We were hungry. We spent the Winter Solstice stuffing ourselves while casting a wary eye in the direction of religious observance, but still we hadn’t had enough. We ate hot food, sharp spices, bitter sauces, the occasional dessert. Our mouths and our bellies suffered because of our insatiable greed. We kept eating. The roof caved in.
We found ourselves on our knees. We weren’t praying. We slurped water from the bowl, licked the porcelain clean, inhaled our own fumes and choked. Now we’re back for more.
There’s been no flash in the pan. We haven’t had our fingers burned. We never doubted we’d get to this, our number five. We only worried that we might have to start publishing shopping lists, credit card bills, maybe a last will and testament or two along the way. We didn’t. We haven’t. That’s thanks to you and the words you’ve sent us. You took a gamble on the new face in town when you could have given us nothing but suspicious glances and dismissive gestures, and we truly appreciate it.
We like:
You. Every single writer featured in this latest edition – and not forgetting those in the four previous issues – offers up work that really sizzles with the verbal innovation and imaginative ideas we value so highly. Read the whole thing from virtual cover to virtual cover, because there’s no way we can pick out individual names (though we will just add that we enjoy Howie Good’s submission emails and responses. He’s so polite. A real gentleman. He was obviously much better brought up than we were. We need him to teach us some manners).
We’re thankful:
That we’re not receiving so many stories set in bars. With drunk people. Deadbeat drunks who somehow rise above their alcohol intake to reach a level of eloquence and philosophical insight that defies the reality of what we see in most bars on an average night.
We don’t like:
Nature poetry. We’ve recently been sent far too many verses about trees and meadows. Rabbits and deer. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my. Animal Planet has taken over our inbox. We’re hoping for sudden extinction, and we’ll fight back with hunting pistols if we have to.
We’re feeling better about:
Childhood. Families. Parents. We’re still seeing more childhood reminiscences than we’d like, but they don’t feel so much like a cheap excuse for therapy now. We were surprised when we realised that, somehow, our selections for this issue seemed to feature fathers and mothers and sons and daughters at almost every turn. But we’re far from apple pie wholesome, and still prefer the family trees that come across like the Waltons’ weirder cousins.
We won’t:
Be getting an accompanying blog or tumblr, even though we’re told we should. It’s nothing personal, but in the two months between issues we like to disappear and work on the next one without too many distractions. We just don’t keep our fingers on the lit scene pulse. If you want to know who’s written what and where you can read it, there are many other places that can tell you those things, and who know what they’re talking about much better than we do.
Update, April 8 2010: Okay, it looks like we spoke too soon. Seems we changed our minds. We now have a blog.
We’ve been reading:
The fortnightly thought waves emanating from the minimalistic Matchbook magazine, the words twisting and pouring their way out of the tenth Mud Luscious, and the always beautiful, always mysterious Robot Melon. In print, we’re looking forward almost indecently to the first issue of Artifice.
We hope you enjoy Issue Five of > kill author. It’s got more wonderful words than we ever thought we could squeeze onto our pages, with phrases that we’re finding it impossible to stop rolling round our tongues because they just demand repeating. And because we think it’s a collection that might need some time and thought away from the glare of the computer screen to fully take in and appreciate, this time out we’re experimenting with also offering a PDF version for you to download and print out if you prefer, or put on your Kindle if you’re in tune with that technology. Let us know what you think.
Keep pulling down those statues,
> kill author
