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New Episode of NER Out Loud

Katie Moulton: Memoir & Elegy

January 27, 2023

“When I’m writing through memory or experience, it’s really difficult for me to disentangle it from the music . . .”

In episode 22 of NER Out Loud, Dead Dad Club author Katie Moulton reads an excerpt from her essay “The Elvis Room” (NER 43.3), followed by a conversation with host, Becca Clark. Katie discusses her writing and editing processes, memorializing her dad, her family’s fascination with Elvis Presley, and more. 

Listen to the new episode on Soundcloud—and subscribe to NER Out Loud on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or Stitcher!


Becca Clark is a member of the Middlebury College class of 2023.5. She is an English major focusing in creative writing. Originally from Rutland, Vermont, Becca spends her free time enjoying the outdoors and reading memoirs, humor, and short stories. 

Filed Under: Featured, News & Notes, Podcast Tagged With: Becca Clark, Katie Moulton

Behind the Byline

M. Colón-Margolies

January 13, 2023

Photo by Sarah Lundin

NER fiction reader Malka Daskal talks to M. Colón-Margolies about capturing everyday violence through surrealism, how psychology informs character studies, and her story, “Souvenirs,” from issue 43.4.


Malka Daskal: In your story, “Souvenirs,” the narrator is simultaneously faced with a pandemic, the challenges of living abroad and navigating the bureaucracies of a foreign country, financial insecurity, the sudden illness of her beloved husband, and new motherhood. How did this story come into being, and did these tribulations accumulate over time as you drafted the story or were they always a part of the narrator’s DNA?

M. Colón-Margolies: There is a seed of autobiography in this story. I live in Paris. At the beginning of the first lockdown, before there were vaccines or masks, my husband had to have brain surgery. The hospital he was taken to was collapsing at the time because COVID cases were peaking. Our daughter was 10 months old. But luckily, that is where the similarities between our life and the narrator’s end. The piece grew out of a curiosity I had about whether I could tell a story about a woman in a situation like mine who’s pushed farther than I was, and who, as a consequence, grows more desperate and begins to make choices she wouldn’t normally make. Part of the pleasure of writing the story was seeing what the character would do if I kept raising the stakes.  

MD: Setting a story during the Covid pandemic is a risky choice. Readers will come to the story with their own associations and experiences, ones that will color, and may warp, their understanding of the story. But in “Souvenirs,” it seems like it is a risk that has very much paid off and, in fact, is integral to the intensity of the story and the question it poses of how one can “carry love and terror together.” Did you experience any hesitancy in choosing to set your story during the pandemic? Did story or setting come first, or did they happen in tandem?

MCM: I was worried about not being able to publish the story for this reason. But I didn’t think about this issue when I first started working on it. I wanted to write a story that captured the feeling of a specific time period while keeping the day-to-day historical facts a bit vague so the narrative wouldn’t feel didactic. I was thinking of books I’ve loved that have helped me to understand events as vast and incomprehensible as wars by simply exploring the everyday lives of the characters in them. Books like The Time of the Doves by Mercè Rodoreda or Suite Française by Irène Némirovsky. I think Suite Française portrays French wartime collaboration with more nuance than any historical nonfiction I’ve read by showing what it feels like in terms of human psychology and relationships. The small thrill elites got when they ingratiated themselves with the new regime in order to avoid losing their status. The way resistance was eroded. In one of the narrative threads, a German soldier occupies a French character’s house. She hates him. And then slowly, still unwilling, she begins to accommodate, to wish to please him, and later, to love him. And you understand her, even as you recoil at what this love represents. My dream is to write a work of fiction that achieves something similar. 

MD: Some of the most intriguing elements for me were the descriptions of the narrator’s sightings of burnt cars, abandoned buildings, and rat carcasses—sightings that, because they were unconfirmed and met with disbelief, added a pulse of surrealism to an otherwise highly realistic narrative. Their presence in the story also heightened the sense of the narrator being besieged by unknown and unknowable threats. What was your intention in adding these darker, enigmatic elements into the story?

MCM: I was trying to capture the way a violent event can make you feel like violence is lurking everywhere. In essence, how it can shift your perception. I imagined that when the narrator of the story sees things like more rats because pest control was lax during lockdown or burnt cars because of civil discontent—she would attribute a kind of surreal malevolence to the images she sees, and that she would feel, as you say, besieged. Of course, the things she sees are just a part of the reality of the city after lockdown. I thought a lot about The Plague by Camus and the Julio Cortázar story “The Continuity of Parks” while I was writing this story. In The Plague, rats function as a literal harbinger of plague, and I imagined that when the narrator of my story sees rats, she sees an omen, feels the proximity of death. In “The Continuity of Parks,” a man sits reading a novel in a chair and becomes so engrossed in the story that he doesn’t notice a man slipping into his room, a character from the novel he’s reading who intends to murder him. It’s a brilliant sleight of hand in terms of plot, but also in terms of psychology, because it captures how—when you’re in an altered state whether from reading or living in a menacing world—all kinds of strange things can happen.

MD: The narrator opens the story with reference to the notes she had scribbled during the time in which the events of the story take place and refers to these notes as she narrates, on occasion pointing out discrepancies between her recorded notes and her memory. Why did you choose to structure the story as one told in retrospect? When the story ends, we are still firmly in the past; we are not privy to the narrator’s present, nor the knowledge of whether her marriage or her husband survives. Why? How does keeping that information from the reader make the story more powerful?

MCM: Because I wanted this story to be about the perception and psyche of a character, I thought that using notes as a framing device would allow me to capture the cognitive dissonance the narrator would feel once she emerges from months of crisis. I imagined her writing notes to herself during the pandemic that she forgets about, and then discovering them months later, when the reality of the world feels very different, so different that the notes she finds all seem to be describing a strange and far away place. I didn’t want to end the story by saying what happened to the characters because I think the story is about the precarity and uncertainty the narrator feels and that many people still feel in this particular moment. Even if all is well today, it may not be tomorrow. 

MD: The narrator identifies as Puerto Rican and Jewish, her husband as Chilean; they are both expats from the United States, living in Paris. Displacement—a rootless searching—seems to pervade this story. When her husband pulls away, the narrator is left alone, isolated in her worries. How does living abroad influence your writing and your perspective on shared fraternity?

MCM: I think it’s given me a different perspective on a lot of things. My father moved to the mainland US in his early twenties from Puerto Rico. My mom’s family is Jewish and her ancestors are mostly from Ukraine, but she was born in Brooklyn and is very American. As a young person I felt very connected to my dad’s emigration experience and thought I understood the adversity he faced, but it wasn’t until I moved to France that I realized I had only a surface-level idea of what it was like for him. For example, I didn’t know what it felt like to get cheated because you have an accent and people think you can be taken advantage of. I think this kind of experience creates a feeling of solidarity with others who have gone through the same thing. This is maybe why I included the surgeon character in “Souvenirs.” I knew she would take extra care of Hector because she identifies with him, and I felt that scene of terror maybe also needed a note of grace. 

In any case, to return to your question—I do want to say that I love France and feel grateful to live here. But it still doesn’t totally feel like home. Though honestly, when I go back to the States, I don’t feel fully at home anymore either. Maybe when you emigrate or live far away for long enough, you don’t feel quite at home anywhere. Though when I’m with my family I do. I think that’s the thing—when you live abroad for a long time, your family can become your country. I guess I was trying to convey this with this narrator.

MD: Basile is such a deliciously unappetizing character. From his wolfish smile to his patronizing behavior, I felt myself being simultaneously repelled and ensnared right alongside the narrator. She “doesn’t know why” she submits to him, but it seems to me he represents an escape from everything she truly loves and needs to protect, from the weight of all things precious and fragile. What were the challenges in making her decision to sleep with him so convincing? Or did the interactions leading up to that decisive moment happen organically?

MCM: Oh Basile! I set out to write a character that was the antithesis, in many ways, of the narrator’s husband. An older, wealthy French man. Effete, with an ironic, slightly mocking demeanor. I think you’re right that Nina submits to him because he feels like an escape or because she senses that he’s dangerous. She thinks so much about evading danger in this story that when it draws close to her in the form of this man, she’s seduced by it. I also imagined her feeling seduced by this character’s, for lack of a better word, privilege. I think she imagines that Basile leads an insouciant, indulgent life, and—though she’d probably never admit it—she probably desires to immerse herself in luxury, even if only for an afternoon. 

In the early drafts of the story, I didn’t have Nina sleep with Basile. I portrayed him instead as just another looming threat. But my wonderful agent, Julia Kardon, and her wonderful assistant, Hannah Popal, encouraged me to develop his interaction with Nina further. Once they gave me this note, I wrote the scenes very quickly. It just felt like the right place for the story to go.

MD: I understand you are working on a novel. Is it your first? Can you tell us a little about it? Have you found the process of writing a novel-length work different from writing a short story?

MCM: Thank you for asking! It’s my first novel. I’ve actually just finished revising it and am hoping to go on submission soon. It’s about five foreigners living in Paris in 2015. Like with “Souvenirs,” I attempted to capture a historical moment by portraying the lives of ordinary people living through it. I wrote it as a sort of Suite Française meets Netherland by Joseph O’Neill, as I was trying to depict the unease and surreal feeling that settled over Paris after the Charlie Hebdo and November 13 attacks. Of course, there is a lot of lightness in the novel too. The characters travel around Europe and fall in and out of love, while also dealing with illness and loss.

I tend to use the same process for short and long work. I begin by reading a lot and writing by hand. In the beginning, I try not to edit myself at all. Then I look at the pages I’ve written, which are usually disordered and discursive, and attempt to create a coherent narrative. Then comes the typing, and also a lot of walking and thinking about things like shape, pacing, plot etcetera. I find it easier to write short fiction because it’s so contained. But a longer work allows for more daring, and fun, I think. You have so much more space to see where things will go. 


Malka Daskal, a fiction reader for NER, received her master’s degree from Columbia University. Her work has appeared in Kind Writers, december Magazine, The Dalhousie Review, and Adelaide and has been anthologized in The Bookends Review’s “Best of 2020.” Her short story “Symbology” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2020. She lives in Phoenix, Arizona, with her husband and two sons.

Filed Under: Featured, News & Notes

Writer's Notebook—Cassandra Data (43.4)

Sandra Simonds

January 6, 2023

Photo by Kira Derryberry

“Here we believed that we were relating to words—that when the poem spoke, it spoke to us, but it didn’t speak to us at all.”


The inmost part of poetry—alien to us; we go out there searching for it, but it sets up a field that repels. We stand at the same place on the Boulevard du Temple where the first photograph of a human was ever taken and like that man getting his shoes shined, we don’t smile. No, instead, we weave our way into and out of the crisp museums—funny, isn’t it, to see a Georgia O’Keefe exhibit today—and then go into a dingy used clothing store and buy a chocolate mink coat from another era—probably the era when your family was deported from this country, for thirty euros. This spot exactly. Yes, poetry, “truth itself,” the “metaphor-flurry” outlandishly alive, eludes. A monster, a ghost, a vampire: the words are blood and the rhythms clouds.

And how shocking this all is! Here we believed that we were relating to words—that when the poem spoke, it spoke to us, but it didn’t speak to us at all. It spoke to the sediment at the bottom of the Seine or to the gods that have left us here shivering now and looking for food in the supermarket because it is getting late and tomorrow you will take the train to the outskirts of the city to visit Paul Celan’s grave.

Of course, he is buried this far away from the center of Paris and not even in the Jewish section of the cemetery. And look at this cat now—and you will write this on the plane ride home in a few days, but you don’t know it yet—a cat that strides by with the “green eyes of the underworld.” And you will spend a long time in this wooded place looking and looking for the grave and once you are there, you wonder why you ever came here. It is October 2021.

The stone that you leave will crash like the sea and the stone that you take will crash like the sea. You will bring it everywhere but you’re not sure why. You will put in in your little pink “prayer box” that you keep with you. In a year, you will walk through the doors of Mary Ruefle’s house in Bennington, Vermont, with a bag of lemons that you picked from your tree in Florida. You will transport the lemons in a backpack on the airplane.

You will open the prayer box and show Mary the stone and she will say, “now this is a stone that was meant to travel around the world.”

Oh, these forcefields—the ones you write, the ones you read—they will change everything. The foolish idea that technology knows a damned thing about our lives, our loves and hates. When Celan writes, “Something shall be, later / that fills itself with you,” I think I know what he means. I think it is “Cassandra Data,” poetry’s knowing, poetry’s heartbeat. He means to say look deep into the “shattered madness,” and let the poem push you out so that you might find the words.


Sandra Simonds is a poet and critic. She is the author of eight books of poetry including Triptychs (forthcoming from Wave Books) and Atopia (Wesleyan University Press, 2019). Her work has appeared in the New York Times, Poetry, and elsewhere. Her poem sequence “from Cassandra Data, or On Visiting Paul Celan’s Grave at Thiais” appears in NER 43.4.

Filed Under: Featured, News & Notes

Meet the Interns

Sarah Miller & Emma Johnson

December 19, 2022

Sarah Miller and Emma Johnson, Fall 2022 interns

This fall, Sarah Miller and Emma Johnson spent their Monday and Wednesday mornings at the New England Review office. They helped produce content for the website, read submissions, tried to update the Wikipedia page, and helped out with other administrative tasks. Here they interview each other for our “Meet the Interns” series.

Shall we start with the business? 

Sarah Miller: From Philadelphia, class of 2024, major in Creative Writing, opinions editor for the Middlebury Campus and co-host of Into the Weeds (Thursdays, 9:00-10:00 pm, WRMC 91.1). 
Emma Johnson: From Chicagoland area, class of 2023.5, double major in English and Film & Media Cultures, writing tutor at the CTLR, regular attendee of the ceramics studio, and co-host of Carbonated Milk (Mondays, 7:00-8:00 pm, WRMC 91.1).

The more important business?

EJ: Taurus sun, Capricorn moon, Gemini rising, and in case you were wondering, my Venus is in Aries. 
SM: Aquarius sun, Aries moon, Scorpio rising. I have no idea where my Venus is or what that means. I need to catch up on my lingo. 

Do you believe in astrology?

EJ: Depends on the day. I do love how talking about astrology lets people be vulnerable with each other and do a little introspection. Overall? Fun and largely positive. 
SM: Depends on what mood I’m in. I think I want to believe and always find it to be a very fun party trick/conversation piece, but I remain somewhat skeptical about the mystical world ever since I saw a psychic who made a very faulty prediction about my fall semester. 

Best classes in the English department? Favorite professors?

SM: My favorite classes have to be Intro to Creative Writing, the Advanced Fiction Workshop, and Contemporary Literature—all with Professor Cohen. However, I’m doubly biased because I’m a Creative Writing major and Professor Cohen is my adviser.  
EJ: Professor Cohen’s Fiction Workshop is definitely a highlight for me too. I’ve also loved the classes I’ve taken with Professor Gottshall, and Professor Billings.

Favorite classes at Middlebury outside of the English department?

EJ: Some of my favorite English classes have actually been outside of the English department. I’ve loved taking Russian literature classes with Professor Walker (The Art of Nabokov, and Gogol & Romantic Melancholy). I’m currently in Literature and the Mystical Experience with Professor Hatjigeorgio and that’s been fantastic. I’m also partial to any film class taught by Professor Keathley. 
SM: Professor Dickinson’s Intro to American Politics has been one of the most interesting and tangibly useful courses I’ve taken at the college. During family political arguments, it’s nice to have data up my sleeve. I’ve also enjoyed dabbling in the Gender Studies department and particularly recommend Professor Essig’s Gender and the Body. This semester I’m in Decolonizing Porn, which I’ve had to field a lot of questions on!    

What’s been your experience of the NER student reading group?

EJ: I’ve been a part of the reading group for almost two years now! I think the most challenging part of reading submissions has been reckoning with how my own tastes and biases shape what pieces I advocate for. There are genres I am more inclined to like and some I find myself dismissing. I’ve made a conscious effort to look under the hood of a piece and see how it’s working. At times, this has freed me to see beyond taste and look deeper into craft. 
SM: I’ve only been part of the reading group for nine months or so, and I’ve really enjoyed it! Throughout my time at Middlebury and beyond, I’ve had a fair amount of experience workshopping the pieces of my peers so in the reading group it’s been very exciting to apply my critical skills to pieces operating at a higher level of craft. During my time in the reading group, I’ve definitely seen my analytical lens refine and have gotten to read some very fun, exciting work—both of which I hope, and think, have helped my own writing. 

Favorite pieces published in NER?

SM: In Professor Cohen’s class, we read Suzanne Rivecca’s incredible story, “Uncle,” which I was delighted to discover was published in NER in 2007! More recently, I loved Bradley Bazzle’s “Where the West Begins,” which we read in the reading group before it was published in 43.3. I’d recommend giving both, and many many more NER pieces, a read. 
EJ: Of all time? Crazy question. I’ll give you my favorite piece from the upcoming issue, 43.4. “The Last Tenants” by Yume Kitasei is a piece I think about often. In part because I fell in love with it during our reading group this summer. I think it might have been the first time I really advocated for a piece to move forward with such sureness. 

Favorite NER cover? 

EJ: I love this question because I just got to spent some time combing through the NER covers. Some highlights include: 43.2, 40.3, and 32.1. Don’t ask me why, I went on instinct. 
SM: That’s a tough one. I’m especially drawn to 35.4, 41.3, and 40.3. Don’t ask me why either, otherwise I might need to go back and peruse the archives again.  

Highlights of working at NER? 

EJ: My absolute favorite part of working at NER has to be reading paper submissions. I’ve learned a lot of literary magazines no longer accept them, and I’m a bit of a luddite, so I love that NER is still willing to sift through the mail. There’s something special about opening manila envelopes and finding stories and poems tucked inside. It makes the connection between the reader and the writer feel more intimate, not as mediated. There’s nothing quite like spending half an hour learning how to read someone’s handwriting. 
SM: I agree. I feel so privileged to hold someone’s paper submissions in my hands and feel a special little communion with them. It’s such a treat to be the first pair of eyes on an NER submission. I also really enjoy proofreading the issue because it gives me a chance to dive into some fabulous NER pieces.

Office Dos & Don’ts? 

EJ: Do make tea often. Pet Oscar when possible. Do not forget to bring a sweater as it is often cold. 
SM: Do sit in the comfy butterfly chair while reading submissions. Do print out reading group submissions. Do try and figure out how to update the NER Wikipedia page. Do not forget to bring a mug. I second the tea. 

A collaborative list of favorites across genres: 

Fiction:
Housekeeping, Marilynne Robinson
The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera
The Broom of the System, David Foster Wallace
Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard
Franny & Zooey, J. D. Salinger
White Teeth, Zadie Smith 
The Secret History, Donna Tartt 
Normal People, Sally Rooney 
Middlemarch, George Eliot 
Trust Exercise, Susan Choi 
Neapolitan Novels, Elena Ferrante 

Nonfiction:
Speak, Memory, Vladimir Nabokov 
Trick Mirror, Jia Tolentino 
The Right to Sex, Amia Srinivasan
The Argonauts, Maggie Nelson
The White Album, Joan Didion 
Letters to a Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke 
Crying in H Mart, Michelle Zauner 
Slow Days, Fast Company, Eve Babitz 

Short Stories:
“The Moon in Its Flight,” Gilbert Sorrentino 
“Parker’s Back,” Flannery O’Connor
“Symbols and Signs,” Vladimir Nabokov 
“The Aleph,” Jorge Luis Borges 
“The Nose,” Nikolai Gogol 
“The Itch,” Don DeLillo 
“An Affair, Edited,” Mary Gaitskill 
“The Custodian,” Deborah Eisenberg
“Gender Studies,” Curtis Sittenfeld 
“Evolution,” Joan Silber 

Poetry:
“‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers,” Emily Dickinson
“Scheherazade,” Richard Siken
“Kitchen Song,” Laura Kasischke
“Elegy,” Aracelis Girmay
“The Orange,” Wendy Cope
“The Pomegranate,” Eavan Boland

Filed Under: Featured, Interns, News & Notes Tagged With: Emma Johnson, Sarah Miller

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Vol. 43, No. 4

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Tomas Venclova

Literature & Democracy

Tomas Venclova

“A principled stance against aggression should never turn into blind hatred. Such hatred does not help anyone to win . . .”

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