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Introducing the latest issue

March 18, 2019


It seems fitting that our issue is being released this week because this Thursday is Persian New Year. For Iranians, Noruz is celebrated on the first day of spring, which is something I have always loved. If the new year that began in January isn’t really turning out so good, if all those promises I had hoped to keep for myself end up dropping one by one like rotting fruit on trees, then that protracted year was ending (in some sense) and I could get a do-over, a whole other New Year to try again. In March, on the first day of spring no less, I was given a second chance to reinstate the resolutions I couldn’t conquer before: quit biting my nails, write more, eat healthier, write more, spend less money, write more (you know how this goes).


Springtime also represents renewal and change, a reminder from the entire Earth to celebrate growth. Punctuate.has also been growing, and changing, and we eagerly look for what summers will follow our springs. But first, we’d like to thank T. Clutch Fleischmann for being a critical resource and dedicated reader as our Book Reviews Editor from 2015-2018. We’d also like to thank Ian Morris for his tireless work as Managing Editor and congratulate him on his new position as a writer at Coalition Technologies.


Since 2019, Cora Jacobs has handled our Managing Editor and continues to manage Columbia Poetry Reviewand Hair Trigger, which are some of our sister publications. This year we also have Juliana Ravelli (Assistant Managing Editor) and Andrew Krzak (Editorial Assistant).

To celebrate Noruz, Iranians lay out a sofre. On the sofre, which is usually an elaborately embroidered cloth, my family sets out seven items such as apples to represent health and beauty; eggs (which we also decorated for Easter) to represent fertility; and a small green plant called a sabzi for rebirth. Taken together, all the items represent some aspect of spring and the wishes we hope will come true in the new year.


In this issue, our sofre is laid out with different prose to convey how expansive and ever-evolving the nonfiction genre can be.


We are privileged to be publishing Elizabeth Kadestsky’s first nonfiction comics, which is accompanied by a Q&A with Juliana discussing how Kadetsky rediscovered visual, semi-textual modes of storytelling. Jane Babson’s “Lost and Re-Found” maps the terrain of memory alongside a meditation on her son’s Chromosome 7. In “Birth Story,” Kirsten Voris juxtaposes her birth with a disjunctive timeline of her mother’s life. Our last feature “For Sale: Death and Coyote Jaws,” by Laura Manardo, is poignant and powerful as she recounts the time her therapist advised her to do something that scared her.


“Out of the ash/I rise with my red hair/And I eat men like air” are the last lines to Sylvia Plath’s “Lady Lazarus,” and Columbia College Chicago alum Negesti Kaudo interviews Piper J. Daniels (also a CCC alum) on Ladies Lazarus, her award-winning collection of essays from Tarpaulin Sky. They discuss Daniels’ relationship to Plath and how her collection of essays, too, went through several rebirths — from suicide note to monograph to hybrid work.


If you come back on April 1, we’ll also be publishing two book reviews: Gretchen Lida reviews Randon Billings Noble’s Be with Me Always(University of Nebraska Press) and Kelsey Hoff covers The Collected Schizophrenias (Graywolf Press) by Esme Weijun Wang.


Another thing I love about celebrating the Persian New Year is that it conveys a certain looseness to time. Although it is 2019 in the Gregorian calendar, one can also follow the official calendar in Iran, the Solar Hijri, where it’s 1397 (that is, until March 21, 2019, when the year turns to 1398). Additionally, the new year is never fixed on one day, but rather, the new year changes because the first day of spring always changes. More specifically, the new year oscillates between the March 19-22 range. In this sense, time (or Time) is not an absolute; instead, it embodies and is embodied across a spectrum where one can shift through different modes and interpretations.


Genre, I believe, works similarly to time. Although the concept of “genre” can be used as a totalizing force, as yet another method to create, retain, and even reify the salience of categories, nonfiction reveals again and again that its variation cannot be contained.


In conjunction with our book reviews, interviews and blog posts, we want to work with our writers and readers to cultivate this endlessly growing field of nonfiction. We hope you join us.


Noruz mobarak!

S. Ferdowsi

Assistant Managing Editor, 2015-present


Drawn In

September 18, 2018

In the September issue of Punctuate, we reflect on the power of the hand-drawn images to evoke emotions and a sense of history. We interview Ken Krimstein and review his graphic biography The Three Escapes of Hannah Arendt, which deftly captures how highly educated and perceptive citizens can be caught off guard by their country’s descent into totalitarianism and how the refugees who fled that menace can imbue the national sensibility of their adopted country with a conscience. Chip Livingston’s essay “I Remember Joe Brainard’s Cock Pictures” appears alongside one of Brainard’s works. The drawing, titled  “Self-Portrait Number 2: My Underpants November 14, 1966,” has the exuberant, boyish, subversive quality of an R. Crumb comic. Both the image and the essay recall the self-chronicling tendency of the New York School and the AIDS crisis that changed everything forever. And Mary Livoni’s charcoal drawings reveal the palimpsest of Chicago’s industrial past that lies beneath its gentrified veneer.

In “Naked,” Robyn Allers confronts photographic evidence of an early, unhappy marriage though the lens of her live today, while Liz Rose realizes too late how she and her star-crossed Palestinian lover are not like the Montagues and the Capulets. And Victoria Anderson seeks context for her friend’s illness in the private lives of bees. It is an issue that we hope reflects the range and possibility of nonfiction today.

Ian Morris, Managing Editor


Under the Summer Weather

July 25, 2018

Memoirs about illness and overcoming illness are so popular that they have become a genre unto themselves. The reasons for this are clear. Many, if not most, people have either experienced a serious illness or know someone who has. Therefore, there is a broad pool of potential authors whose stories can be inspiring, heartbreaking, and familiar, all at the same time, and there is an even deeper pool of potential readers who may be facing a medical crisis themselves or know someone who is.


It has been said that the well and the sick live in two different countries without a common language. In our July issue, we have a memoir in verse by Marie Harris chronicling a son’s tortuous path back from a bad car accident. By contrast, in “Has to Go” by Rich Furman and “Venous Lake” by Leila Philip, we have two essays that capture the quotidian interactions we have with our bodies and the casual care and worry we apply to them. Also, in this issue are two travel pieces by Joan Connor about the trip to a conference in New Zealand and a memoir by Courtney Kiehm about a family trip to Florida where hell is other people.

Ian Morris, Managing Editor


The Meaning of Mystery

March 22, 2018

What songs the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, although puzzling questions, are not beyond all conjecture.
                                                                                                                                               —Sir Thomas Browne, Urn-Burial   


Edgar Alan Poe fans will recognize this passage as the epigraph to “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” his first detective story and—by many critical interpretations—the first detective story by anyone. Poe’s proto–amateur sleuth, the addled but shrewd Auguste Dupin, has spawned almost two centuries of imitators, including Sherlock Holmes, Miss Marple, Nick and Nora Charles, and Nancy Drew. These detectives all share a methodology. They piece together what is not known from what is. The investigator assembles the available clues and testimony, often at a remove from the crime scene, and at an even greater remove from the crime itself. They are unarmed; their only weapons are their wits. They ascertain action and causation, crime and motive, and their acts of reconstruction and mythmaking are the preoccupations of literature because these stories are works of fiction. When we substitute nonfiction for fiction, then the very act of reconstruction confers greater responsibility. We all assign meaning to the events of our lives. We draw larger inferences and make assumptions based on brief bits of conservation or body language. As observers, the reality we seek to convey is necessary subjective, and we leave it to the reader to judge.

It is significant that the creation of the amateur detective coincided with the creation of professional police forces in the teeming cities of Europe and America at the dawn of the Industrial Revolution. With the shift of social order from church and monarch to more secular, democratic structures, a literate bourgeoisie may have been comforted by the imposition of a refined, intellectual sensibility upon a hard-knuckled bureaucratic enterprise such as police work. Or maybe it is just that they welcomed the opportunity to escape from their disordered lives into the pages of a mystery.

Dan Chaon’s protagonist in his most recent novel Ill Will, a therapist named Dustin Tillman, tells his patient, “We are always telling stories to ourselves about ourselves.” The novel is an intricate reflection on the idea of murder as a much as upon the individual murders detailed. The author draws upon the “satanic panic” of the 1980s when even the most casual followers of sensational murder cases were eager to find evidence of the occult in crime scene clues in order to assign meaning to the most senseless acts.

Chaon sat down with Timothy Parfitt for Punctuate earlier this spring, and the interview appears in this month’s issue. Also in this issue, Desiree Cooper describes the agonizing toll Alzheimer’s has taken on her mother’s capacity for speech, Alyssa Quinn assembles a theological lexicon following her loss of faith, and Sharon Goldman contemplates pictures of relatives lost in the Holocaust and wonders if the institutions, traditions, and values that have traditionally insulated us from facing such horrors are adequate to our current reality.

Ian Morris, Managing Editor


February Fire and Fury

February 15, 2018

Reading Michael Wolff’s account in The Hollywood Reporter about how he got access to the West Wing while writing Fire and Fury: Inside the Trump White House got me thinking about Lillian Ross, the longtime writer for The New Yorker, who died last fall at the age of ninety-nine. Ross’s dictum, “Your attention should always be on the subject, not on you,” was most famously on display in a profile she wrote for the magazine in 1950.

Ernest Hemingway—who had just turned fifty—and his fourth wife, Mary, were stopping over in New York on their way from Cuba to Italy. In the time Ross spent with the pair, they shopped for an overcoat, drank Champagne at ten in the morning in their suite at the Plaza hotel, and listened as Marlene Dietrich—who lived at the Plaza and who had just turned fifty herself—described her typical evening spent babysitting her grandson, cleaning her daughter’s apartment, and then taking a cab home to the hotel, with the young family’s dirty laundry. Continue Reading


Writing? What is that?

February 15, 2018

People say you can’t teach talent, that not everybody has the ability to be the next Toni Morrison or F. Scott Fitzgerald, or someday play for the Cubs, or become a famous musician. And perhaps this is true. But if we stop trying to be an esteemed author or a star athlete or a world touring musician, we will awaken these talents that quietly live inside of us. Maybe we won’t be The Best, but we will be enough.

Writing seems intimidating. When I stare at a blank page where I am supposed to build worlds and lives, I think that maybe I shouldn’t be doing this after all. But if I start with something, with one thing, everything follows.


In fiction, it always starts with a place.

A suburban street where the sun is always shining and families grill in their backyard.

An empty hospital basement where the fluorescent lights reflect off the linoleum floor.

A kitchen at nighttime with only the light from the moon.

Then characters start to appear.

A little girl with scabbed knees.

A doctor with blood staining her sea-foam-colored scrubs.

A girl with short blonde hair sitting on the counter, and another one with longer hair sitting at the table.

They will start to feel the temperature.

The warmth of the sun is so subtle that she only notices it when she rides beneath the shade of a tree and feels its absence.

The air conditioning raises goosebumps on the doctor’s skin.

The kitchen warms up from the blowing heat as one of the girls pulls off her sweatshirt.

I start to discover what the characters want, no matter how simple or complex it may be.

The little girl wants to see how quickly she can ride her bike from one end of the sidewalk to the other.

The doctor wants to change out of her dirty clothes and drive home.

The girls want to talk about what the next move in their relationship is after they’ve seen that their love is fading.

In nonfiction, it starts with a memory.

Sitting on my grandma’s lap with an I Spy book while we waited for pizza to be delivered.

Driving to Missouri at nighttime while I lied in the backseat, watching the different car lights pass outside the window.   

Lying in bed with my girlfriend while the heat in my house wasn’t working, whispering to each other under the covers about our lives, with only the orange light from the streetlight quietly peeking through my window.

The memory can be insignificant, just a fleeting moment, but it is enough. If it stuck with you, it’s almost certain that it will stick with others.

There is a thought that writing and pain go hand in hand, that you write about what hurts. There will always be a feeling of pain that might linger in writing, but if story after story is about suffering, it gets old and repetitive. I’ve written about pain, and suffering, and lost love, and after a while, all of my stories were the same. So I started writing with a feeling of hope. My characters started to love again. They pulled open the curtains; they danced on hardwood floors in their living rooms; they kissed on street corners, and I started to love again. My chest started to expand as I breathed in, and I started to hope again. Writing isn’t just for pain. It is a way to reawaken old memories and see them in a new way as the words meet the page. It is a way to feel again, the good and the bad.

Tabitha Chartos, Assistant Editor


Defining a “True” Writer

February 15, 2018

Close your eyes and imagine a writer. Where are they? What are they like?

When I used to think of a writer, I would think of a person sitting at a mahogany desk, or maybe at a Parisian cafe, or maybe a really Brooklyn-esque cafe (you know, with like slabs of wood for tables, and loose leaf tea, and no drip coffee, just espresso, and milk crates, but like trendy, expensive looking milk crates, for chairs, and music playing via a cassette tape). The writer is content in these places, the writer fits right in. They are writing by hand, in a leather bound journal. In cursive, probably. Poetry, or something poetic. They love symbolism, and coming up with it comes easily. As they write, they talk around what they want to say in a complex way that paints a beautiful picture for the reader. Next to them, on the table, sits a book, their favorite book. It is one of the classics. The writer loves the classics, and understands the language in them easily, on the first read. The writer is deep, serious, passionate, and inspired.

Can you see it? Is this close to what you imagined, too?

According to this image, I am not a writer.

According to this image, I have never been a writer.

But I’ve always enjoyed writing, and I thought that maybe, I could become a writer. However, this image of The Writer haunted me.

Here is what I think of when I think of myself, writing:

Girl sitting in bed, violently typing words onto a page because they are due in probably an hour. Playing very loud music over Spotify. Deciding that she needs to treat herself and eat a snack, even though she is not that hungry and her work is due in probably an hour. She is writing something incredibly blunt, probably exposing herself for one of her many flaws or a strange way in which she perceives life. On the floor next to her, there is a stack of books of essays, mostly by contemporary female authors, that she thinks are interesting and funny. She has read each of these books probably five times in the past year, and all of them have coffee and food stains all over their torn and creased pages.

I am not The Writer, and so I always believed that I could not be A Writer.

All throughout school, I took creative writing classes, because I enjoyed them, but told myself that I didn’t fit in and wasn’t good enough to be there. Everyone in the classes would read their beautiful poetic work, and our homework would be to read from the classics, and that was writing and those were writers.

But I loved what I was creating, and I loved to create. I just knew that this creative outlet was not for me, and so I tried to find a new one.

I came to Columbia College Chicago my freshman year of college to major in comedy. I figured that, since I liked to have fun with my creativity, comedy was the right place for me. First semester, I took one creative writing course, as an elective, and was nervous to attend because I just knew that I would look like a fraud among all of the other real writers in the class, the way that I always felt in all of my other writing classes.

However, when I attended the class, something truly magical happened.

Every writer was different, and my teacher encouraged each individual style of writing. He assigned us wide ranges of readings and prompts and forms to write in. Everyone brought something different and everyone was creating beautiful content. No one in the class was The Writer.

I thrived in this class, and it was then that I realized that I could, in fact, write, that there was nothing wrong with me for not fitting into this mold that I had imagined I’d needed to fit all of my life. After that first semester, I changed my major to Creative Nonfiction Writing and have felt so in the right place and so happy since.

With the rest of my life, I obviously want to create, but I also want to teach. I want to be the teacher that I had first semester of college who showed me that I could be any type of writer I wanted to be. I want to show students that there is so much to the world of writing, that not everyone is the same, that there are so many different paths and journeys you can take to become a writer.

Writing is incredible. It makes you feel things. There are so many different feelings to have and so many different ways to get those feelings across. I want to encourage more variety, I want everybody to find their creative niche.

If I could share one message and really drive that message home with students, it would be that everybody has a story to tell and everybody deserves to tell that story.

Lauren Antonelli, Assistant Editor