When I embarked upon this socially-conscious series, I not only wanted to show the relationship between writers and their ideas, but also the relationship between fiction and readers. That second part — the way a work of fiction affects a reader — strikes me as a critical component of the literary exchange. So we writers…

As per my previous posts, one of the aspects of socially-conscious fiction I want to explore is the relationship between writers and their social views. Does one bring it to the page, and if so, how? What about writers with overtly socially-conscious day jobs? What does the wrestling and balancing act feel like? Melissa Mills-Dick…

The instruction we find in books is like fire, we fetch it from our neighbors, kindle it at home, communicate it to others, and it becomes the property of all. — Voltaire First of all — thanks for giving me an opportunity to guest edit Necessary Fiction for January. I hope the New Year finds…

Well, shucks, this month raced by and I thoroughly enjoyed being the W-I-R for Necessary Fiction. I want to thank Steve Himmer for being a super host and fixer of all things technical AND for being the author of The Bee-Loud Glade, a novel I continue to cherish and mention in classes. And, a huge…

The husband and wife are picking at each other again. My fellow gorilla trekkers. I dub them the Bickers. They stand close to me on an eighteen-inch jungle path like a couple of thistles I have picked up in the brush. “You were supposed to bring the extra battery. You screwed up.” Mr. Bicker says.…

They sailed into Sullivan Bay on the morning’s dying wind. Julie was on bow watch with the sails spread wing-on-wing behind her when she caught sight of the red roofed buildings and the fat white boats. After weeks of forest, fjord, and waterfall, the quaint marina looked three shades of wrong, more like a fake…

STRETCH, OPEN UP, STRETCH “Twist, twist further. Back straight. Do you feel the deep stretch in your hip?” Kamini could feel it, releasing, opening, stretching. At the end of the class, she let go, floated. “Come out of it slowly. Feel the changes, experience the emotions.” She wondered whether the supine forms beside her had…

First — thank you for writing Float. It is all of these things: joyful and troubling, hilarious and somber, evocative and introspective. Where did the inspiration for Float come from and how did you pull this multi-layered and hilarious novel together? What can you tell me about the evolution of Float? Stefanie, thank you for…

Sergeant Scrubs’ battalion No. 363 was getting the shit kicked out of them, but no one could hear him squawk for help over at Geriatric Base Southeast Quadrant. The hearing aids belonging to all Command Central personnel automatically shut off whenever the mainframe went down — which it always did when the temperature rose to…

She’s spent two hours in Room 3 of the Ojibway Motor Inn every Tuesday afternoon for forty-two weeks, to get away from her husband’s sick-bed. Week after week she rushes past the bear, wolf and loon on the totem pole, past the disapproval of the spirits, their deliberations about restoration of order. Sandals kicked off…

The path between the village and baobab tree follows the contour of land and nothing shades it. The drought has claimed every leaf and every animal. Mbuya rises from her sleeping mat as night shrugs an opening for daybreak. She rewraps her cloth and makes no sound as she moves toward the path to the…

Poem: “Lost,” by David Wagoner from Collected Poems 1956-1976 © Indiana University Press. Lost Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here, And you must treat it as a powerful stranger, Must ask permission to know it and be known. The forest breathes. Listen. It…