Interviews & Reviews

THE ANSWER HAS TO BE YES: AN INTERVIEW WITH KIRSTI MACKENZIE by John Waddy Bullion

Kirsti MacKenzie’s debut Better to Beg (Sweet Trash Press, 2025) is a rock ’n’ roll novel set against the backdrop (and at the tail end) of the Meet Me in the Bathroom-era New York indie boomlet, told in the vivid alternating voices of the Deserters—driven, determined Viv and drug-addled but transparently striving Hux—as they tumble across post-9/11 America’s cramped venues, wild house parties, and downtrodden motel rooms, forever arriving but never quite arriving. In MacKenzie’s deft hands, what emerges is not only a lean, mean, and surprisingly lyrical story of music and ambition, but also a sly exploration of the myths America sells to the world and to itself, as well as a moving defense of art’s ability to sustain us—even when it seems like the gig is already over.In advance of Better to Beg’s release date, I exchanged emails with Kirsti to ask her about her writing process, developing her characters’ voices, and the role that music plays in her work. Our conversation has been lightly edited for clarity. Bullion: My first question (perhaps obviously) is about music and how it informs your writing process. Did you put together a playlist to situate yourself in the world of the book, or was it more utilitarian (i.e., do you work best with certain types of music in the background)?MacKenzie: Depends on what I'm writing, I suppose. I wrote the book so long ago that my memory’s fuzzy, but it went like this: I started paying more attention to The Kills’ discography after hearing Keep on Your Mean Side. As a result, I read Meet Me in the Bathroom, Lizzy Goodman’s exhaustive oral history of early aughts indie rock. I collected a bunch of songs from bands referenced in the book — bands I was passingly familiar with, but not heavily into — The Strokes, Interpol, The National, TV on the Radio, The White Stripes, and so on. Jamie and Alison fascinated me so I sort of began writing these two characters loosely based on them around the same time, so it wasn’t really a chicken or egg situation with the playlist — the more I listened, the more fascinated I became, and the more I wrote, the more I sought anything that might inform the feeling of the book. I kept a loose record of all the things I “took in” at the time — film, tv, books, albums, podcasts. I also sought things that invoked an “on the road” type feeling – Captain Beefheart, Colter Wall, Townes Van Zandt.One thing I can’t fucking stand is when novelists try to write about music performance — the energy of it very rarely translates to the page, and it becomes self indulgent. It was very important to me to write the in-between. To capture the energy between these two that might translate to the stage. I remember very vividly hearing The Kills song “No Wow” – how dangerous and runaway it felt, how violent — and thinking, that. That exact thing. How many hours of fucking and fighting were channeled into those 3 minutes? Now make it 80,000 words.  Bullion: What drove your decision to set the novel during such a specific time period (2003) in the midst of such a specific musical scene?MacKenzie: I guess I was thinking about scenes, and the kind of revisionist history that goes into defining them. There was a spate of debut albums around 2001-2003 that created this early aughts NY indie influence that echoed for a long time. Lizzy Goodman was the first to really create a ‘history’ of it, to label and define its impact — I’m sure the bands involved in it weren’t really aware they were creating a scene. Mostly I imagine they were just people creating art in reaction to the times they were living through. No artist should start making art to create a ‘scene’. Certainly you can respond to the energy of what’s around you, to be inspired by your environment, by your peers — but the second you label something a scene, you’re engaged in its consumption, in its perception, in molding your art to fit it. You stop innovating. The other consideration was, quite simply, how the fuck can I relate to these characters? I’m not a musician. How can I write them in a meaningful way? I was a kid watching the towers come down on a television in my high school library. I remember what it was like to wonder, okay, what now? It was this generation-defining event that impacted so many millennials, and late Xers. The epigraph speaks to that — Who is keeping score now? You might die tomorrow. Make what you want. Forget labelling it. Possibly it matters, possibly it doesn’t. What matters is making it to survive, you know. The horrors.  Bullion: Better to Beg is a rock n’ roll novel, but (I would argue) it’s also a road novel preoccupied with destinations, not journeys. In what sense did you want to consciously portray Hix and Viv as captives of the open road, instead of being set free by it? MacKenzie: There is a part of me that, like many other people tethered to one location for prolonged periods of time, romanticizes life on the road that musicians have. We envy them their “freedom.” Freedom, or the notion of it, comes around a lot in the book. It’s very preoccupied with notions of freedom being exploded again and again. What we miss in these rock star narratives is that road life is on a schedule, is a series of hotel rooms; it is not vacation. There is a reason people go nuts in hotel rooms, in airport bars. No sense of grounding, of normalcy. I am fascinated with liminal spaces, with travellers, with the in-between. Without anything fixed to ground our identities, who do we become? Your identity collapses a bit. So I imagined these characters as two people trying to carve their identity — as a band, and as individuals — while being constantly in motion, in flux. Both emotionally, and physically. I imagine touring is a kind of productive outlet for messy personalities, for their creative energy. You can outrun things, but only for so long. Everywhere you go, there you are.   Bullion: Voice has always been a central component of your writing, and the dual narrators’ voices are particularly vivid and also markedly distinct from one another. Was there ever any concern on your part that one narrator’s voice would overwhelm the other? And how did you decide that it needed to be Viv, not Hux, who got to have the last word?MacKenzie: Both voices came naturally, and distinctly. Both are two sides of me at war always — the scowling, practical realist, and the sweet, hopeful clown. Viv is a lot closer to my natural voice, and Hux came completely unbidden and fully formed. That sounds like precious writer bullshit, but it’s true. Sometimes the characters just show up, and you’re along for the ride. They balanced each other perfectly, which lent itself well to my aim; to hold both sides of the creative argument without prioritizing one over the other. In the original iteration of the book, Hux has a fucking unhinged prologue. I wrote it to hook the reader, but it was a cheap trick; it had to be cut. So Viv always had the last word. For all his guilelessness and naïveté, Hux holds the book’s thesis. Viv is the one who had to be convinced.  Bullion: Speaking of that unhinged prologue, I had the pleasure of reading an earlier version of this book and it included one of the most hilarious, shocking, and astounding first sentences I’d ever read. Imagine my surprise when I received this latest advance copy and discovered that this incredible opening line had been cut, along with around 40-50 other pages. And yet, this book is inarguably better for it. How did you locate this sleeker, leaner, meaner story in the editing process? MacKenzie: Chopping that opening line — and the opening chapter that accompanied it — was a change I insisted on. It worked well as a hook, but it did not sit well with me. It felt like a cheap trick and I wanted it gone. So now it lives in early copies of the book. I’m grateful to anyone who has a copy and takes a chance on the new version. I like it better.  Editing with Brian Alan Ellis and Jillian Luft was an interesting process — I received edits from both, and both had different aims. Jill wanted to keep my voice intact. Brian wanted the book to be shorter, more palatable for an indie release. We came to an agreement — where it made sense to strip pretense and sharpen, I accepted all changes. Where it didn’t feel true to character voice (and subsequently, mine) I put my foot down. They respected every returned edit. It was a great experience, and the book is better for it.   Bullion: The narrative focus you take in each alternating Viv and Hux chapter is intriguing to me. Sometimes Viv/Hux is driving the action, while at other times they’re bystanders, reacting to something the other is doing. How did you decide what scenes needed to be presented from a specific narrator’s point of view? MacKenzie: I don’t know that it was a specific decision so much as trying to put them in ridiculous situations. Dumpster diving? College parties? High on a motel floor? Line dancing? I honestly don’t know where half of it came from except to say that I wanted them to have as much fun as possible, to be as messy as possible. What I will say is that I followed story beats to keep everything moving, to keep momentum, because it is a fucking sin to have someone’s attention and then lose it. And those story beats were structured in threes. Action/decision, reaction, subsequent action/decision, so on and so forth. There were Pepe Silvia-style plot notes littering my walls when I wrote it. So that could be why it alternates.   Bullion: Better to Beg is an extremely propulsive, forward-leaning novel with a breakneck pace. And yet you manage to make room for these moments of high lyricism, such as when Hux—who throughout the novel is hilariously bad at taking drugs—gets high on ketamine in Atlanta and is assaulted by images of his previous band's failure. Even Viv’s narration, which is relatively straightforward in comparison, makes room for lovely little detours. Why was it important to allow your two narrators to have the room to monologue, to take these flights of fancy? MacKenzie: Oh, yikes. Here is a little secret: I thought that’s what novels were for. Space to stretch, to be interior. I wrote this originally to be a Big-Five type release (HA!), a standard 300-page novel. I am a different writer now than when I drafted the book; I wrote it prior to publishing in this microfiction environment, and present-me would not have taken those flights of fancy. Back story is important; characterization is important; being masturbatory in prose is not. Brian Alan Ellis cut a lot of the fat while retaining the book’s spirit, which was a miracle. I’m grateful for it.   Bullion: In a previous interview, you’ve talked about a trip you took to Death Valley and the Chateau Marmont, well after you’d finished an early draft of this book, and how delighted you were that you’d gotten the several key details right without ever having been to either place. I’m curious, would anything have changed if you’d gotten the details even the slightest bit wrong? MacKenzie: Not a single thing.   Bullion: In the same interview, you candidly admitted to being very calculated about wanting to set this book in America because you knew that would make it more marketable. But in reading the finished product, it feels to me like somewhere along the way, you stumbled onto an extraordinarily profound truth about America and the myths it sells to the world, and especially the myths it sells to itself. What role do you see America, the home of (as a side character memorably puts it to Hux) “the freest motherfuckers on the planet,” playing in your future projects, if any? MacKenzie: Incredibly embarrassing pull quote, I have no memory of writing that. I’m Canadian, and I wrote the book at a time where I was growing really irritated with CanLit. There is lots that’s good and respectable about CanLit as this sort of project to foster national identity through storytelling. There is also a lot about CanLit — and the industries and funding that surround it — that stifles innovation for Canadian writers. I found more of that innovative spirit in American indie lit spaces. I drifted into it after getting on Twitter and becoming acquainted with American writers operating in that space. No one was getting paid, and everyone was having fun. Perfect grounds for innovation, for evolution.I could not envision a rock novel set in Canada, with a Canadian band. You’re talking the same little circuit between Southern Ontario and east coast US; boring. So America became the setting. I don’t know how much or how little it’ll factor into future writing except that America is to me, as it is to billions, an empire which is nothing if not relentlessly innovative and creative and self-destructive. Bullion: The novel ends with this unexpectedly gorgeous, moving, and frankly kick-ass sentence that serves as a validation of the role that artistic expression and creative pursuits can and should play in our lives. I couldn’t help but wonder, to what degree is Better to Beg also about writing, and in particular, our own indie-lit scene?MacKenzie: I guess this goes back to the question about scenes. I was present for a conversation among writers at AWP Kansas City about how to label the present literary energy we find ourselves in. How to capture it, how to express that to people. Michael Wheaton very astutely observed that it doesn’t matter what we call ourselves, how we label it. He said something like, “If it becomes anything to anyone, they’ll be the ones to label it, to define what it meant. We’re not in control of that.” And he’s right. The only thing we can do is show up, have fun, make things, share them. Do it or don’t. No one but you gives one single fuck if you do it, and that’s freeing. The process of writing BTB was just me coaching myself through writing a novel. It was the gradual realization that you have to get up, every day, and engage in creating for its own sake. For survival, for joy. You can’t control anything about the outcome — if you get paid for it, if you get accolades, if anyone sees or hears or reads the end result. If nobody else gives a fuck about this but me, is it still worth doing? The answer has to be yes. The act itself has to matter. Some people have told me they see the end as sad; some see it as hopeful. I think their perspective speaks volumes to their outlook on creativity, and on life. I cried when I wrote that last line. I know exactly how I feel about it — where I land on sad or hopeful — but it’s not for me to decide for you. The book doesn’t belong to me anymore, and that’s a beautiful thing. 
November 20, 2025
Fiction

YOU THANK THE MARQUIS DE SADE: AUDREY SZASZ’S ‘TELEPLASM’ by Jesse Hilson

My dictionary of British slang tells me that “Sloane” was the first name of an insufferable female archetype of the upper class in the 1980s. When I saw that the protagonist of Audrey Szasz’s novel Teleplasm (Amphetamine Sulphate, 2025) was named Sloane Epstein it suggested great wealth and privilege crossed with echoes of the human trafficking, pedophilia, and white collar underworld of Jeffrey Epstein. Indeed, the novel exists in a narrative Petri dish of high-class travel, Internet media celebrity, psychological deterioration and pervasive sexual violence. Sloan Epstein is a young woman attached to a roving paranormal researcher Dr. Novák, her “boyfriend,” for whom she serves as a fraudulent medium on his globe-trotting YouTube investigations into hauntings and apparitions. “Teleplasm,” on the book’s first page, is given as the title of a substance that hypothetically emanates from “the body of a medium that serves as the means for telekinesis.” Since nobody, especially Sloane, credibly believes in the fiction of the afterlife they are perpetrating, we as readers of the novel are left to witness her body’s other more tangible excretions in the form of aroused sexual response to Novák’s frequent physical and psychological abuse. Sadomasochistic sexual encounters come along with the punishing regularity of a city bus schedule, and are described with microscopic detail. More narration, though, is given to Sloane’s interior emotional landscape which is as weirdly terrifying as the darkest and most deranged true crime documentary offered on the planet’s most off-the-chain YouTube channel on the eve of its being taken down for obscenity. In fact, this monologued material—morbid, funny, shocking, unrepentantly antisocial—makes up the bulk of Szasz’s novel: 
My wish for affection is part of a larger neurotic trend, put in motion by an artificial hand or a silent motor—eternity is an unwound thread from an invisible spool—…and what am I doing right now? I am imitating a masochistic patient who longs to be trussed up in my cell like a worm in ever-tightening restraints, disobeying verbal and written commands, slacking off, twisting and turning, prophylaxis as state oppression, I need to please a white man, a clearly ironic overtone of hypergenocidal mania, sexual relations with my oppressors, analysts, teachers, furtive incest wishes, involuntary recall of trauma injuries, furious self-flagellation that never seems to satisfy…
 Imagine a jet-setting version of A Clockwork Orange, without the Russian slang and with no Ludovico Technique, no rehabilitation or reprogramming narratives or moral vision, no orientation to conformity, and you may come close to imagining Teleplasm. The narrator’s voice (this is a common feature of all Szasz’s fiction that I’ve read) is overpowering: sophisticated and urbane while at the same time uniquely dissolute and down for whatever, including felonious criminal behavior and flouting all forms of authority. This makes for a fascinating window onto her characters. The boundaries broken are both external and internal. Szasz’s narrators dare you to develop something as frail and weak as a moral objection, or a set of stupid moral reactions, to their litanies of outrage and danger.I had opened myself up to Teleplasm maximally, so the book stood for something significant, to me. I could play along with the morbid curiosity. When I read it, though, I felt like “There, I’ve read enough of the evil.” A good book in many ways, an evil book in a big way, in the biggest way. Teleplasm should not be banned as a matter of policy, but if you’re looking for books that from an enlightened and amused perspective “might as well be banned,” banned by a smirking individual, not a humorless, illiterate group, banned for one’s self, this is something like that book. It is a turn-off for all further books of its type about that kind of moral degeneracy. And there are a lot of books of the type out there, but none as well-written as Teleplasm, I’d wager. In it, I have found the book that has done the turning off for me. Szasz’s cool, black book has pride of place in my library.When I first read it, I gave it a five-star Goodreads review, deservedly, but on a personal evaluative basis, as a reader, it’s something I didn’t know if I ever wanted to read again. But I did read the book, again, later, months later, to taste and savor the moral viewpoints upon reflection. Part of this faculty of judgment was arrived at by reading several of Szasz’s novels and novellas, and feeling like I had seen enough of the progression of subject matter to get the picture and not needing to go further. I’m not 100% sure there’s much more depth to the cistern than what I saw from Counterillumination, Invisibility: A Manifesto, “A-Z of Robomasochism,” and finally Teleplasm. Szasz has written numerous other books that if one had extra cash and a desire to read further (itself a species of masochism, arguably), one could buy those books and explore it all. It feels like a case of clever craftsmanship and enfant terrible wit utilized on subject matter with diminishing returns.This repulsion is “satisfying” in a way, a sad satisfaction for a reader. Sad that it was necessary. But happy too, in that I can move on to investigating other moral territories in literature. It drove me, in a sense, out of Dennis Cooper’s best-of lists at year’s end and into the arms of …some more positive sensibility. I don’t know the Marquis de Sade enough to place him, but you thank Sade, you thank him for drawing the boundary. I no longer believe for me “there is no boundary.” Szasz, and in one sense, Sade as one of her influences as a writer of S&M erotica and venom spat into the collective face of the squares, illustrated that, not for themselves or for their thirsty, depraved readers, but for me. And I’m just one reader and nobody to heed. I might as well, however, find a philosophy or a utility in Teleplasm. It provides a service, an aesthetic object lesson: an example of morality and aesthetics meeting perfectly in a novel. If it’s a Sadean thing, I wouldn’t say it draws me closer to reading the French aristocrat. Notoriety is only so compelling — beyond a certain point it has no power over “good people,” people with some orientation, as Joris-Karl Huysmans found after writing his own horrid books, towards the Cross. I hate to sound like a Midwestern mom at a school board invoking Satanic Panic. I don’t think that’s me. I don’t know if I need to read more Audrey Szasz in a quest to gain the forbidden knowledge. And I don’t think this was ever her goal as a writer. The thing about quitting reading her for the kicks is that there is always the world’s horror reportage of its own evil you can turn to. Artists can give you so much of the picture and are in the end, interchangeable with each other. Szasz’s writing was a unique piece of the puzzle; her books, if they were living things, would have zero remorse, zero pangs of conscience about their capabilities. If there was a satirical vein in Teleplasm meant to invite a more complex moral reading, it was too Baroque for me to detect. Maybe I was too much of an obtuse normie to read, in the comedy of Sloane Epstein’s monologues, some cry for help, something about the need for love? It is a damaging, upsetting watershed of a book. I don’t think I’m interested in that kind of damage anymore. I could have gone on reading other transgressive and nihilistic authors forever, presumably. Again, I’m grateful to Teleplasm’s author for helping me to shut off the nozzle.The Marquis de Sade, it seems to me, served as a “necessary outlier” to position other philosophical, moral, and literary coordinates around, against which normalized values can and must be established. And yet the world seems by some lights (whether subjective or objective, whether localized perceptions or mediated global consciousness) to be well on the way to becoming more Sadean every day, not so much of an outlier anymore. Maybe here’s another value of Teleplasm. It’s a dishonest, ill-equipped critic who hasn’t read Sade yet invokes him, but I don’t really need to read him to get this: I have Audrey Szasz’s updated writing.
November 13, 2025
Micros

AGES by Sarah Chin

Thirteen was the year I discovered spite. Fourteen, eyeliner. Fifteen, seduction in a slow blink. At sixteen, I mailed seventeen birthday cards to myself, all unsigned. My mother asked who loved me that much. I said: someone who knows the value of quantity over quality. She looked proud, as if I’d finally become a woman. I looked away, counting the candles, calculating how many more years until I could vanish without anyone noticing.
November 12, 2025
Fiction

MAKING CONNECTIONS AND DRAWING LINES: AN INTERVIEW WITH EMMALEA RUSSO by Rebecca Gransden

Since its release in fall 2024 Emmalea Russo's Vivienne (Arcade Publishing) has had time to percolate with the culture it so sharply interrogates. A slanted satire, the book poetically autopsies online mores and offers a giddy sojourn to the realm of the artist, both the world they invent for themselves, and that imposed from outside. Three generations of a family are positioned as focus for the novel, and Russo bestows this trio with an enchanted ordinariness. What constitutes a violent act? By the end, flesh and blood puts words to shame. I spoke to Emmalea about the book. Rebecca Gransden: WHO IS VIVIENNE VOLKERCentral to Vivienne is the triumvirate of Vivienne herself, Velour, and Vesta. Do you recall how the characters came to you? How did you decide upon their names?Emmalea Russo: They are certainly a triumvirate, a holy or unholy trinity of Vs. Vivienne Volker sort of tumbled out of a poem I wrote which featured Hans Bellmer. I wondered what his family legacy would be like if he had another lover—one with whom he had a child. Velour Bellmer is Vivienne and Hans’s daughter and that name came to me in a sudden rush—like, duh—of course Vivienne would name her daughter after a fabric! I’d never heard the name Velour (Vel, for short) and I sort of love it. Vesta, Velour’s daughter, had to be another V—and I was thinking of the vestal virgins, the goddesses of home and hearth who kept the fire of Rome going.RG: I’m drawn to the attention you give to the idea of harm. In the media landscape described in the book, harm can be something seemingly arbitrarily ascribed, and amorphous in its definition. There are incidences for your characters that involve their harm, whether that be at the reputation level, or of the actual bodily harm variety. How did you set about incorporating the idea of harm into the book?ER: Harm was such a buzzword when I was writing the book. I grew up around a lot of lawyers, specifically criminal defense attorneys—so I became interested in this idea of harm, which is undeniable but also unprovable, as it relates to the presumption of innocence, reasonable doubt, due process. In Vivienne, detractors claim her work is “harmful” or has “harmed” them in some way. What does this really mean? Is it an artist’s job to make sure their work doesn’t harm anyone? Is that even possible, or a worthwhile goal? What are we to do with our harm? Are we supposed to avoid or boycott works that are risky, problematic, or triggering? In the book, harm and victimhood get weaponized. Accusations of harm become like babyish tyrannical refrains. There are piles of interesting things hiding underneath the word “harm.”RG: You utilize various mediums throughout the text, from comment threads to letters. I found this creates a sensation similar to that of social media scrolling, a pull into a vortex of information. Eyewitness reports on Volker turn up amid these comment threads, presenting tantalising glimpses of her. There is a hunger to construct the person from these fragments, an impulse that becomes a game. Where do you stand on the public and the private when it comes to an artist’s life, and to what extent does this influence your own approach to publicity in relation to your work?ER: Great question. Yes, there are these quick glimpses of Viv—glimpses which make her appear even more iconic and unreachable, in a sense. The Bellmer-Volker-Furio clan is quite private. On the one hand, it’s fair game to reach into a public figure’s life—to try and grab bits and pieces and make stories. On the other hand, there’s a kind of cruelty and madness about it. These days, we do the machinery’s work for it—exploiting ourselves and our images. I often wonder about the backlash—the children of influencers, for instance. I think these publicity technologies can give way to delusion and dehumanization. For instance: we begin to believe that a person is what a person posts. Or, that we know what a person cares about because we follow them online. There’s a level of unknowability, opacity, that has to be preserved. The danger comes when we forget the difference between info and truth. When it comes to my own work, I tend to be very private about my personal life. And yet—how to foreground the work and hope people read it while keeping oneself private? It's not a clean, clear line. Things get fuzzy and messy, inevitably. I don’t know!RG: Velour pictures Wilma’s broken body on the ground seven or eight stories down, Max’s needled, drug-torn form stacked atop it. And her father, too—thin and filled with cancers. Her own dead body, her mother’s, her daughter’s, the dog’s . . . their clothes blowing in the wind and smelling of piss, French perfume, and shit. A saint or an angel arrives—one of these entities her mother apparently believes in—and blesses them, makes the sign of the cross, then continues on. Their bodies, piled high, block traffic. Lou picks the whole mess up in his garbage truck, compacts them until all organs get crushed. A theme that haunts the book is that of accusation, and what it means to stand in judgement. So much of Volker’s story is surrounded with rumor and insinuation, questions of guilt and innocence. For me, a great strength of the book is its careful and nuanced exploration of human messiness. Do you view Vivienne as a moral work?ER: This is such a brilliant question. I’m glad you thought of it as carefully exploring human messiness—which is essentially what I aimed to do. I guess Vivienne is a deeply moral work, though not in an obvious way. I certainly hope it’s not moralizing or preachy. I think there’s a big difference. I get irritated when I can feel the author of a work of fiction winking at me or letting me know she’s on the right side of history. It’s belittling and shoots me out of the world. In Vivienne, the characters are not outright judges for their transgressions, but they do transgress a lot, and they are met with consequences. Vivienne wrestles with her own conscience and guilt, as we see in the church scene, and she seems to be guilty, but likely not for what the internet crowd believes she’s guilty of. The sins of Vivienne and Velour get visited on Vesta, but in ways the characters don’t totally see. There’s a lot of fate in the book. The three Fates, like the three Vs of Vivienne, are women. Maybe the book could be read as cautioning against forgiving oneself too quickly—the potential dangers in seeing oneself as a victim and not (also) a perpetrator. The ethics of guilt and wrestling with fate are at play.RG: Canines play an important part in the book, and a character’s recurring dream features the powerful image of a dog. What drew you to include this aspect? Have any real life animals inspired the dogs featured in Vivienne? ER: I’m happy you asked this! Dogs are everywhere in the book, including on the cover. I grew up with dogs, and I have two of them now. The dogs in Vivienne are amalgamations of many dogs I know or have known IRL. The family dog’s name is Franz Kline. Kline was an abstract artist from Pennsylvania, so I thought it fit. But also, a friend of mine told me that she met a dog in New York once named Franz Kline, and I thought it was perfect for the Vivienne dog. I was at a dog park a few months after the book came out, and I met a dog that matched the description I gave of Franz Kline perfectly. It was uncanny. There is such an innocence, honesty, and immanence about dogs, and it’s excruciating to see an animal hurt. Animals witness our sorrows, wrongdoings, all of it—and we project onto them. In the book, they become sacrifices, keepers of dreams, companions, protectors, gods, barometers. Maybe dogs serve as a kind of counterpoint to human messiness in the book because, as Freud said, dogs bite their enemies and love their friends, “quite unlike people, who are incapable of pure love and always have to mix love and hate in their object relations.”RG: Vivienne presents the idea of growing a simple soul. What does this mean?ER: Lars Arden, the opportunistic and savvy gallerist who scoops up Vivienne’s work after it’s been ditched by the big museum, is also somewhat of a mystic, a seeker. And throughout, Lars is quoting and thinking of the French mystic Marguerite Porete’s 14th century text The Mirror of Simple Souls. It’s essentially a kind of guidebook for union with the divine, and also a profound and profoundly weird meditation on the nature of love and how to make one’s soul “simple” in preparation for meeting G*d. Porete was burned at the stake for her book, and for refusing to refute its contents. She was called a heretic and a pseudo-mulier (fake woman). These accusations are also levelled against Vivienne. I wanted Lars to be reading this obscure medieval spiritual text and really taking it to heart. There is a lot of dark humor and satire in Vivienne, and Lars is slippery and scheming, but he’s also wanting to better himself—to grow a simple soul. Simplifying one’s soul involves sloughing off earthly stuff. Some people think Lars is like the “villain” of the book, but I don’t see him that way. He’s caught between accruing and simplifying, between growing his reputation and growing his soul. Can you do both at the same time? RG: Lars Arden met Clorinda Salazar, a socialite moonlighting as a stylist and internet writer, at a coffee shop a few years ago when they struck up a conversation about an article she was writing entitled “Sexualities You Didn’t Know Existed.” Clorinda’s reputation preceded her, and Lars felt she lived up to the hype: a gorgeous, big chested redhead with an encyclopedic knowledge of who and what was in. The daughter of the late abstract expressionist known simply as Salazar, a painter who won notoriety amongst the downtown set and beyond when he allegedly pushed his wife, the artist Paulina Paz, from her studio window onto the sidewalk. After she woke from a brief coma following the six-story fall, she didn’t press charges and their careers flourished.I’d like to talk about falling. An incident of a person falling to their death hangs over the novel’s characters. It’s a concept that lingers, not only as a result of the tragedy inherent in the incident itself, but also on a deeper, symbolic level. It put me in mind of the depression era financier jumpers (although I believe that is now regarded to be mostly a myth), the supposed use of this method by government agencies to eliminate people deemed no longer of use, and, most obviously, the unbearable images of 9/11 jumpers. How did this aspect of the book come to you?ER: We see Vivienne’s rise in the book, which is simultaneously her fall. Windows (physical and digital) and highs and lows, obscurity and fame. Climbing/rising is always also falling. I was thinking of the falls and pushes in the book (and lingering questions about who was pushed, who jumped, who fell…) as ways of thinking about fault, guilt, escape, blame. It’s a sort of running joke in the book, but also deathly serious. There’s the tragedy of Icarus, of course—who flew too close to the sun and fell into the sea after his wings melted. Unica Zurn jumped from a window to her death. Deleuze did, too. And there is Ana Mendieta, who apparently fell from a window in the 1980s. RG: This is perhaps an example of the universe lining up in itself, but I increasingly find myself asking writers about their relationship with synchronicity and its importance with regard to their work. How do you view synchronicity, and are there any examples of it in your own creative life you’d like to share?ER: Synchronicity! It’s incredibly important to me. Synchronicity means “same time,” and this is the principle on which divination and astrology operate. Planetary positions aren’t “causing” certain events to happen in our lives. But, there may be a correlation between what’s going on in the sky and that same moment here on Earth. Synchronicity has to do with paying attention, reading the room, making connections and drawing lines. Vivienne unfolds over the course of one supercharged week, but we see overlaps and weird connections between characters. Synchronicities between online commenters and Vivienne’s rural life. Jung thought of synchronicity as a creative act. I think of my astrology practice as the weird study of synchronicities. RG: What does the future hold?ER: I just asked the tarot. I got The Fool.And also, there’s a sequel. It’s called The Moon Papers and it will be out in the summertime. 
November 11, 2025
Fiction

BECKETTIAN by Shane Kowalski

Murphy was visiting Malone. It had been a while since they had seen each other. Murphy being busy in the city, while Malone had lingered in the countryside. Murphy remembered those dark country roads, whizzing down them in the nights as a youth. No noise. But at the same time, all the noise in the world. The humming shadows. Malone was always the type to leave enough room between himself and other people. Murphy, on the other hand, had become a successful C-AWP II, a thing he so frequently had to explain to new acquaintances that it had lost all meaning. He no longer truly knew what the acronym stood for, nor the nature of the work. More recently he had taken to going into the office—a large high rise in the city with a long elevator ride—and sitting there confused as to what to do. The confusion was so wrought he thought he was having a stroke one day, even going so far as to say to a passing coworker, “I think I’m having a stroke.” But the coworker took this to be yet another slice of dark humor common to the world of the office. Murphy frequently went home with a headache. He had begun distancing himself from his girlfriend, Molly. It was a slow, painful process that would irrevocably damage their default modes in relationships going forward. Murphy felt bad about it. It was nothing Molly did or didn’t do. He felt it was connected to his confusion at work, but he couldn’t say in what way. On the other end, Molly was beginning to think Murphy needed help. It pained and angered her to feel pushed away, but she also felt like Murphy was spinning down a dark road, without light or guide, and would sure enough find himself crashed into a large tree. Part of this feeling was informed by a recent event she had witnessed on a ferry to the cliffs. It was very cold and the choppy ocean sprayed the deck from time to time. A young man, very well dressed considering the casual nature of the occasion, had gotten up and started stripping off his clothes. Soon he was naked and screaming that someone named Molly was down there, pointing to the ocean. This struck Molly for obvious reasons. The young, naked man had begun trying to climb the ferry’s rail to hurl himself over when a group of men pulled him back at last. They threw him to the deck, where he flopped like a fish. It all lingered for Molly, although she told nobody about it, least of all Murphy. And it was only a moment, nights later, when Murphy stayed over and was stripping off his clothes in preparation for a moment of intimacy, that she felt like she had witnessed an omen or premonition. That, somehow, Murphy was that young man, naked and flopping on the deck of the ferry. Murphy, of course, knew none of this. He had everything one could seem to want and yet felt fraught over all of it. It wasn’t until he got the letter from Malone that he thought maybe this was the answer. Going to see Malone! Malone was always a dissident, in every possible way. His life, in the country, the hardscrabble hew of it, just seeing it, would straighten Murphy out. He thought of that old children’s book about mice, one being from the city and the other the country. He couldn’t remember anything else about them. It seemed like the last book he had ever read. He had stopped after that one. The mice. The city one and the country one. Whatever their conflict was. When he finally made it to the tiny house in the country, after a six-hour train ride and then another hour and a half car ride there, Murphy was surprised to find a note at the door. It said: Friend, when you arrive, please just come in. I’m sorry. Murphy thought this was strange. He went in. There he found a neat and orderly house. Malone had done well for himself. Yes, he had stayed in the country, but he had made it nice. It seemed he had invested something into his solitary life. This warmed Murphy’s heart and made him feel guilty over the discontent he felt at his own life. Friendship, he thought, was a viaduct from one loneliness to another. When he went into the living room he found Malone. He was sitting in his rocking chair, very still, holding a large shotgun in such a manner that it pointed directly at his face. He seemed upset, perhaps had even been crying a little. He looked disappointed to see Murphy. “Oh,” Malone said. “I was supposed to have done it already. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. You weren’t supposed to see me living like this!”
November 10, 2025
Fiction

THE BROKEN TOWER by Kaden Griggs

The hulk of the Orizaba lulled hugely in the calm spring water as if the waves were tongues tasting the air in broad gulps like old hounds lapping water from ground puddles. Not much moved. The poet was drinking and avoiding his beloved. His father had died and he was very sad tonight. He had never felt emptier within. Lust enters when the hollowness leaves nothing else behind. He makes the mistake of believing again that the drinking will bury the lust and set things aright but it only invigorates the lust. Lust for all things. Lust for the remembrance of those moments of past that once made life seem worthwhile, as if one’s existence were some abstract word on the tip of the tongue never recalled.He drank some more. He stared at the bartender and mumbled for another and he saw the uneasiness in the bartender’s gaze returning his dim, dead one. The poet’s face was straight and his eyes were stones in their sockets. The drunkenness was failing to save him like it had before. The poet got his drink and stood at the railing overlooking the water and the faraway lights beyond glittering like the wavering of dirty gems in torchlight. His thoughts grew tangled and dissolved like salt. They used to dissolve like sugar. He didn’t know what happened.He turned around with his back against the railing, against the water, and looked at the people mingling, the people coming and going, the people wandering about in confidence, the people smiling and the people whose eyes glowed as they forged a good memory. His expression never altered.A crewman came by. The poet’s eyes followed him as the crewman, dressed in a white shirt and brown pants, went to the bar and got a beer and took a swig and looked about. The crewman didn’t seem to recognize anyone in the crowd. He wandered over the poet’s way and leaned on the railing beside him. The poet stared at him. You would never think the poet drunk. If he were lying down you’d check his pulse. “Nice night here,” the crewman said.The poet did not comment. The crewman swigged his beer. “Where you headed to?” The crewman said.The poet did not comment. The crewman swigged his beer.“Not a talker, huh? That’s alright. Some are talkers and some are thinkers, I suppose.”The poet had been staring at the crewman’s pants. He could weep at every crevasse unironed, the silver of his zipper like a tear in the moonlight, the brown pigment of the fabric like his wife’s skin. Transfusing love from one thing to another. Perhaps that would solve things. The old desperation lurched within like a sick person’s soul escaping. He licked his lips and reached out in a jerk and grabbed the crewman’s crotch. He did not even look the man in the eye. He studied his own groping hand instead.“Hey! What are you doing?”“Love.”The crewman punched him twice. The poet fell. The crewman kept hitting, kicking, hitting. Someone finally pulled him off. The poet retained the same expression throughout, even as he picked himself up and stumbled back to his cabin as the onlookers gazed upon him with curiosity and mild disgust.When he got back to his cabin, his wife raped him. The same expression.The next morning he awoke with the same dread. By lunch he was drunk. When he leapt overboard, no one noticed until hours afterward. They couldn’t find his body. They looked and it was not there. It was a bright wide day. A tall, commodious, decorous sky unsealed.
November 5, 2025

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American Air

by Mike Topp

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