contain no interior art or translations.
  • contain no identifying information (a brief author bio / cover letter may be included in the “comments” section on our submissions manager).

Further, IR and IUP cannot consider work from anyone currently or recently affiliated with Indiana University. This includes those who have studied or taught at IU in the past four years.

INTERVIEW WITH 2021 POETRY PRIZE JUDGE, ZEINA HASHEM BECK

Indiana Review is accepting submissions for the Poetry Prize until March 31st, 2021! In this interview with Poetry Editor janan alexandra, 2021 judge Zeina Hashem Beck opens up about her forthcoming collection of poems, O, writing in both Arabic and English, and the musicality of poetry.

Photo credit: Veronica Maria

To read her full bio, visit her website here.

To begin, congratulations on your forthcoming collection, O (Penguin, 2022), your third full-length book of poems. What most excites you about this project? How do you see this work in conversation with the rest of your catalog? 

It’s a strange thing, to be excited about this project in the middle of a pandemic, after the August 4 Beirut explosion, and also inside the likeliness that my family and I might be moving country after a decade in Dubai. It’s been a difficult year for me, mainly because of what’s been happening in Lebanon. But contains celebration and wonder, and I am indeed excited about it, despite my anxious brain, and even if I haven’t fully processed this yet. I’m trying to visualize the book in the hands of people who will find it useful, and I’m trying to visualize myself on tour (will this be possible, in 2022?), reading with beloved poets. Inshallah (insert blue eye emoji). 

How is in convo with the rest of my books? While the collection contains my eternal preoccupation with language and place, I think I see it as a quieter, more personal, more inward-looking book of love poems for the body, for friendship, for motherhood, for the divine and the profane. 

I’m thinking a lot about the musicality of your work, and by this I mean at least two or three things: both the explicit references your poems make to beloved singers from the Arab world—Um Kulthoum, Abdelhalim Hafiz, Samira Tawfiq, among others—and the lyricism of your language. I’m also thinking about the beautiful ways you read and perform, which is itself an art form. Of course poetry is fundamentally an oral tradition, but sometimes this can get lost in our contemporary literary landscape. Will you tell us more about your relationship to singing, storytelling, vocalization, and music? 

All the art forms I love have performance in common. I’ve always wanted to be a singer, but I’ve never had the voice for it (though this doesn’t stop me from subjecting my friends and family to my singing). I’ve always been in love with the theater, and when I left Beirut and then had my two daughters, I could no longer work in it. I’ve always loved poetry too, of course: the quiet reading of it, the writing and speaking it out loud to yourself, and the gifting of it to an audience, with the energy and possible connections this engenders. My first encounters with poetry in French and Arabic at school always involved reciting poems, and this was my favorite kind of homework. 

I wrote the poems for the singers of the Arab world that you mention at a time where their music helped me grieve and dance. Their music is one of the homes I carry with me wherever I go. And you know when you listen to a song and it resonates, and you are deeply moved (sometimes to tears, sometimes to think differently about something)? Yes, that’s what poems should do (for me, at least). 

You write in both English and Arabic, and you explore your relationship to these two languages in many of your poems. At a poetry reading, you once said, “English is a wound,” which resonated so deeply in my body as a writer of the Lebanese diaspora who, through the complicated legacies of colonization has been painfully estranged from Arabic (my parents, for difficult and meaningful reasons, never taught us Arabic). I’m thinking about your Arabic-English duets and your reflection, “I found out that I am probably kinder to Lebanon in English.” I think a lot about what particular languages can make possible or impossible for us (humor, intimacy, legibility, safety) and I’m wondering how else you relate to or experience this, on and/or off the page? How do poems make possible your constellational identities? 

This is a difficult question, which has so many possible layers, and which I won’t pretend to have formulated a definite answer for. But I’ll do my best to discuss part of it here. 

I’ve been thinking about why I said “wound” and whether it’s the word I’m looking for. I think I need to process this more, and probably not alone, but with fellow writers who grew up in Arabic and write in English. Perhaps, what I’m trying to say, is there is inside me, simultaneously, the impossibility of saying what I want to say only in English and the fact that English is the language I can most easily poem in. I wonder, too, whether all language is wound, or at least rift? Doesn’t writing poems come from an impossibility? 

There’s also the question of audience, an awareness that some people who will read my poems (since I’m an Arab who writes in English) might exoticize me: I try to be aware of that, while at the same time not letting it paralyze me or make me avoid certain topics that could be “misunderstood.” 

Also, I was raised on the idea that my access to 3 languages is a privilege that could help me tap into more layers of meaning and being. This isn’t to say there are no colonial powers at work within these languages and in the circumstances that led me, for example, to attend a French school and then write in English. But I’m not US-centric in my writing, and I don’t think much of the US on a daily basis. I’m aware of it of course, but also aware of the worlds of Englishes beyond it and within it. On the other hand, a question I’m often asked when I read in Arab cities is why I don’t write in Arabic. Sometimes, the question is a reproach. I’m learning to let go of my guilt toward Arabic, because it comes from a near deification of the language, and when a language becomes God, it also becomes inaccessible and stiff. I don’t owe anyone an explanation. Neither some Arabs who insist I must write in Arabic, nor some foreigners who aren’t capable of seeing me, nor some fellow Arabs who feel “we” must always be on our guard about what to say about “us.” I believe poems will always find their way to the readers who appreciate or need them. I’m grateful for the work of so many poets and writers around the world, writing in many languages. I’m trying to exist as I am, to write as I am, to remain curious. And I’m not interested in cynicism. 

Finally, since you asked about the bilingual Duets: I switch between English and Arabic all the time when I speak, so it’s interesting for me to see what happens when poems do that as well. I think of them as an experiment to try to bring both Arabic and English unto the page and see what conversations happen, and to consider how perception could change with the change of language. Why, for example, in one Duet, does the speaker in Arabic say the city doesn’t remember them, whereas in English, the speaker believes the city won’t betray? There are no answers of course, no formulas, and there’s a lot of space for contradiction.

This is a behind-the-scenes art of poeting question, and one that I think we all have to sort of figure out in our own way, but: what does your creative practice look like at this stage of your career, and what have you learned over the years about your own methods of research, making, noticing, revising ? Who are some of your guides?  

It’s been very difficult for me to follow any sort of creative process in this pandemic and with Lebanon falling apart, and I wonder whether this would eventually lead me to a different process. But if I were to describe my “usual” practice: I don’t write every day, I try to read every day, I don’t rush poems, and I don’t feel I need to be a poetry-producing machine. Yes, I get anxious when I feel I’m not writing as regularly as I should, then I remind myself to resist this capitalistic way of thinking and that work comes in many forms, not just words on the page. I listen, I take notes, I wait. I always take guidance from the writers I happen to be reading, and these are some writers I’ve been reading recently in English and Arabic: Audre Lorde, Italo Calvino, Edward Said, Asmaa Azaizeh, Mourid Al-Barghouti (who has recently left us, may he rest in power), Golan Haji, and Lina Mounzer. And I’ve been listening to James Baldwin too, via Joey Ayoub (shout out to his podcast, The Fire These Times), who always reminds us in his newsletter to listen to Baldwin. 

Lastly, and thanks again for sharing so generously with us, what are you thinking about—or reading / listening to / watching / studying—these days? What is moving you? 

I’ve been working on a podcast in Arabic about Arabic poetry, titled Maksouda; the project was an idea in my head for a couple of years, and I’m extremely excited to be working on it with friend and poet Farah Chamma and the network Sowt. Recording this podcast, and doing so in Arabic (to go back to the convo about the many languages that intersect in us) has been feeding my soul! I’m also excited that Hala Alyan and I have found a home for our poetry anthology of love poems by poets of Arab heritage. 

What I’ve been thinking about? Mental health, and ways we could take care of ourselves and each other. Friendship and community. Long voice notes from friends. Lebanon and its heartbreak. Strange and familiar cities. Turning 40 in April. Bougainvillea. How much I miss hugs and dancing with loves. Love.  

INTERVIEW WITH 2021 FICTION PRIZE JUDGE, KALI FAJARDO-ANSTINE

Indiana Review is accepting submissions for the Fiction Prize until March 31st, 2021! In this interview with Fiction Editor Laura Dzubay, 2021 judge Kali Fajardo-Anstine opens up about her award-winning collection of short stories, Sabrina & Corina, the importance of craft in good fiction, and what’s in store for the future.

Kali Fajardo-Anstine is the author of Sabrina & Corina (One World, 2019), winner of an American Book Award and Reading the West Award. Fajardo-Anstine is the 2019 recipient of the Denver Mayor’s Award for Global Impact in the Arts. Her writing has appeared in print and online at Harper’s Bazaar, ELLE, O, the Oprah Magazine, The American Scholar, Boston Review, Bellevue Literary Review, The Idaho Review, Southwestern American Literature, and elsewhere.

A lot of the stories in Sabrina & Corina manage time really masterfully—weaving characters’ backstories in through flashbacks, jumping forward in time to the most relevant scenes, introducing a key event early and then explaining it later, etc. Could you say a little about how you decide to handle time when you’re writing a short story, and what you think its relationship is to structure?

Thank you! Time fascinates me, and I think much of this obsession comes from being part of a large family that has inhabited the same geographic space for generations, and in some cases since time immemorial. The way I tend to handle time in fiction is intended to replicate the reality of having numerous timelines existing at once during a scene. That is to say, if I am standing on a street corner in Denver, not only do I possess my own memories of that corner, but I often have glimmers of stories from my ancestors collapsed into my own experiences. My characters’ minds function in the same way.

Time in my work is communal, shared, and is often not linear. Structurally, this makes for time-infused scenes, where each sentence is imbued with layers of meaning, allusions to the ancestral past, but also an understanding that the future eventually brings death. “Time is an ocean,” sang Bob Dylan, “but it ends at the shore.”

Short stories can feel like microcosms of characters going through specific changes in particular areas of their lives, but in a good story we often get the sense that a character is a complete person, even when what we see of them is limited. How do you decide what parts of a character’s life to include in a story, and what does the process of getting to know a character look like for you?

During my MFA at the University of Wyoming, the first short story I turned into workshop was a draft of “All Her Names.” I was writing about a character named Alicia who had once been well-known in the Denver graffiti scene. I knew she painted trains and had an ex-boyfriend she ran around with despite being married to an older man. Back then, this was 2011 or so, the story wasn’t landing the way I wanted it to, and my professor, the late Brad Watson, stopped me in the English department hallway. We were on a split-level staircase. He was going up and I was going down. The sun was coming in a long window behind Brad’s whitish hair and the stairwell was warm. Brad told me he had been thinking about my story, but he suspected I needed to “dream on it more.” At the time, I thought his advice was ludicrous. I wanted to force my fiction into shape with rules and prescriptive advice. But Brad, a truly gifted and sensitive artist, knew better. Sometimes, we need to listen to our subconscious. Give time over to our characters. Daydream on their realities. “All Her Names” was published eventually and is included in Sabrina & Corina, but it took years for me to finally listen to Alicia.

When reading short fiction, what excites you the most and why?

Everything. If it’s a good story, I’m in love. And what makes a good story? It’s voice, a particular way of looking at the world, a dedication to craft.

Which writers and works do you look to for inspiration?

Arturo Islas, Toni Morrison, Ralph Ellison, Edward P. Jones, Katherine Anne Porter, James Baldwin, Sandra Cisneros, Kent Haruf, Katherine Dunn, Jack Gilbert, Mark Strand, Joy Williams, Gabriel García Márquez and many, many others.

Are there any projects you want to share that you’re looking forward to in 2021?

I’ve recently finished some new short stories and I’m very close to completing my first novel. I’ve also written my first book review, which is such an intimate and energizing way to learn about a book.