Joan Wilking: Both my SOS piece (At Risk) and yours (Grip) were inspired (or triggered) by five word prompts posted in an online flash fiction workshop we’ve participated in for years. What has the use of such prompts and membership in the workshop meant to your writing?

Kathy Fish: Great question, Joan. I saw someone recently decrying the use of prompts in writing, saying they resulted in inauthentic writing. Nonsense. To me, writing prompts such as the ones you and I get in our flash workshop, are simply kindling. It’s up to each writer to set the sticks and twigs aflame. And what we do to start the fire comes wholly from within us and is therefore completely authentic.

I’m often struck by how, given the same five words to work with, we in the workshop create such utterly different and unique stories. The prompt words just get things going. I’m so grateful for Kim Chinquee and you and everyone in our Hot Pants workshop!

You all have meant everything to my writing life. I doubt I would still be at it today without you. There’s such huge value to having a longstanding group with whom to work. We all know each other well, know our quirks, and strengths. We’ve taught ourselves over the years how to relate to each other in a way that brings out the best in our work.

I’m interested in how it is for you, Joan. I know you have recently been using the workshop and prompt words to create a memoir. Can you talk a little about your process in putting that together?

JW: I love the kindling analogy. Because I was a graphic designer long before I ever tried to write, my work pretty much always begins with an image. The prompt words, more often than not, force me to think beyond the imagery. They light a fire, as you said, that quite often changes how the piece eventually evolves, sometimes by adding a twist that enhances the story, sometimes by enriching or challenging the language.

As for my process, when I’m writing fiction I tend to take familiar situations and “awfulize” them. Years ago I read a Joyce Carol Oates novel and thought to myself, ‘She must have the best time taking her characters and putting them through more misery and heartbreak than any non-fictional character could survive and then manipulating them to enable them to come out the other side.’ Manipulation of character is a good term for how I see fiction.

Memoir is something else. For me it’s about mining the feelings attached to remembrance without straying from the truth. On my 70th birthday, this May, I started writing seventy pieces, seventy words each, for seventy days, alternating the past and present. I used the Hot Pants prompts in many of them. That was a very personal journey and I don’t think I could have completed it without the sense of safety the Hot Pants workshop provides.

That’s a true tribute to Kim who has been so passionate about keeping it going, and of course to everyone else who shares there.

You are known as a flash fiction aficionado. I often end up using my flash as a steppingstone to my longer fictions. I’m wondering, after the work you share on Hot Pants has been critiqued, how much of it remains flash and how much, if any, becomes part of longer works, which all begs the question, what role does flash fiction play in the ongoing panorama of literary history?

KF: Wow, I really love the notion of taking a familiar situation and “awful-izing” it! Yes, putting one’s characters through hell. I’ve heard variations on this idea. It really does make for potent fiction and is a great way to approach flash fiction.

You know, my flash pieces from Hot Pants very rarely turn into longer works. They almost never go beyond flash length. I do remember one time posting a really odd paragraph in there and one of our group, I think it was Gail Siegel, responded with such unexpected enthusiasm, I just wrote and wrote and wrote and ended up with 3000 words, which to me is a tome, ha. It ended up being one of my favorite (of my own) stories. And there again is the huge value of that group.

But no, usually my stories remain flash. I honestly don’t know what role flash fiction will ultimately play in the literary canon. Those of us who write it are so passionate about it! My sense is that is ought to remain a fluid form, that it’s too early to lock it down. I get so excited when I see people doing different things with it. I say as long as it’s fewer than 1000 words, it’s flash. Well, maybe a 1000 word grocery list doesn’t qualify, but you know what I mean. I rather like the idea of flash being the rebellious teenager of the literary world.

I wonder if visual artists, actors, directors, musicians approach writing differently. It has to inform the work. As you said, you nearly always begin with an image and then you move beyond image to story. Lately, I’ve been trying to take a very cinematic approach to writing, though I have no background in film. Do you do this as well? Would you like to see any of your work committed to film or stage?

JW: A couple of years ago I was in Mexico with a bunch of writers and J. Ryan Stradal, author of the new best seller, Kitchens of the Midwest, read a story that was a series of grocery lists, which was hilarious. Each list was a little flash story.

I used to participate in a group called Writers & Actors INK. We met once a month is a black box theater. Writers brought short scripts or stories and actors came to read from them. It was amazing how differently some of my stories played out in front of an audience. What I thought was funny actually had people in tears and vice versa; people saw humor in what I’d written as tragedy. I’d love to see my work on stage or screen where the visuals have parity with the words. I hadn’t thought of my work as cinematic, at least not consciously. You may have just changed the way I perceive it.

We haven’t talked about our stories in r.kv.r.y. yet. Can you speak to the origins of your story?

KF: Oh yes. Can you imagine a series of short films or plays based on Hot Pants stories? That would be so great. I can see how all of us would write to that idea, you know? Not changing our flashes to screenplays or stage plays, but keeping in mind that they may be seen.

My story, “Grip,” is only slightly fictionalized. In March, my brother died of multiple sclerosis. I’d gone home to Iowa when he was in hospice. It was one of the most profound experiences of my entire life. I came back feeling incredibly sad, of course, but also just…dazed. And for a time, every single thing I wrote stemmed from watching my brother die, watching my family watch him die.

As you know, we take turns in Hot Pants providing the prompt words. When it was my turn, I gave five words in honor of my brother. I don’t remember exactly what they were, but I know I used them in the story. The title, “Grip” came from one of those beautiful moments, one of those gifts you get in the midst of tragedy, when—weak and depleted as he was—he squeezed my younger brother’s hand very tight (for story purposes I made it my own hand). It spoke to so many things, that moment, and I knew I’d eventually write about it. I’m glad I did.

Now, please tell me a little about your story, “At Risk,” Joan. I love the opening sentence: “I think a lot about ghosts these days.”

JW: I think many writers, including you and me, use writing as a way to process pain.

Other than ad copy, I never wrote until I was well into my fifties, never thought of myself as a writer. I never had the undeniable passion to write that some writers do. As a result, when I started, I felt like a freshman. Now I read the work of young and younger writers, and workshop with them, and feel like I fit in better with them than with many of my age-wise peers. That has led me to do a lot of thinking about how we marginalize groups of people according to age. Google me and my age is apparent. I wonder how that influences how other writers, agents, publishers and editors view someone like me.

“At Risk” is based on observations that keep piling up as one enters old age. So many losses offset by the smell of lilacs and fog on the Bay, and the young, always the young, around to envy and be a reminder, when they look at you a certain way, that the end is a hell of a lot closer now than the beginning.

And one last question, if there was only one more thing you could accomplish in your writing career, what would it be?

KF: Oh man, I could NOT relate more to what you’ve said here. I, too, came late to writing. I, too, feel I have more in common with younger writers. And I also wonder at the marginalization of “older” writers and artists. Can only young people “emerge” for instance?

And I relate, keenly, to your story, to those feelings. Ah, but we keep those feelings at bay by just living and creating all we can. I guess. Ha.

Wow, your question is a good one! I can tell you, that I used to think in terms of awards and honors and recognition. Now, for some reason, I find myself pining for those things quite a bit less. I think it’s realizing that the “good stuff” is in the writing itself. And what we ultimately manage to leave behind. I’ve recently discovered a love of teaching. I think if some new writer I’d had the pleasure of teaching or inspiring went on to do great things that would be a wonderful accomplishment. But hey, if I could get TWO more accomplishments, a short story in BASS would be thrilling!

I’ll volley your question back to you, Joan. One more accomplishment. What would you pick?

JW: I’m greedy. Publication of one of my as yet unpublished novels, which will land on the New York Times bestseller list, be optioned for film and made into a major motion picture that grosses a huge amount of money. Short of that, just a good chunk of time left to keep on writing.

KF: Okay, I want that for you so you can invite me for an afternoon of wine and sunshine on your yacht with all your fancy friends. You’d do that, right?

JW: Absolutely!

Andrew Stancek: Can we talk a bit about your poem “Cross“?  What jumps out at me are the contrasts, on the one hand “cross,” “confession,” “faith,” “elevate,” and on the other “binge,” “shit,” “boots,” “mattress.”  I am intrigued, eager for any elucidation at all.

Dan Jacoby: You have to remember that the word cross has all kinds of connotations. It is a measure of salvation, burdens, deception and grief to name a few. It can also signify a transition which is kind of what this poem is all about. It gets to the removal of all the labels. It’s the in-between, getting to some kind of peace, a dharma bum sort of quest to find what was lost or to deal with what one has become. Some people run away from themselves and spend lives lying to themselves, others search for meaning. It used to be called securing a heavy peace……

AS: Interesting. Can you tell us about your influences, or about poets and other writers who bring you to “zero at the bone?”

DJ: I must confess to not liking too many of the newer poets. John Logan, Kinnell, Ginsberg, Plath, John Knoepfle, Roethke are some. I started writing in the sixties but just for myself. It’s only recently I started submitting and publishing. I have read many of the beat poets and tend to like that style — seems to be more flesh on those bones.

AS: What about your routines? When during the day do you write? How do you work from the moment of inspiration to the moment you consider your poem to be ready to face the world?

DJ: Writing starts with an idea that pops into my head. I have to write it down because I will forget it. I find any kind of media (tv, my phone) to be idea killers. I have to get off by myself and just let it flow. The first of it usually gives me an end point and I work backwards. I go off for days at a time in the fall and sit in an old duck blind and spend the day writing. I find my inspiration in people and nature. A writer needs to get out of his or her own head to help him understand how things affect one another. I have been accused of being a southern writer because a lot of what I write draws on my country upbringing. But I have also lived a very metropolitan life. So the city also offers its inspiration. I write something and then I abandon it for a week or two. Going back to it makes it look fresh in my mind and I rewrite it. If it seems to come to life I will put it out for display. If not, I let it “cook” a little longer until I feel it’s done. I confess to falling asleep at the computer late at night.

AS: What do you dream of?

DJ: I am a dreamer of the first order. I like nothing better than to sit in a duck blind and watch eagles fish and spider webs on a soft south wind try to make the far bank. As a young man I floated on rafts in Macoupin creek and fished the day away. I have seen war, riots, and other terrible things. They have, in a sense, provided a balance to why I write and how I write. Art is about vision brought on by dreams.

AS: What does recovery mean to you?

DJ: Recovery is an interesting question. We are all damaged by life. We tend to remember the good things and forget the bad. But life has a way of reminding us. We never really get over great loss but we steady ourselves accepting it and sharing it. So recovery is having a funeral. It’s what the living do, until the next.

Andrew Stancek was born in Bratislava and saw Russian tanks occupying his homeland. His dreams of circuses and ice cream, flying and lion-taming, miracle and romance have appeared recently in Vestal Review, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, The Windsor Review, r.kv.r.y, Tin House online, Flash Fiction Chronicles, The Linnet’s Wings, Connotation Press, and Pure Slush. His novel-in-stories, starring a teenager named Mirko, set in Bratislava in the sixties, is nearing completion. Andrew joined our masthead after we published his excellent SOS piece “Elephants and Banana Leaves” in our July 2012 issue.

Andrew Stancek: Did you paint these works after reading the written work, or did you match work which you already had to the work?  Can you tell us about the inspiration, or how the matching occurred? Perhaps even a specific piece of writing and your specific painting.

Allen Forrest:  In most cases a magazine will take an existing drawing or painting and match it to a story or poem they are going to publish. Then there are my illustration pieces, in which case I work with a writer who sends me their words and I interpret them. Usually I create just one piece for visual interest which relates to a story event or a main character to entice the reader. My work is initially inspired by my feeling for an existing visual, a model, something I see on my daily travels or a photograph, perhaps another artist’s work and I will create my stylized interpretation of that subject.

AS: Can you talk about the influences on your work, your background, where you studied, what artists make your heart stop?

AF: Some years back, I was taking a Reichian Therapy program and became so drawn to art that I needed to do something about it. This need began my journey into the world of fine art and illustration. Since then, I have mostly taught myself, but with the aid of an occasional drawing or painting class.

I like to visually challenge myself. For instance, I’d rather paint some older, less picturesque part of town than a beautiful one, which I have done my share of. I’d rather capture rough industrial areas on my canvas and show the beauty in them. I have traveled, lived, and worked in different parts of the U.S. and Canada. Sometimes I paint cities and locales from my past. I have special memories and feelings about these places and painting them helps me stay connected with those experiences.

As far as artists that make my heart stop, I would say inspire me and create that ache inside to create, there are too many to name, but I will name a few. My favorites (in no particular order): William Steig,  Terry St. John, David Park, Pablo Picasso,  Judy Molyneux, Richard Diebenkorn, Vincent van Gogh, Ben Shahn, Beth Betker, Romare Bearden, El Greco, Francisco Goya, Mark Rothko, and the list goes on and on…

AS: I continue to be intrigued by process, and have had little opportunity to talk to visual artists.  Could you talk about one of the pieces which appears in r.kv.r.y and tell us what the original inspiration was, and the steps along the way which you took until you felt that the work was ready to send out into the world?

AF:  This is watercolor painting from my Greater Vancouver series. It is of Capilano Canyon River Canyon in North Vancouver, B.C., a lagoon pool, where the river slows down. As a young man when I was working during the summer in-between university semesters on my days off I would go down to a secluded beach by this river. Here I would get some sun, read a good book, lie around and dream of things to come. This park is very beautiful and I have special memories there. Unfortunately as time went on the river changed its level and the beach area is not there anymore. So as a way to preserve my memory of that time, I decided to do a series within the Vancouver series about this special place.

Sometimes beginner’s luck waves its magic wand over me. My best work is generally done without the usual preparation that many other artists engage in. Or as a lady friend of mine says about her morning coffee, “The first press is the best.” Even though I hadn’t worked in watercolor in some time, I just dove in and let the strong feelings I have for this subject guide me. I created this series in a couple of sessions. I really felt I had caught what I was after, so I uploaded them to my online albums and started submitting them to publications. Several magazines have been interested in this series and I still have a fondness for them.

AS: I am also thrilled by the disparate list of artists who inspire you.  I have two Steig drawings framed in my house and he has given me enormous pleasure.  And when we visited Paris, some years back, I spent two days in the Picasso Museum, since so many of the works touched me. One of the great many sources of wonder about Picasso is how many times he recreated himself, how he was always bold enough to set off in new directions.  It is sometimes said of writers, with perhaps some justification, that they keep telling different versions of the same story.  I know I have certain motifs which I keep returning to in my writing, settings which continue to inspire.  Where do you see yourself in this spectrum?

AF: Once a criticism was leveled at my work. The critic said my art was derivative of other artists’ work and that worried him. Even Picasso was influenced by other artists and a saying has been attributed to him, “good artists copy, great artists steal.” Picasso first stole the European masters with his neo-classic look, then he took from Cezanne’s late geometric landscapes and further expanded this style into cubism. Then one day an artist friend took Picasso to see ancient African art: masks, statues, and symbols. Picasso turned to his friend and thanked him for showing him these works of art—and along comes those huge heads of Guernica. If you study art from ancient civilizations you will see familiar shapes and styles that became fashionable in artists’ work many centuries later.  The important thing about stealing others’ ideas and styles is to “make your own version.” Let the work have your own particular uniqueness that comes from both your strengths and your weaknesses as an artist. As far as re-inventing myself, or painting the same paintings over and over, I feel it is by getting inside other artists’ work, creating my version of them and shaping them in a slightly different direction or angle, that I begin taking on pieces of that art heritage in my style. I am terrible at “copying” something. My perceptions always lead me to a distorted take on the model and as long as I don’t try to fight it too much, but allow those mistakes to exist in the work, they will lead to uniqueness. You will create originally with the styles that you have, as Picasso said, stole from others, because they are “your way” of using them. The more styles I explore, the more I push and pull my instrument, until I reach a point where the focus becomes staying where I am. For instance, I was after a certain style of oil painting. It was what I worked at first, now eight years down the road. I have a certain way that I like to paint that creates the thick paint and emotional distortion I feel so strongly about. This style may evolve more, but that is no longer something I concentrate on; I let that go its own course. Currently I am pushing my drawing style into new areas that may have some of my peers wondering about me. That’s okay, I need this time to push and pull and try this and that as I slowly get closer to what I am trying to create. Then, as with painting, there will probably be a slowing down and a focus on where I am, without the need to try and take it further, it will evolve on its own.

AS: Finally, in this journal we always ask, what does recovery mean to you?

AF: For me, the most important form of recovery is a recovering from being lost, of finding one’s path again. We are all born knowing what path in life to take, but for many the inner compass gets blocked by society’s conditioning and they lose their way. People search to find that “something”, something that clicks in them, makes them feel—I was born to do this! This “knowing” is what many have been missing all their lives. They long to feel this creative need deep down inside. Whether this will lead to creation in art or science, it is the same ache that comes from within—I WANT to do that! When you “know” this, you will not stop. You will not follow this path for monetary reasons, but for your own private creative one. You may find, as many artists do, you will need to support yourself with other work, but it is the love of your creations that will feed you and keep you alive, truly alive.

Andrew Stancek was born in Bratislava and saw Russian tanks occupying his homeland. His dreams of circuses and ice cream, flying and lion-taming, miracle and romance have appeared recently in Vestal Review, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, The Windsor Review, r.kv.r.y, Tin House online, Flash Fiction Chronicles, The Linnet’s Wings, Connotation Press, and Pure Slush. His novel-in-stories, starring a teenager named Mirko, set in Bratislava in the sixties, is nearing completion. Andrew joined our masthead after we published his excellent SOS piece “Elephants and Banana Leaves” in our July 2012 issue.

Mary Turzillo:  Your poem “Equal Time” appears in the July ON THE LINE issue of r.kv.r.y. Why poetry? You have so many stories — why not fiction, or memoir, or even playwriting or screenwriting?

Herb Kauderer:  I’ve written all those things. But one of the special joys of poetry is its ability to fit into the small spaces of life. There is always paper in my pocket. And a cell phone, if need be. Waiting in line. Stopped in a traffic jam. Poetry continues to happen. I’ve written screenplays, one of which has been produced, but it is a much longer process.  I’ve been writing a novel for a decade. Meanwhile, ten books of poetry have happened.  Poetry fits into life as it’s lived, rather than requiring life to change for its creation.

MT:  So, are poems by nature lies, or only some of them?

HK:  That’s a marvelously metaphysical question that requires secondary definition. Is a lie only a conscious attempt to mislead? What if the teller of the lie believes it? If the latter is true, then the teller is not qualified to call it a lie or truth.

I write some poems that are intentional lies in pursuit of a greater truth. I write other poems that are as true as I can make them at the time of composition, only to find out that time has turned them into lies.

Richard Dawkins created the concept of the meme, a self-replicating idea that perpetuates itself regardless of its validity. This parallels my view of poetry which I define as ‘speech memorable in its specificity.’ In any class of my teen-aged students a few will know what ‘veni, vidi, vici’, ‘carpe diem’, and ‘caveat emptor’ mean, two millennia, an ocean, and a language away from their creation. But just as a meme perpetuates regardless of its validity, a poem is memorable regardless of whether it is true. It’s up to the reader to figure out whether it’s true.

Therefore a concise answer to your question is, “only some poems are lies, but I’m not telling you which.”

MT:  I sometimes feel your poetry is an elevated form of conversation: deep and brilliant observations honed in language down to subtle art. Do you sometimes get ideas for poems from interaction with other poets and non-poets? I mean, besides your excellent Book of Answers.

HK:  I do, and I often write poetry while listening to other poets at readings. I adore good conversation and have oft been quoted for saying “the older we get, the farther we’ll drive for good conversation.”

James McAdams in the author of “My Back Pages” a wonderful essay featured in our July ON THE LINE issue. We are so thrilled to have the opportunity to share this fine essay with the world.

James actually dropped out of high school and worked in the mental health and web design industries for a decade before getting his G.E.D. in 2005. After acquiring his B.A. in Creative Writing from the University of Pittsburgh, he acquired his Master’s in English from Villanova University, where his Thesis was on David Foster Wallace and The New Sincerity (which was actually a somewhat novel observation at that time).

Currently James is working on his dissertation examining the imbrications between Anglophone postmodern literature and contemporary psychiatry at Lehigh University, where he also teaches and edits the university’s literary journal, Amaranth.  His two objectives for the year are to collect his Ph.D. (thus becoming one of what one imagines is a very small set of people with a G.E.D. and Ph.D.) and publishing his collection of short stories, provisionally entitled Ambushing the Void.  

You can read (and enjoy!) more of James’s work at the following journals:

“The NIEMS Method” at decomP

“Meran” at One Throne Magazine (this story is a fascinating fictional version of his r.kv.r.y. piece “My Back Pages“)

“Get Back Your Life” at Literary Orphans

“All of That” at TINGE Magazine

Bismarck Martinez: You mention in your bio that “Moonlight Sonata” is inspired by your real-life experience spending sleepless nights in a noisy college dorm. Are Grace and Seth inspired by real people? If so, did you feel obligated to represent them honestly in your work or did you feel comfortable adjusting their characters for the sake of fiction?

Tessa Yang: Yes, that’s right. I remember lying awake one night when the first line, “My roommate and I are insomniacs,” just sort of floated into my head. But as for Grace and Seth, no, I can’t say they’re based on anyone in particular (though I did borrow Grace’s distinctive hairstyle from a former classmate). In general, my fiction strays quite far from my personal reality. I might draw a plot out of something I experienced or something I saw on the news, but characters almost never have intentional real-world models.

BM: Were there any challenges that you faced while writing this story?

TY: The hardest part about “Moonlight Sonata” was giving Lola a sense of agency. She’s clearly being taken advantage of here, and she’s struggling with some issues that are out of her control, but at the same time, I’m not interested in writing about passive people to whom things “just happen.” I wanted it to come through that Lola is ultimately responsible for her actions, that the biggest obstacle to her recovery is not in fact Seth, but Lola’s own capacity for self-deceit.

BM: What is your revision process like? How much revising did you go through for this story?

TY: “Moonlight Sonata” was part of my college honors project, so I was fortunate enough to have an advisor, Dr. Pedro Ponce, with whom to discuss possible edits. One major plot point I ended up discarding was Lola’s sexual assault; this was originally construed as the source of her insomnia, but my advisor and I agreed that it wasn’t coming through clearly and was too much for “Moonlight Sonata” to handle along with everything else. I also had to cut about 800 words to meet r.kv.r.y.’s word limit. This turned out to be great for the story, as it forced me to be really selective with my details.

BM: Lola gets caught up in the nocturnal world led by the charismatic figurehead, Seth. At the end, Lola appropriates Seth’s line when offering sleeping pills to Grace. In your mind, what does this mean for Lola and Grace?

TY: The way I intended it, that lines showcases the limits to Lola’s growth as a character. Although she does stand up to Seth in an earlier scene, the irony is that she effectively becomes Seth, despite genuinely good intentions, when she offers Grace the pills. So again, it goes back to her agency as a character. Lola is in a position of power in that last scene, yet there’s something corrupt about her new status. And as for Grace, well, I hope she’d have the good sense not to take the pills, but who really knows?

BM: Do you write every day? Do you have specific goals for how much you should write in a given amount of time, or do you write only when you feel inspired?

TY: As I mentioned above, this story was part of an honors project, and for that I was writing every day, every morning before class. I was amazingly productive, and I hope I can develop a similar daily routine for grad school. Without a hard deadline, I definitely do not write each day. As you say, it’s about when I’m feeling inspired, which might be just a couple of times a week, if that.

BM: When and how did you start writing? How has your writing changed since then?

TY: I began typing stories on the computer around age nine. Apart from the fact that my actual writing ability has (I would hope) improved a lot since then, a big change is that I write mainly realistic fiction now, whereas when I was younger, I wrote fantasy. It’s not that I’ve abandoned fantasy or anything, but I do think, growing up, you start to realize that reality can be as weird and fascinating as any imaginary universe.

BM: As a young writer, where do you see your writing going from here? Are there any genres that you haven’t explored that you would like to? Do you plan to endeavor upon a novel or a collection of short stories?

TY: I’m thinking a short story collection for my grad school thesis. I’ve gotten really comfortable with short-form fiction over the past few years, and I just don’t have any one idea that seems like it could sustain itself over a novel. As for genres, yes, absolutely, there are many I would like to explore! Recently I’ve become interested in flash fiction; it’s so different from the long stories I usually write, and I’ve come to appreciate how word count restraints can really energize the prose. l have a similar feeling about poetry, though I’m slightly intimidated by it, and this is also something I’d like to work on. I think forays outside your “home genre” can only help you grow as a writer.

Bismarck Martinez is a native of Queens, New York and a reluctant migrant to Long Island. He is a student at John Jay College in NYC where he also works as a writing tutor and serves as editor-in-chief of the student creative writing journal, The Quill. His work can be found at The Monarch Review, Drunk Monkeys, and Poetry Quarterly.

Lori A. May: You often find characters with dark, but subtle demeanors. This time, in “Special Forces,” you have a soldier narrator. Can you share a little about how you find or create your characters?

D Ferrara: I don’t think I create my characters – they arrive fully formed in my head, or sometimes show up in front of me, on the street, in my family or among my acquaintances, although sometimes they cross pollinate. All I do is imagine them in different situations. That is the hard part. In “Special Forces,” the main character is based largely on a late friend, with some anecdotes drawn from soldiers I have met over the years. I imagined him in my own cancer treatment.

“Lucille” is based on my own life, although I’ve added events, as my time in France was less eventful than Lucille’s. “Then and Now” was triggered by my husband’s terrible experience on September 11.  “Sample Sale” published in American Writers’ Review, sprang from a conversation I overheard between two young women at, you guessed it, a sample sale.

LAM: How do you know when you have the right narrator for the story? For that matter, how do you determine the appropriate POV?

DF: Most times, my stories derive from the character. Without the character, there isn’t a story. In “Special Forces,” that is especially true. Sometimes, however, I find that the story is more interesting from another point of view. My play, “Favor,” for example, started out as a biography of Edith Stein, the nun who was killed at Auschwitz.  While that was a great story, it didn’t resonate with me as much as why the Catholic Church had decided to make her – a woman born Jewish – a saint. When I changed the focus to the political intrigue at the Vatican, the story took off.

As for how I determined that: I couldn’t find anything new to say about Edith.   Not only could I not say it better, I couldn’t offer anything different. At that point, I could either give up on the idea (wasting years of research) or find a fresh approach. That approach germinated when I read an article by James Carroll, a Catholic writer, who questioned the motivation of the Church in canonizing Edith. I created a character to embody the controversy, gave Edith a voice in it and I was off.

LAM: You publish widely in a variety of literary journals. What strategy do you have for submitting your work?

DF: “Special Forces” seemed perfect for r.kv.r.y. There are stories like that – they just fit. Mostly, I submit to journals that I like, which means I submit a lot.  I subscribe to TSP and make note of the publishers of short stories there. Once a quarter, I choose a story and send it to journals which have published my work or which I have enjoyed. I have also used Writers’ Relief to explore new outlets.

LAM: Tell us a bit more about your writing life. How do you balance your writing, submitting, promoting, and community involvement while keeping up with day-to-day life?

DF: Like most writers with a day job and a family, I dream of the perfect retreat with nothing to do but write. I doubt I would write a word there. “Special Forces” happened when I was lying on a gurney, waiting for an MRI, worrying about my family, work, nausea, hair loss, sex, chemo-bloat, chemo-brain, but not, oddly enough, dying. Some of my best stories were born on the 6:25 bus to Manhattan. Stories have to be about something that touches the reader. What about an idyllic retreat is likely to touch most readers?

In short, I don’t so much balance as squeeze. I write on my iPhone, my iPad and a paper notebook, although my handwriting is dreadful. In a pinch, I gabble ideas into the voice recorder on the phone. It isn’t perfect – or even pretty, but I have published fourteen stories in the past two years, as well as a lot of articles for work, so I feel productive.

As for community involvement, I often feel that it gets the shortest end of the stick. If it weren’t for social media, I would have a hard time keeping up with my writers’ group. Still, when I get together with them, I always feel as if I’ve been rejuvenated, injected with new ideas.

LAM: When you think about your future writing plans, what might we hope to see from you in the future? Do you intend to pull together some of your stories for a collection?

DF: I have a collection of twenty-five stories ready to go (any publishers reading this?), from which “Special Forces” is drawn, and am adding to them, although somewhat erratically As every short story writer knows, publishers shy away from collections. Still, it is a wonderful experience to see them published individually. Next up, I have stories in MacGuffin, The Evansville Review, Adana and Diversity Art Project.

LAM: What do you know now as a writer that you didn’t know ten years ago? What advice might you offer to those starting out?

DF: Ten years ago I had given up on short fiction and was working on screenplays and ghostwriting. It paid, but was miserable work. I rarely got credit, and affected a hard boiled pose that was alien to my nature.

Slowly, I returned to my first love, the short story. It will never make me rich, but it makes me happy. Yes, I still write scripts, and collaborate with others on their work, but I don’t need the tough-as-nails posture. My life has been good: I can share that good fortune with others.

As for offering advice – besides the usual, excellent wisdom, “just do it,” I would add, don’t resent other people’s success. Envy is a waste of energy. Put that energy into your work. If you don’t “succeed” at what you are doing, maybe you need to redefine success. Do you need to change your genre? Find a different art form? Choose other outlets? Or revisit rule one – just do it? If you don’t write it, no one can read it.

If your only dream involves sitting on Johnny Carson’s couch, remember – Johnny is dead.

Lori A. May is the author of several books, including The Write Crowd: Literary Citizenship & the Writing Life (Bloomsbury, 2015) and Square Feet (Accents, 2014). Her work may also be found in publications such as The Atlantic, Brevity, and Midwestern Gothic. Lori teaches in the nonfiction MFA program at the University of King’s College-Halifax, and in the MA/MFA programs at Wilkes University. Find her online at www.loriamay.com and on twitter @loriamay.