year in review, links, brief musings on the future of art, the usual
Another year? Already? (Witcher voice) Hmm... fuck.
I keep trying to write this newsletter and coming up totally empty. I don't have any neat themes or summations of the year; I don't really have a ton to show for myself, to be honest. I've done some interesting work (which should probably be NDA'd but isn't, so in the spirit of the law—or, more precisely, the spirit of not wanting to test the litigiousness of everyone else involved—I will be keeping it to myself, alas). I've had some good conversations. I made cassoulet; that was cool. I figured out my preferred butters for vegan rough puff and caramel which, as you may recall, is a subject I have a lot of feelings about. I read a lot of books: less than last year but still a respectable number. I liked... some of them. I finally caught up on my NetGalley feedback. Dylan and I now own a total of 40 houseplants, not counting the air plants, because people keep leaving them outside to die, and I am a soft touch with a moderately green thumb. I'm happier than I was at the beginning of the year. That's cool, too.
The truth is that most of the big things that have happened this year—most of the entries that I feel really warrant inclusion on any list of Stuff I Did or whatever—were really more about other people than they were about me. I got top surgery, but that didn't involve any special effort on my part. It did involve the unbelievable, staggering generosity of a lot of people to whom I am profoundly grateful; I will remain so for the rest of my life. I had the chance to have a few long-overdue, profoundly worthwhile conversations with people who had no reason to entertain them (or me). I got to spend (too little) time with people I haven't seen in a long time and love dearly. It's kind of humbling, I guess, to realize how much of the good stuff that happened this year was just... other people extending love or kindness or magnanimity that I didn't see coming. If you were one of those people, thank you. I have been figuring out, slowly and painstakingly, how to be, and how to keep moving forward; every one of you has helped more than I can express.
The other piece of this (which is much less profound) is that when you're an editor—or maybe this is just the case for me—a lot of the work you do isn't really yours anyway! You're just helping someone else get their work over the finish line and fluttering around them with a bottle of water and a clean towel or whatever. (I don't know how races work.) Which brings me to the reason I keep sitting down to write this; I'm really proud of and blown away by the work I was lucky enough to edit this year for khōréō, and if you haven't read it, you should. Here's a quick list of the stories I got to polish and the authors I got to work with, every single one of them truly brilliant.
The Frankly Impossible Weight of Han by Maria Dong
For Grant Rutherford, work is both life and legacy—but when he dies a mere week after his wife, what he leaves behind will have metaphysical reverberations he could never have foreseen.
Vampirito by K. Victoria Hernandez
Eli is—one hundred percent, without a doubt—vampiro, but he’s missing all the stereotypical traits. Is there room for him to exist in a world where everyone has already decided who and what he is?
Love at the End by Deborah Germaine Augustin
Sometimes you meet the right person at the wrong time… and sometimes, the right time is the end of the world. “Love at the End” is a cli-fi story about love and courage.
For Future Generations by Rachel Gutin
What do terrestrial traditions mean when you have to leave the only world you’ve ever known? “For Future Generations” explores the choices a rabbi must make for her congregation.
What do common roots mean in a future where humanity is so far-flung that Earth is more fable than fact? "Cultureship" explores the fragmentation of belief, historicity, and community.
Más chileno que … by Lily Raphaela Philpott
A young woman safeguards her birth mother's name: a string of pearls she carries in her mouth. "Más chileno que ..." explores transracial adoption and the intangible ways in which we anchor ourselves to identity.
Tomatoes by Eugenia Triantafyllou
Charged with carrying on her family's magical tradition, Filio must choose between legacy and freedom. "Tomatoes" is a story about roots: those we inherit and those we put down for ourselves.
As ever, if you prefer to listen to your fiction, we publish audio versions simultaneously with the free-to-read online versions of each story! Those last two aren't out on our website yet, as they're from our most recent issue; you can pick up a copy for $5.99 in our shop! While you're there, consider an annual or quarterly subscription, both of which will save you money and help us move toward our long-term goal of building a budget based less on crowdfunding campaigns and more on a steady subscribership. This is a subject for another essay, but one of our highest priorities is to maintain our editorial independence—that means no shady sponsors or partnerships; our only obligations are to our contributors, volunteers, and subscribers, which is just how we like it—while paying our writers and artists pro rates. If you like our content, subscribing is the best way to help us make more of it. Plus it's getting kind of bleak out there in the crowdfunding world for those of us who also like living on a habitable planet.
Okay. That's it for me! 2021 was a weird one, but I'm glad I got to share it with you. (That said, I'm sorry we're all stuck here together.) Thanks for reading, as always, and see you in the future!