I met him on the stairs.We were both going up to the third floor. He had greasy hair and a stare that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He reminded me of my father in some ways. My father had a temper on him that would amaze most psychologists today. If you crossed him, you’d better be prepared for the consequences. He always hated being told he was wrong, and when my mother tried, it never worked in her favor. It was part of running a household though. He told me every morning that a man has to have a heavy hand in order to stand strong. If you don’t, you might as well be a woman. My father isn’t the point right now though. He’ll never be the point again. Never.
The man on the stairs turned his body away from me immediately as if he was trying to wall himself off from me. At the time, I thought nothing of it, but now reading the paper I realize it’s because he was hiding his gun from me. It probably bulged out under the thin red t-shirt he was wearing. It’s incredibly hard to hide a gun under such flimsy material. Maybe I should have answered the door last night when I heard the police banging on it, but I couldn’t bring myself to deal with them that late. I just assumed that boy on the fourth floor had gone missing.
He’s always playing in the hallway alone while his mother chain smokes in her living room. I’ve gone up to the fourth floor to complain multiple times to various neighbors about too much noise, and I always see him. He doesn’t even run from strangers. Clearly, his mother hasn’t taught him the term “stranger danger.” It really was only a matter of time before the little boy got taken. I wouldn’t have been any help to the police in finding him. I never saw him once yesterday. Their guess was as good as mine was. That wasn’t why they were there, though. The little boy on the fourth floor was safe for now.
Maybe if I had been more awake when I passed the man he might have gotten spooked. He might have just doubled back around to the stairs and left without killing that girl in 3F. She had dark green eyes that reminded me of the mold stains on our ceiling when I was a kid. Her hair was long and had this beautiful deep brown tint to it. It had soft streaks of gold, I could only assume she dyed it herself. The brown reminded me of the color of my father’s belt. Everything about her reminded me of my old home.
Other than her looks, I didn’t know much about her. I never asked. She was eye candy, and I was always too scared to engage her in a conversation. What if she was dull? What if she was so boring that I would have picked up a gun and shot her four times in the chest? It wasn’t me though. It was the man in the red t-shirt with the greasy hair and the dead eyes. The police ask me to come in to give a statement when I call. They make me sit down with a sketch artist, but I have the hardest time describing him. Maybe it was the pressure or maybe I was just trying to forget him. If I forgot him then I would forget her and move on with my life. I need to move on with my life.
I didn’t kill her. Why did I have to dwell on it? It’s a sad story, but sad stories are a dime a dozen in the city. People are mugged. People are raped. People are stabbed to death in the street. A creep with a gun killing a pretty girl is hardly something I’m going to sob into my pillow over. I have to sleep. I have work in the morning. Work pays for my apartment and I won’t lose my apartment. I can’t. Everyone needs a home. My father used to tell me that a man was only as good as the roof he put over his family’s head. I need a roof, a home. This is my home.
The police don’t understand how I didn’t hear the four gunshots. Her apartment was down the hall from mine. So close. I explain that I sleep with earplugs. My sleep is very important to me. It’s how I get through my job. In addition, the young guy above me blares music some nights, and it’s hard to fall asleep without the earplugs. Wearing them every night has just become safer and more reliable. I don’t tell them that when they came banging on my door the earplugs were out for reasons I’d rather not get into with them.
They don’t need to know that I heard her loud laughter floating down the hallway before I fell asleep. It’s trivial, and they’ll probably just blow it way out of proportion. I’m finally clear to leave. I have no registered handgun, so they calm down. But why would I have one? I’m not the type to need one. I keep to myself, and I have four locks on my door. My father used to tell me that locks had two functions. They could keep people out, but they could also keep people in. It all depended on how you looked at locks.
My father bought seven locks for our hallway closet after my mother back talked him. I didn’t see her again for five years. I waved goodbye when the police rolled her out under a sheet. I pass the greasy man again on the stairs when I return home. It seems so surprising that he would return to the scene of the crime like this. He’s practically dangling himself right in front of the officers. I pause to study him. He pauses as well. I lean over to wipe some dirt from the mirror. The dead eyes hold my gaze, and I scrunch up my nose at the red shirt I’d thrown on again this morning. I really should wash it, but I don’t know how to get blood out.
The Power of Quiet by: Laura Fisher, Oil on canvas, 2013.
Synthetic Love by: Dylan Monmouth
The epileptic flashes of
green…red…blue…
haunt my dreams. In between flashes,
her face becomes visible.
She’s selective, never on cue.
She shows up when she pleases, enticing,
but always distant.
green…red…blue…
Is there a mutual attraction or a mutual understanding?
Do we mutually understand that there is no attraction?
green…red…blue…
She’s from my past, we were once friends
but in this virtual space, in this synthetic world
she has nothing to say, there are no traces
green…red…blue…
I long for an opening, a sign,
a signal, but it never comes
and she is consumed by the crowd
green…red…blue…
The moment’s passed, but my unrequited gaze lingers
Tomorrow night will be different,
It will all work out…it has to
That’s what dreams are for
green…red…blue…
The Barrel by: Zuri Love, Inkjet archival photograph, 2013.
Darkness by: Nicole Holloway
The darkness descends
I am there again, crunching brush beneath my feet
Unable to escape
Heat and gear oppressive in their weight
Shrouded in a quiet so absolute
My mind fills the silence
I rub the barrel of my gun
Finding comfort from the cool metal
Gunfire pecks at the quiet night,
A helicopter’s methodic hum
It’s coming.
The closed fist signals, we wait.
The private next to me says a prayer
I know we are alone
I wait to kill, to die
I think of my mother and hold my gun tighter, ready
“Daddy, daddy” echoes in my ears,
My finger caresses the trigger,
Eyes snap open
Where am I?
How did I get here?
Her face glowing in the sunlight streaming through the windows
Quickly releasing my finger
Remembering I left the jungle thirteen years ago
She doesn’t know me
I mask the terror that fuels the need for death, my own
In the light of day, I smile, I play, even laugh
The darkness knows who I am and what I have done
Executed fathers, brother. Sons.
It’s there, with shame and fear, I search for peace
Living the nightmare
Holds less fear than the continual reliving of it
Coffee, eggs, mow the grass
Kiss my wife, disappoint my sons.
Ignore the daughter who was so eager for me to wake up
Drink, clean my gun, drink. Anything to distract me in the daylight.
Watch the sun lower, tick
Slowly place each bullet in the magazine, tock
I roll out the sleeping bag
Near the front door, I cuddle my gun to confront the night
A Jessica McClintock cocktail gown hangs alone in my closet
draped on a quilted hanger, it finds comfort in
never having been worn. The tags are still
attached, much like the cobwebs, the back
lined with rhinestones, and a purse
to match. Someday I’ll wear
that dress and, after
sips of champagne,
the big
kiss.
[responsivevoice rate=".9" voice="US English Female"]
When New Year’s Eve Arrives
by: Anne M. Swepston
A Jessica McClintock cocktail gown hangs alone in my closet
draped on a quilted hanger, it finds comfort in
never having been worn. The tags are still
attached, much like the cobwebs, the back
lined with rhinestones, and a purse
to match. Someday I’ll wear
that dress and, after
sips of champagne,
the big
kiss.
[/responsivevoice]
A certain little girl lived in a certain little house with her mama, her dad, and her kitten, Alistair. Some people say kittens are the most curious of all, but everyone knew they were no match for Emelia, the resident mystery-seeker in town. At the young age of 7, Emelia decided to uncover all the mysteries in the world the way she thought best: by becoming a detective! Her mama and dad were very supportive; they even bought her her very own detective kit for her birthday. She decided to keep the big box underneath her bed.
Today she pulled it out and grabbed her two favorite implements: a magnifying glass and a flashlight. She had designated Alistair to be her reliable assistant in all matters of mystery, but the real mystery was, where had that cat gone off to?
A black bobbing head of hair was all that could be seen of Emelia as she bounded up the attic stairs. “Alistair! Alistaaaair! We have mysteries to solve!” She surveyed the dim attic, her eyes wide. For possibly the thousandth time in her life she thought, she wished she had the sharp eyes of a feline. She squinted her eyes at the shadows and flipped on her flashlight.
“Meoow!” a kitten cry erupted from behind a cardboard box labeled “Pictures.” Emelia got down on her hands and knees, and very quietly inched her way towards the box. She peered around the corner with her flashlight to find Alistair calmly cleaning his paw.
“There you are!” she exclaimed. She whipped out her magnifying glass and put it close to him, inspecting the very odd-looking habit of Alistair. He peered at her, his spiky pupils staring into hers. She smiled and enveloped him in a big hug.
“Let’s go, reliable assistant!” She stood and was about to leave when a cardboard box labeled “Discoveries” caught her eye. She blinked. Could a box of discoveries have been here the whole time without her knowing it? She set Alistair down and approached the box with the flashlight. “Meow!” cried Alistair, who was obviously in the mood for some lunch.
“Shh, Alistair! Don’t you see the importance of the situation?”
She began to open the flaps of the old box, its edges unfurling as though it had been opened many times before. She shone her flashlight into the box to see an old-looking picture of a little boy in old-fashioned clothes holding up a magnifying glass to his eye. He smiled at her through the picture frame. Who could this be?
Looking through the other items in the box, she found an old journal locked up tight with a tin and a key in it. ‘I bet this’ll tell me who he is,’ she thought. Pulling out the key, she put it in the lock of the journal, only to find that it didn’t fit. Disappointed, she put the key back in its tin. Alistair meowed at her, looking expectant. Well, of course she wasn’t going to give up now. She just needed a little help from mama.
Down the stairs and into the living room she went, where her mother was writing her latest novel. Emelia pulled the sleeves of her shirt down where they had rolled up. Before Emelia could speak, her mother said, “Yes Emelia?” Emelia stopped, frozen. Figuring out how mamas could see without actually looking at things was something she intended to figure out one day.
Her mother turned around in her office chair, knowing that one of Emelia’s many questions was coming. She hoped today would be different. Emelia smiled, holding the items behind her back.
“What do you have there, honey?” her mother asked.
“Take a look at this!” Emelia said excitedly. As she presented the picture of the little boy and the journal, her mother’s eyes dimmed.
“Do you know who this little boy is?” Emelia asked. “I think I might’ve found his journal, too!”
“Oh, well, that’s your grandfather, honey. He . . . doesn’t look familiar to you?” mama asked. Emelia’s dark eyes showed that this was new to her.
“Nope! I was going to figure it out myself . . . but I decided that a little help from you couldn’t hurt.” Her mama smiled sadly and proceeded to tell her everything about her grandfather, who was indeed the first detective in the family.
—
The sun began to set. Emelia’s mother was in the kitchen, heaping Emelia’s favorite food onto three white plates; chicken tenders and cheesy macaroni. Tim walked in the side door to the savory aroma of a dinner that signaled tonight’s events. It had been on his mind all day. The treatments were getting so lengthy. They didn’t know it would go on this long. He came into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around her.
“Hey, Sher,” he smiled at his wife. She mustered a half-smile and kissed him.
“No change today?” he asked. Sherry turned back to the counter, fixing the meal on the plate into a smiley face. “No change”, she whispered.
—
At the dinner table, Emelia insisted on having Alistair on her lap. Mama warned that he’d get hair in her favorite food; Daddy said Alistair was probably filthy from today’s detective business.
“It’s only been the first day of detective work, Daddy! He can’t be that bad,” she insisted. They relented, and she dug into the meal. Her father cleared his throat and said:
“Hey hon, tonight we’re gonna go on a little car ride somewhere. Would you like that?”
Emelia hesitated.
“Well, I did want to look for some more of Grandpa’s old things”, she forked at her macaroni.
“It’ll be an adventure, Emmy.”
She smiled at that.
“Okay! Where are we going?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see, dear,” her mama said. Figuring she’d been on a roll today and excited at the prospect of another mystery, she took a bite of the crispy chicken. She decided it would be her favorite meal.
—
It looked like a circular spaceship with a hard, cold bed attached to it. This was not the adventure she thought it would be. She was nervous and wished she had Alistair with her. They were telling her she had to lay on the bed for a few minutes; it really wouldn’t take that long. It would be over before she knew it and after, maybe they could all get some ice cream. The bed would zip her into the spaceship for a little bit and then out. It would help the men in the white suits figure out their very own mystery, they said. Didn’t she want to help them out like mama helped her today?
Knowing the horrible feeling of not being able to figure out the mystery, Emelia relented and let them put her on the bed. They covered her with a sheet and told her to lie perfectly still. She still wasn’t sure what this was helping them figure out but she remembered her mama’s words to be patient. They left the room and the machine started up. The bed began to move, slowly, into the opening of the tunnel. Everything was so bright, she closed her eyes. Feeling the walls around her, she wished again for Alistair.
—
“We don’t understand. There’s virtually no change this week. I’m sorry, we really thought this medication would be the right one.” the doctor spoke to Sherry while Emelia slept in her arms.
“Look, we’ve been paying a lot of money for these treatments and besides having to terrify our daughter with this scan over and over, now you’re telling me none of the medications have made any difference?” Tim shook with anger.
“It’s not for lack of trying, Mr. Barrow. We’re closer than before. I’m already thinking of some things we haven’t tried yet. It will just take some more time, but I assure you, Emelia will get her memory back.”
Sherry traced the fading stitches on Emelia’s head. Emelia’s chest moved up and down with quiet breath. “It’s been two months,” Sherry said, her eyes getting teary. “When will I see my little girl grow up inside? Her clothes are starting to get smaller. How can I explain that she’s grown two months’ time in one day when we get her new clothes?”
The doctor looked down. “I really am sorry.”
Sherry went on. “It was so quick. She was so excited about the new detective kit we’d gotten her the day before on her birthday and she couldn’t wait to use it. She ran outside with her magnifying glass, and just tripped over that stupid stump, and her head bust open like that–” Sherry dissolved into tears.
Tim quieted her, and the doctor began to brainstorm again, dedicated to recovering her child’s memory. He wouldn’t let a little girl live one day over and over forever.
—
The sun rose bright and early. Sleepy-eyed, Emelia looked out her window to see the rays spread across the field next door. Suddenly, she remembered her new detective kit! She scrambled to the floor, got out the box from underneath the bed and pulled out her brand new magnifying glass. What mystery would she solve today?
Demonstration by firefli performed to a looping beat
Freestyle by: Terrance Tran
When you think about music, you think of angelic performances with a well-constructed background that is conceived to aid the voice of a belting vocalist. You picture well trained guitarists, uncontrollable drummers, and larger-than-life singers. You imagine sell out performances with elaborate stage designs on towering platforms.
Freestyle Rap is not this. It’s a stripped down, grimy, and raw form of expression that hasn’t changed much since inception with the birth of Hip Hop music. In a time when musical acts can sell out stadiums and perform on world tours, Freestyle Rap has continued to exist as one of music’s most underappreciated art forms.
There are two distinct versions of Freestyle. The most commonly known form of this is referred to as rhyming “off the top.” Off The Top Freestyles are unrehearsed verses that can be performed a cappella or with the aid of a looping beat. This form of freestyle is completely spontaneous as rappers will perform improvised lyrics that generally are not prewritten. Freestyling Off the Top requires a heightened sense of awareness as you must simultaneously rhyme words to a rhythm while understanding everything that is going on in your surroundings.
This is why the ability to cleverly reference objects around your vicinity is held in high regard. The second form of Freestyle refers to prewritten verses that are not meant to have any particular narrative, but rather a showcase of a rapper’s lyrical prowess. Instead of being an improvised performance, this type of freestyle is usually performed over an instrumental to enhance the effect of the verses.
Rappers will use this kind of freestyle to impress the audience with cleverly written lines that may not have been written to become a song.
One of the most important elements of Freestyle Rap is the cypher as Freestyles can only be memorable when they incite roars of excitement from the crowd. The cypher is the circle that forms when people gather around to watch rappers prove their mettle. This is where they make their mark as their reputation hangs in the balance with each line that comes out of their mouth.
Legendary rapper KRS-ONE once described the crowd in a cypher to be similar to a crowd in a prize fight. There is an energy and intensity that is ignited by the performances of the rappers. If a rapper can impress the audience, the crowd will explode into frenzy as they embrace a series of clever lines. This reaction is intensified when the cypher evolves into a battle.
Freestyle battles are contests where two rappers will insult one another in the form of rhyme as the audience generally decides who the victor is. Battle Rapping can be traced to the 5th century as ‘flyting’, where poets would exchange verses filled with insults toward each other. Battles emphasize the aggressive side of rap music as each party will attempt to disrespect the other with clever insults.
The audience plays a pivotal role as they will erupt with excitement when someone provides a fatally crushing line to their opponent. The crowd will often become so captivated by a series of remarkable lines that they abruptly end the battle as their overwhelming enthusiasm decides the winner of the battle.
Music has many different forms, but none are quite as gritty as freestyle. It removes exotic instrumentation and strips down the music to emphasize the lyrics. This is why rap music is so closely linked to poetry, as the words are always the most important factor. So you can leave all of the symphonies, studios, notebooks, and arenas at home because when you step in the cypher, it’s a rap.
Interview with Amanda Auchter Interviewed by Alexis Gutierrez, Kailey Tepera, and Lane Strahan
Settling in for the interview, Amanda emanates an easy, relaxed air. It’s a Wednesday afternoon in the CASA building at Lone Star College-CyFair, and she’s just come from teaching an English class on the third floor. As we deal out our questions, she covers a lot of bases: her online literary journal Pebble Lake Review, her creative process, and some pretty refreshing writing advice. In this interview, we got a glimpse into the life of the modern-day writer/English instructor/literary reviewer/editor/otherwise-do-it-aller that is Amanda Auchter.
~
The Barker’s Voice: How long have you been writing?
Amanda Auchter: Probably since I was a little kid. 6, 7, 8.
Barker’s Voice: What kind of stories did you write?
Amanda Auchter: I did a horror skit when I was little. I’ve always liked horror movies, although I don’t write that way often, literarily. I am primarily a poet and non-fiction writer.
Barker’s Voice: Do you consider the art of writing hard?
Amanda Auchter: I do. I think that anyone who says it’s easy isn’t doing a good job of it. You have to be very diligent. It takes a long time. I think people underestimate the revision process. I think a lot of young writers think, “I wrote a poem,” and it’s done.
Barker’s Voice: Can you tell us a little bit about the memoir you’re writing about adoption and the foster care system?
Amanda Auchter: It’s another slow process. This summer I wrote 90 rough pages in about six weeks, 8-9 hours a day. I’ve been wanting to write it for a really long time. Of course, I am an adopted person. In 2008 I met my birth grandparents, father’s side. After, I discovered he had died when I was 2. So, it’s sort of like going through that process, with my birth grandparents, but it’s also been strange, difficult, and definitely what they play on television. It’s awesome that I am closer to my own family, which I didn’t expect at all. I was raised in a family with five biological kids and three adopted kids. My parents were also foster parents. My parents adopted me when they were in their 40s, and they already had children and adopted again when I was eleven. In the ’60s up to the ’90s I think they fostered almost 90 children. My mom won a Houston Mayor’s Award of service twice for that. So I grew up in a very unique family. My parents also specialized in special needs kids, so it’s bridging these two stories together. It’s not just about being someone who is adopted looking for their birth family, but it’s also from a culture of my own family that growing up adopted with foster children is completely normal. So for now I’m just trying to weave it all together.
Barker’s Voice: Do you think it will be a longer work than your other books?
Amanda Auchter: Yeah, my other books were poetry collections, so definitely, longer than that. A book of poetry is only around 60 pages, but a memoir is around 300.
Barker’s Voice: Is that where a lot of your inspiration comes from, your childhood? Because I saw a lot of that in your book, The Glass Crib.
Amanda Auchter: Yes, that was a lively inspiration for the first book. The second book is about New Orleans, a lyrical history of New Orleans, which before anyone asks, I was not born there. I grew up in East Texas, very close to the border. I started writing that when I found out my birth grandmother’s family came over from Italy and settled in New Orleans for a very long time where they actually owned part of the old Italian Market. Of course, I love New Orleans and grew up close to it. I get inspiration from everywhere, not just my family. I mean, now I sort of told that story and I’m working on the memoir, so in my poetry I want to do less of it. I’ve told that story; I’m ready to look at other things. I get inspiration from news stories, oddly enough. I’m a really huge nerd; I get inspiration from science, history, art. I’m not someone who goes out to nature, and gets things like that.
Barker’s Voice: What’s your main passion for writing? What drives you to write?
Amanda Auchter: Well, if I don’t write I’m very disgruntled. I don’t know, that’s a really hard question because I’ve always been driven to do that, and when I have periods where I can’t write, I feel like something’s missing and I get anxious and angry with people. I think I have to do it for the sanity of those around me.
Barker’s Voice: What is it you hope that readers will get from your writing?
Amanda Auchter: I really hope it will be meaningful to them in some way. I think stories, whether they are written down or shared through gossip, have some sort of value. I think we are all telling stories so we can understand each other and communicate. I think at the end of the day that’s what they get. It touches them somehow and they can understand their part in the world.
Barker’s Voice: You have a literary journal entitled, The Pebble Lake Review. Why did you create the Pebble Lake Review?
Amanda Auchter: It’s been around 10 years now, so I started it in 2003. I worked on Gulf Coast Literary Journal at University of Houston for four years. I grew up in Oklahoma, the most boring place in the world, so I made the site out of boredom.
Barker’s Voice: What’s your favorite part of the Pebble Lake Review?
Amanda Auchter: My favorite part of it I think is meeting a lot of different people, a lot of different types of writers and seeing how writing has changed over the years, like styles. I mean, it does change very steadily. Making contacts. I’ve made a lot of really good contacts and friends.
Barker’s Voice: Where did you find your staff for Pebble Lake?
Amanda Auchter: My staff mainly came through the University of Houston Creative Writing Program. They were dedicated to it and very good friends with an eye for it.
Barker’s Voice: Would you ever consider hiring one of your students or someone at Lone Star College?
Amanda Auchter: I don’t know if I would or not. We have sort of expanded recently to get some readers that are editors and slush pile readers. And somebody has posted me recently asking if they needed an intern, but possibly. I don’t know if I would hire one of my own students though, maybe a former student.
Barker’s Voice: What is it that you like about teaching Creative Writing?
Amanda Auchter: Unfortunately, I don’t get to do it that much because there are not enough classes to go around. But I probably do it once a year. I would like more, however. I wish they would expand because the classes get filled every single time, and I feel if they were to offer one more class, there could be more students that could be reached. I like that these students are energetic about it. I like an experimental style of teaching. I like to try and reach a more modern audience. I do teach the basics, because you have to crawl before you walk. I start off with that, but I also like to provide more challenging, innovating things that students have never heard of before. That’s what I really enjoy.
Barker’s Voice: Do you ever find your students inspiring you?
Amanda Auchter: Not inspiring me to write. I try to keep my life here separate from my own life. I cannot overlap them. I have this box and this box, and I don’t want the boxes to mush. These are two entirely different parts of myself, and there are so many things to do.
Barker’s Voice: What are the differences between Lone Star College, where you teach, and Bennington College, where you learned, in terms of teaching? Are the styles similar?
Amanda Auchter: It’s kind of hard to compare. In some ways it is similar, as far as creative writing classes. I use a workshop model, but I also think it’s less hardcore compared to Bennington, and here, the students couldn’t take it. At Bennington they expect you to know what you’re talking about, while here it’s more of the basics.
Barker’s Voice: What is your creative process like? And do you have a specific place you like to write?
Amanda Auchter: I do. I have a study at my house. For a while I used the kitchen table, but it wasn’t my space. I have three cats but no kids, and I was just there on the kitchen table. I started [thinking] a couple weeks ago, “I want to rearrange my study. This is crap.” So my husband willingly helped move my furniture around so now I have a space. This is going to sound really funny, but I have a certain candle that is like, my writing candle. Normally I like good candles, but my friend, when we were undergrads, she had this candle that I really liked a lot. It made me feel calm, and from then on I had to have it as my writing candle. But it’s the cheapest, most trailer trash candle ever. It’s the black cherry candle from Wal-Mart, and I hate Wal-Mart. It’s the only thing I buy from there. It doesn’t even smell that great, but I have to have it.
Barker’s Voice: So you wrote all your books and everything to that candle?
Amanda Auchter: Uh-huh. Oh, and I always write at night. I don’t write every day, but it’s okay. Some people tell you you have to write every day to be a writer, but sometimes you need space. You’re okay. It’s always going to be there. And honestly, people who tell you, “You have to write every day or you’re not a writer”, those are people that I have found really suck! You don’t have to write every day.
Barker’s Voice: What was your big “Aha!” moment, that moment when you decided you wanted to write for the rest of your life?
Amanda Auchter: I don’t know. I’ve never been asked that before. I must have been about your age, which is really only about 10-12 years ago. I don’t think I had an “Aha” moment, maybe over a period of time. I took my first creative writing course at UofH, which I loved, and I got very quickly involved in the writing community and I felt like “This is where I belong.” It wasn’t an “Aha” moment, but a gradual snowball into being excited for it.
Barker’s Voice: So, what did you go to study when you went to college initially?
Amanda Auchter:I started wanting to be a Journalism major, but then I realized that you have no life, and I really wanted to have a life–a more internal life instead of an external life. I’ve always liked writing; I’ve liked writing papers. I’m a big nerd like that. I started gradually moving over to English/Creative Writing as an undergrad. I think I stayed a Journalism major for maybe a year. But then I just got tired of it. I didn’t think it was a good fit.
Barker’s Voice: What advice would you give to inspire writers?
Amanda Auchter: I would read widely. Because I think a lot of young writers don’t read as much as they should. I don’t mean just literature. Read History books, read the Bible, read science books, read poetry, read novels. I mean, when I was writing my first book, I read everything from contemporary American poetry to a book on modern saints. When I was writing the book on New Orleans, I read everything from the original letter that was sent back to France to contemporary poetry on Katrina. I’ve watched documentaries on Katrina, on the education system. I’ve read on all of it. You have to become a source on what you want to write about, not just be like, “Oh, I’m only going to read Science Fiction.” That’s nice for you, but you’re never going to grow. My one thing would be read as widely as possible. Read more than you write. I’ve been told, “Read 100 books for everything you write.”
