Q&A with Chapters 10-13 Authors

How did you get on board with “Naked Came the Cheesesteak?”

Shaun Haurin: The lovely and talented author Kelly Simmons is an old friend, and she tipped off the editors to my existence.

Mary Anna Evans: I came to the Cheesesteak family through a circuitous chain of connections. I had recently moved to the Philadelphia area to study for an MFA in creative writing at Rutgers-Camden. A friend from Florida introduced me to a friend of hers who had recently graduated from Rutgers-Camden, but who is now in a PhD program in Tennessee. He heard that Mitch Sommers was looking for Philadelphia-area authors for a collaborative novel. Mitch and I got in touch and shook hands on the deal, electronically speaking. Because there is always a significant lag time in publishing–Great writing takes time!–and because I was scheduled to write the last chapter, I had graduated and taken a job at the University of Oklahoma by the time I wrote my installment.  And all this multi-state activity took place by email, yet resulted in a pretty cool book, if I do say so myself.  Amazing!

Don Lafferty: I can’t remember if Tori or Kelly Simmons approached me first, but when I heard they were on board, along with my good friends, Merry Jones and Gregory Frost, I was honored that they’d thought of inviting me to be part of the project.

Diane Ayres: Accidentally. I was at the annual Xmas Writer’s Party which my husband and I co-host for our fellow writer friends and acquaintances every year who don’t work in offices. We all miss out on those wild parties, so we have our own,( although it’s relatively tame). It was December 2014, and I was catching up with my old pal Greg Frost at the party when Merry Jones approached, and they started telling me about the serial novel they were writing with eleven other local writers. They mentioned that one of the writers had dropped out recently. Since I just happened to be standing there, they were both way too kind and polite to let me feel like the odd author out, so they asked if I would I be interested in doing a chapter. I was well into my second martini so I said “sure!”

 

Tell me a little about the characters and story in your chapter.

Shaun Haurin: Without giving too much away, my chapter is a character study of Detective Chelsea Simon’s restaurateur husband, Arturo.  He’s about to open yet another new restaurant and is contemplating the wisdom of such a decision the night before Halloween.  He also has his Uncle Bull on his mind (the eatery’s namesake) as well as the recent death of his mistress, Chelsea’s colleague on the police force.  Needless to say, it’s not an especially enjoyable evening for him (though I hope it’s enjoyable for the reader!).

Mary Anna Evans: By the time the manuscript rolled around to me, the setting had moved to a completely new city. None of the previous chapters had been set there, and I’ve never been there. The character list was down to two, unless I wanted to stop the narrative action by plunking them on a plane and sending them home to Philly.  Thank you, Warren dear, for that little curve ball.

Don Lafferty: I can’t. My chapter is a spoiler. This also gets me out of public readings.

Diane Ayres: Unfortunately, I’m incapable of telling “a little” about anything, as the audacious length of my chapter demonstrates. For this, I can only beg the forgiveness of my worthy peers and fellow Cheesesteakers. But a serial writer’s gotta do what a serial writer’s gotta do. And in my defense … There was a lot going on in chapters one through ten, with many entertaining characters and plot twists and turns, but it was a little short on any pending resolution. With only two more chapters to go, I felt a great deal of responsibility to braid some of those loose threads together. I did my best to work in some aspect or element of every chapter, although I did not succeed with a couple that were self-contained—not that there’s anything wrong with that. There were quite a few narrative points of view, including Nathanial Popkin’s chapter in the first person, which added another refreshing dimension and perspective. Randall Brown picked up on the voice in one of his scenes in Chapter 9, which I felt was the perfect set up for me to carry it on and give it a name, Steven Barr.

My opening CNN scene was purely satirical because I decided that the only way to handle all of those dead bodies and unanswered questions was to take it over the top, making all of that confusion a seemingly intentional and integral part of the plot. In addressing the absurdity in that first scene, the following scenes would seem more plausible, by comparison—more real. The “realest” scene being the conversation between Ben and Chelsea at Dirty Frank’s—which was my take on Nathaniel Popkin’s dive bar of relevant and/or irrelevant characters. (And also nostalgic because it’s in my old hood.) I also felt the need to flesh out at least two major characters, who had been emerging as a potential love interest all along whether on purpose or unconsciously. These two were always clashing in chapters from the get-go, out of proportion to the problems—protesting a little too much, I thought, which could only mean one thing. They were hot for each other. This revelation afforded me the opportunity to have them meet privately so I could work in some crucial plot points and explanations while also slipping in a sex scene, such as it is, a gritty make-out moment behind Dirty Frank’s. (I don’t know about other readers, but I need a love interest in a novel to hold my interest.)

As for Steven Barr, I thought he needed something in his background to explain all of that deviant, homicidal, sociopathic, domestic terrorist kind of behavior, so I had a field day with the Freudian stereotypes, as well as the neurobiological psychiatric updates (i.e. genetic implications of having a clinically depressed father who committed suicide). I even threw in a warped Hitchcock joke: “Mother’s” waspy blonde hair that turns out to be a wig—perhaps even a wig made out of Mother’s hair before she lost it to cancer. How creepy is that? Yes, of course, my take on Steven Barr borders on camp, but it was also a chance to pick up on another, more serious undercurrent in the novel. The one wherein certain writers out of thirteen do a little riffing on the nature of being writers in the subtext. From Greg Frost’s satirical portrayal of the journalist—“journo”—as buffoon, Vincent “Pants” De Leon, at the Pen & Pencil Club in Chapter 3, to Steven Barr declaring the difference between fiction and nonfiction writers. And in the final scene, journalist Ben Travers insists he is incapable of writing fiction while also denigrating the fiction writers he envies for sitting around in their underwear all day making stuff up.

 

How did you go about writing your chapter now that the story’s coming to a close?

Shaun Haurin: I left the rollicking plot lines to the mystery-writer professionals and in effect hid behind my imaginary paisano.

Mary Anna Evans: As it turned out, these tight constraints sparked an idea that I think tied up the narrative tightly and unexpectedly. I believe all of us felt the tension between the story handed to us and our own plot ideas and our own style, but that’s not a bad thing.  Tension is inherent in any art. In fiction, it is what drives the story forward. I got a real creative jolt when I saw what I was going to have to do to resolve this tale. It was fun.

Don Lafferty: I was traveling, and so unable to attend when the team met at Cordelia Biddle’s crib to discuss the premise of the story and map out the chapter assignments. Email summaries of that meeting made their way to me, but I still didn’t quite grasp the voice or tone toward which the group had decided to aim. When the project got underway and I finally read Kelly Simmons’ opening chapter, I became acutely aware that I was in for something completely different from any writing project I’d ever been part of. Since I had nine months before my chapter would have top be written, I decided to wait until all the chapters were written before I would read any more. When one of the contributors bailed right out after reading Kelly’s chapter, I had a real WTF moment. And then when, a few weeks later, Cordelia bailed out over the direction the book was headed in light of the Pope’s upcoming visit to Philadelphia, I began to wonder if I’d somehow consigned my immortal soul to the dark side. All the while the chapters came in month after month. And I let them pile up. When it was finally my turn to write, I read the book in one sitting, and then, with my mind completely blown, feeling totally inadequate to move the story forward in a meaningful way, thought about it for a couple of tortured weeks. Then I wrote it. Then I strung poor Mitchell and Mary Anna out for a couple of weeks more. Then I sent it.

Diane Ayres: [See answer above.]

 

What do you think of the story overall?

Shaun Haurin: [insert string of thumbs up and ecstatic eye-patched ghost emojis]

Mary Anna Evans: It’s creative and weird and fun and engrossing. It hangs together as a whole in a way that I never expected it could, coming as it did from thirteen very different brains.  It says a lot for the authors that the group was able to create together a work of art as large as a novel, while still staying true to themselves as individuals.

Don Lafferty: I think the story is an honest reflection of each author’s unique perspective on the city we all call home, seen through the lens of each one’s storytelling sensibility. As a movie I see it as possibly, the Coen brothers’ first chick flick.

Diane Ayres: It’s a lot of fun.

 

What have you taken away from this experience? Did it meet your expectations?

Shaun Haurin: It was great fun! As someone who’s become conditioned to working (and receiving criticism) alone, I highly recommend getting a dozen other people to help write your next novel!

Mary Anna Evans: I take a lot of satisfaction from the finished product, and that’s particularly true because I wrote the summing-up chapter. While the other chapters were being written, I lived for months with worries like “What if there’s no way to make this thing internally consistent, much less fun to read?” More to the point, I worried that I personally wasn’t up to the task. I got a huge rush on behalf of all thirteen of us when I typed the last line. I’m grateful to have had the experience of working with everybody involved.

Don Lafferty: I went into this without expectations, that is, I knew this would be a learning experience, so I was going open to wherever my collaborators led me. Little did I know that it would turn me upside down, shake me up creatively and teach me to jump off a whole new ledge in my personal journey as a writer. And like every piece of writing I’ve ever delivered to an editor, I am reminded in the process, that while I know what I like, I don’t know the first thing about good writing.

Diane Ayres: It was a fascinating meeting of the minds and methods of fiction writers, and also good for me to share a creative experience, because I have always been exceedingly isolated in my work, and it’s good for me to get out occasionally. In regard to expectations I had none, but I would like to add that initially I made light of Greg and Merry being accidentally trapped into asking me to join the project, but it was, in all seriousness, a great honor and pleasure to participate. And I hope my effort didn’t disappoint.

 

Q&A with Chapters 7-9 Authors

How did you get on board with “Naked Came the Cheesesteak?”

Randall Brown: I wish I remembered, but ever since I turned fifty this year, my memories have begun fading. In any case, I’m so thrilled that we found each other. I’m a huge fan of PS Books!

Nathaniel Popkin: I have trouble saying no….no, really, I thought it would be fun to write under a completely different set of circumstances than what I am used to, and to work with these excellent writers.

Warren Longmire: I’ve been tangentially connected to Philadelphia Stories for years through my time as editor at Apiary Magazine and have recently been on a panel or two they held at Rosemont College. Though my focus is on poetry, I had done some fiction in the past and was intrigued by the chance to jump back in. I’m happy to have a chance to represent North Philly, my birth place, among the panel of writers.

 

Tell me a little about the characters and story in your chapter.

Randall Brown: I focused on one of the detectives in the story and her search for the murderer and his/her weapon(s) of choice. That search leads her through the icy city streets on the first winter strom of the year. Also I had been in the middle of a binge of CRIMINAL MINDS, so I think that show influenced my chapter a lot, especially the desire to profile characters.

Nathaniel Popkin: My character is the killer, who in the imaginative framework of my chapter is the writer. He is in hiding and seems to be seeking revenge on someone. Or not—it may be hard to tell. I just was interested in playing with some concepts, particularly those having to do with authorship and the wall between word and story, story and reality. With a book written by a chain of writers, the process really is the thing. So why not acknowledge it in the fiction itself?

Warren Longmire: My chapter attempts flesh out some back-story on Chelsea, the lead investigator in the murders and introduces are father Howard. The last we saw her, she had pretty brutally beat down a suspect (and incidentally, the only other black character in the novel) in the killing from Strawberry Mansion, a neighborhood in Philly not far from where I grew up. There was then a detour into a new, suspected mysterious character in West Philly hinted at being involved. I wanted to give nods both to this new development in the plot and explore what would make a black women from a hood-tinged area of a city become a police officer, let alone to participate in police brutality.

 

What are your thoughts on the direction of the story so far now that we are mid-way through the novel? 

Randall Brown: It has more ups and downs than a paper route in Manayunk.

Nathaniel Popkin: I just hope that the reader is rooting for the writer.

Warren Longmire: Lots of twists right? SUCH MISDIRECTION! The previous chapter in particular through much doubt into where the investigation was heading.

 

What was your writing process like?

Randall Brown: I am a very, very short fiction writer who primarily focuses on flash fiction, stories under 1000 words. So I think having to write a single chapter of a novel was a good experience for my own foray into longer forms. I approached it by writing the chapter in bite-sized chunks.

Nathaniel Popkin: I paced around my office, which is around a half wall/bookcase from my bed. I finally sat down. For some reason the idea of a New Yorker Magazine holiday party appeared in my head (not that I would know what such a party is like). I went from there. By the end of the day, I figured that the rest of the writers were going to come to my house and do a little cheesesteak number on me. So I was hesitant to press send. Then I did and no one showed up, so I went back around the wall and went to bed.

Warren Longmire: I tend to stick to place and image in my writing. Quiet moments draw me in and help to set the scene. Finally, I have a strong connection to the music of the language in my writing. The most difficult part of this project (in addition to sticking the word limit) was using these techniques in the service of my characters.

 

How do you feel about writing a serial novel? Is it challenging particularly because the novel is a murder-mystery?

 Randall Brown: It was a challenge, because every chapter that preceded mine changed my own views about what my own chapter should tackle. As I wrote my chapter, to be very honest, I still had no clue who had done it.

Nathaniel Popkin: I have no idea what I’m doing being part of mystery-thriller, or whatever this is. Not my territory. So I was afraid, really afraid. Frankly, I’m not even sure anyone knows what to do with my chapter. Will they ignore it? Reader, feel free to skip right over!

Warren Longmire: YES. Even when I did write fiction, it was never genre. I’d enjoyed the process, though, and am excited to see the results.

Q&A with Chapters 4-6 Authors

How did you get on board with “Naked Came the Cheesesteak?”

Kelly McQuain:  Mitch, the editor approached me. We’ve known each other since doing our MFA at the University of New Orleans. It had been a long while since I wrote a fiction project. I’ve been working in poetry and essays these last few years, and though I was a little shy at first I decided this might be a fun way back into writing fiction. It was.

Victoria Janssen: Greg Frost brought me on board, when one of the other writers cancelled. Greg and I used to be in a workshop together.

Tony Knighton: Christine Weiser got me involved.

Tell me a little about the characters and story in your chapter.

Kelly McQuain:  I wrote chapter 6, and it seemed each chapter that came before introduced a lot of new characters. I wanted to bring back or mention as many characters as I could so that there would be a sense of continuity and development. That’s what I like in books with large casts, to see the way the characters’ stories weave in and out of those around them. As this was near the midpoint of the novel, I thought it was important to do so. Of course, to pull this off I had to add a new character that I hoped a later writer might further develop. Arhsad is his name, a college student who sheds some light on the backstories of some of the other victims. I also wanted to add more diversity in terms of race and sexual identity.  I was delighted to have an opportunity  to also flesh out Josh, the food truck owner whose truck is where the initial murder happens. He’s mentioned in chapter 1, but he had been kept off-stage. And, of course, his girlfriend Angela had to reappear. In terms of tone, I tried to be consistent with chapter 1, that this was a comic murder mystery, both a satire and an affectionate peaen to the City of Brotherly Love.  I also wanted to pin down the passage of time during the fall term, so I set this chapter just before Halloween with a note to my collaborators that I hoped the upcoming holiday might make a good backdrop for a later chapter.

Victoria Janssen: My new characters were Olive Norvell and Laurel Gutierrez, police sidekicks for Chelsea Simon, the detective. I based their personalities very loosely on Laurel and Hardy; their main purpose was to serve as comedic foils. Given where my chapter fell, I thought it would be a good idea to sum up some of the previous action and create a bridge to later events, while working in another death. Greg had mentioned he’d created “Pants” to be a murder victim, so I obliged!

Tony Knighton: It seemed to me that the story was running away; I wanted to bring it back around to Angela (I liked her character).  I had used Mickey and Mrs. DeSantis in another story and thought them perfect for something happening Downtown.

Did you read the previous chapters before writing yours? How has this serial novel structure influenced your writing? 

Kelly McQuain:  Of course! I would have felt like I was being disrespectful to the hard work of the other writers if I hadn’t done so, and I would not have benefited from the seeds they had lain. What was useful to me was the meta-data the editors and other writers helped generate, so that I could more easily track characters and happenings. A project like this is fun for the wildly different approaches you see in what gets turned in, but to me it also emphasizes that for my own writing projects the importance of timelines, plot diagrams, and outlines to the cohesion of the work. This project, by it’s nature, breaks the rules in a fun way, but at the same time it served for me as a reminder of why those rules are there to begin with.

Victoria Janssen: I did read the previous chapters before beginning to write. I tried to make my chapter build structurally on what went before while providing a launch point for succeeding chapters. I didn’t make any attempt to match styles, because I figured the different authorial voices were a feature, not a bug.

Tony Knighton: Of course I read the previous chapters, and liked them a lot. If this exercise has influenced my writing I’m not aware of it.

What have you noticed about writing for a serial novel and how it influenced the overall story?

Kelly McQuain:  I had to make peace with the fact that the set-ups and characters I liked the most wouldn’t necessarily be embraced by later writers, who steered the ship in their own direction. A serial novel is not going to be as tight or as streamlined as an Agatha Christie novel. The fun lies in the diversity of approaches. I think what the overall novel becomes is a portrait of how 13 writers see Philadelphia at this moment in time. My favorite parts are how we satirize the city, how we critique its legal system and the exploitation of adjuncts on campuses throughout the city. How we poke fun at beloved low-brow cuisine like the cheesesteak as well as at Philly’s restaurant renaissance. How we even poke fun at the genre of mystery writing itself when the novel takes a possibly meta turn. A huge amount of geographical territory is also covered in the book. There are scenes at Kelly Writers House at Penn, at the Drexel Dragon, at Community College of Philadelphia and at Temple. Rittenhouse Square, South Philly, Strawberry Mansion, and so many other places also make appearances. The novel’s definitely a portrait of the city’s people and its places.

Victoria Janssen: I discovered how very useful it can be to keep a list of characters and their salient characteristics. I had done a couple of round robins before, so I was prepared for later authors to radically depart my expectations for the story.

Tony Knighton: I haven’t yet read the subsequent chapters; I want to read the story all at once.

Were you surprised at the direction any of the characters you wrote or created were taken by other writers, or did other writers express surprise at the direction you took with your characters?

Kelly McQuain:  Merry, who wrote chapter 2, expressed surprise when I read at our launch party  that I turned one of her characters gay. “No, Merry,” I playfully told her, “he was gay all along. Deep down in your sub-text.” The truth is, her character’s sexuality had not been clearly established, so I saw it as an opportunity to surprise the reader. Isn’t that what we try to do as writers? Just when a reader thinks they have everything pinned down, the writers shows them something new that deepens the story. Good old “recognition and reversal.” I’ll add that as a queer person myself, I do not operate under the de facto assumption that most of the world does, that all people are straight until proven otherwise. That’s a perspective and sensitivity I could bring to the mix, and probably one of the reasons Mitch wanted me on board.

I was less surprised by the direction in which my characters were taken (and other people’s) than I was in my desire to still want to know more about them by the novel’s end.  Several of these characters are interesting enough to drive their own books. One of the things that surprised me was that a project designed to be set in Philadelphia would ultimately end up somewhere else. But as for where… well, dear readers, you will just have to read and see.

Victoria Janssen: I haven’t finished reading the whole novel yet!

Tony Knighton: See [previous answer], and no.

Q&A with Chapters 1-3 Authors

How did you get on board with “Naked Came the Cheesesteak?”

Greg Frost: Mitch approached me, asked if I would be interested in contributing. I was aware of both its predecessors–Naked Came the Stranger and Naked Came the Manatee, the latter in particular; so I said yes.

Merry Jones: It was at Push to Publish. Mitch was talking to Kelly Simmons and Greg Frost about participating, and I thought, hey, sounds like fun. Why don’t I do it, too?

Kelly Simmons: It sounded like so much fun, are you kidding me?  To write outside my genre, to have no control of the story after it leaves your hands — it’s like improv!

Have you ever contributed to a serial novel written by multiple authors before? In what ways has this structure influenced your writing?

Greg Frost: I contributed many years ago to a serial work by my class at the Clarion Writers Workshop at Michigan State University.

Were you given any set requirements for the chapter you wrote?

Greg Frost: None beyond the first two chapters that preceded mine. I read through those, thought about them a bit and then proceeded.

Merry Jones: The story was supposed to be based in Philadelphia, and a mystery. Other than that, no. My chapter came early so I thought I should set up some crime, making it clear that the death in the first chapter wasn’t a fluke.

Kelly Simmons: I volunteered to go first — before I realized how hard that might be! I had a lot of setting up to do, character introductions, settings, etc, and still had to start with a bang.  We had agreed only on title, murder mystery, and that we would move it around different Philly neighborhoods.  I had a lot of fun interpreting the title!

Tell me a little about the characters and story in your chapter.

Greg Frost: I created a character, Vincent “Pants” de Leon, as a kind of halfwit who thinks he’s twigged the identity of the killer. His real purpose in the larger story is to be available for killing by someone further up the line. I hoped one of the later writers would loop him back in and bump him off.

Merry Jones: My characters are college kids who like cheesesteaks. They weren’t meant to continue through the chapters. They were meant to be victims….

Kelly Simmons: I had the honor of writing the first chapter — setting up the clues for the first murder, dangling possible motives, and introducing characters like a detective and a reporter that could be used going forward. But I chose to start off my chapter in South Philly with The Nicholetti family and their daughter Angela, a beautiful but mouthy and whipsmart Drexel student whose boyfriend, Josh, owns a popular, gourmet food truck whose signature dish is a Vegan Cheesesteak called The Without — and who is accused of the first murder.

How do you think the story will turn out?

Greg Frost: I’ve absolutely no idea. A lot of raw material was laid out early on, but it’s all down to the last few writers to assemble something like a cohesive narrative, to choose the door marked “Exit.” I would not presume.

Merry Jones: Haha. Good question. It’s out of my hands. I won’t/can’t even venture a guess.

Kelly Simmons: Well, since I know the person tasked with the last chapter, it’ll end with a brilliant twist, I’m sure!

About the Editors

Co-editors
Mitchell Sommers
Tori Bond

Assistant editors
Jon Busch
Tiffany Sumner
Emi London

Intern
Lena Van

Acknowledgements
Ryan McElroy – cover art
Tyler Hanssens – photo credit Philadelphia cityscape

About the Authors: Naked Came the Cheesesteak – A Serial Novel

Fiction writer and editor Diane Ayres is the author of the novel Other Girls (Kensington Hardcover), the Bella Vista story “Seeing Nothing” in Philadelphia Noir (Akashic), and the poetry chapbook Rotation Stabilizes. A graduate of Chatham College, she has taught writer’s workshops at Penn, the GLVWG, and many other conferences.

Randall Brown has been published and anthologized widely, both online and in print. He received his MFA from Vermont College and teaches in Rosemont College’s MFA in Creative Writing Program.

 

Mary Anna Evans is the author of the Faye Longchamp archaeological mysteries, which have won awards including the Mississippi Author Award, the Benjamin Franklin Award, and three Florida Book Awards bronze medals. She holds an MFA from Rutgers-Camden, and she is an assistant professor at the University of Oklahoma.

Gregory Frost is the author of novels—Shadowbridge, Lord Tophet, Fitcher’s Bride—and short stories of the fantastic, including  “Lock Up Your Chickens and Daughters—H’ard and Andy Are Come to Town,” a collaboration with Philly author Michael Swanwick (Asimov’s). He is the Fiction Workshop Director at Swarthmore College.

 

Shaun Haurin is a founding member of the artistic co-op Helveticats as well as the author of a story collection, Public Displays of Affectation. His short fiction has appeared in a variety of literary magazines.

Of Victoria Janssen’s three novels for Harlequin, The Moonlight Mistress (set during World War One) was nominated for an RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award; her work has been translated into French, German, Italian, and Russian. Find out more at victoriajanssen.com or follow her on twitter @victoriajanssen.

 

Merry Jones is the author of nineteen suspense, humor, and non-fiction books. Her latest works include the Elle Harrison suspense novels (The Trouble With Charlie, Elective Procedures and, next year, Child’s Play) and the Harper Jennings thrillers (Summer Session, Behind The Walls, Winter Break, Outside Eden, In The Woods). Visit her at MerryJones.com.

 

Tony Knighton published the novella and story collection Happy Hour and Other Philadelphia Cruelties with Crime Wave Press. His story “The Scavengers” is included in the anthology Shocklines: Fresh Voices in Terror, published by Cemetery Dance, and his story “Sunrise” is included in the anthology Equilibrium Overturned, published by Grey Matter Press. He is a lieutenant in the Philadelphia Fire Department.

Don Lafferty is a writer, lecturer and marketing consultant. He’s written corporate communication, marketing and advertising copy, and feature articles for several national magazines. He’s the social media director of the literary magazine, Wild River Review, and serves on the board of directors of the Philadelphia Writers’ Conference.

 

Warren Longmire is a poet, web programmer, Philly native, and expert level whistler. He is the former poetry editor for Apiary Magazine and has been published in Painted Bride Quarterly, Eleven Eleven, and two chapbooks: Ripped Winters, and Do.Until.True. You can find his work at dountiltrue.tumblr.com.

Kelly McQuain is a poet, fiction writer, and artist. Recent projects include work in the anthologies The Queer South, Drawn to Marvel: Poems from the Comic Books, and Rabbit Ears: TV Poems. His chapbook, Velvet Rodeo, won Bloom magazine’s poetry prize. He teaches writing in Philadelphia. Learn more at KellyMcQuain.wordpress.com.

Nathaniel Popkin is the author of three books, including the 2013 novel Lion and Leopard. He is editorial director of Hidden City Philadelphia and senior writer of “Philadelphia: The Great Experiment,” an Emmy award-winning documentary series. He is fiction review editor of Cleaver Magazine. His literary essays and book reviews appear in the Wall Street JournalPublic BooksThe Kenyon ReviewThe Millions, and Fanzine.

Kelly Simmons’ novels have been hailed as electrifying, complex and poignant, and aren’t those nice words? Her third novel, One More Day, debuts February 2016.  She’s a member of The Liars Club, a group of published novelists dedicated to helping fledgling writers. Read more at kellysimmonsbooks.com

The Kielbasy Run

Tucked into Philadelphia’s northeastern section, the small neighborhood of Port Richmond is still asleep. It’s 5:30 on a cold December morning, and a fog has fallen over the narrow streets and row-homes. Abandoned factories and ornate churches, still illuminated by the moon, cast elongated shadows across the neighborhood. Most residents are still snug in the warmth of their beds, I am not one of them.  For the past 17 years, my mom, Aunt Pat and I have embarked on the “Kielbasy Run.” Set during the week before Christmas, we put on layer after layer of clothing and take the 20-minute drive on an empty I-95 to my family’s old Polish neighborhood, Port Richmond.  The ride is mostly silent; Aunt Pat tries to catch up on sleep after consecutive night shifts at Jefferson Hospital, and I stare out the window.

Our destination—Czerw’s Deli—is located on Tilton Street, which closer resembles a back alleyway than a usable road. After parallel parking a few blocks away (the closest we can get to the store), we venture into the below-zero temperatures and wait in line outside. The store won’t be open until 7 a.m., but the line already reaches the end of the block. We do all of this in search of one thing: authentic Polish food.

We wait in line with familiar faces from years past. There’s the businessman taking a day off from work, the father with his young children who drove in from New Jersey and the old woman (hair still in curlers) who lives around the block.

Thirty minutes later, we pass the screen door leading to the back of the deli—a source of warmth and a sign we are nearing the main entrance.  Through the screen, I can make out the faint figure of an old woman, hunched over with her cane faithfully by her side. Her hands move slowly and steadily as she packs beef into cabbage leaves. Her measurements are by memory, the movements of her fingers automatic. After wrapping up the finished product, she hobbles to the back hallway, calls out for one of her sons and hands off the package.

Just then, a large man—his white apron covered in reddish-brown stains—flings open the screen door and steps into the cold air to check the smoker. As he removes the lid, warm smoke and the woodsy smell of meat diffuses through the line. He grumbles to himself as he dips a finger in the juice pooling under the meat and raises it to his mouth.

“Needs more onions,” he states with a smack of his lips. He disappears back into the kitchen.

After nearly an hour in the cold, we make it to the large, wooden door. Inside, the deli is long and narrow, with enough room for only 10 customers. The line stretches along the back wall next to shelves packed with everything from Jewish rye bread to kosher dill pickles. One shelf displays four kinds of babka—cheese, raspberry, poppy seed and sometimes chocolate. In the back corner of the deli is a freezer full of pierogis. A large barrel full of sauerkraut gives the store its distinctive sour delicious smell of onions and garlic.

When we finally reach the deli counter, one of the three blond brothers takes our order.

“What’ll it be ladies?” the oldest brother asks in a gruff voice.

Mom recites our order like clockwork:

“Four pounds kabanosa, one pound fresh kielbasy, a pound of fresh bacon—sliced thick—one cheese babka, and four dozen onion & cheese pierogis.”

The rounded glass case is filled with red meat ranging from slab bacon to smoked kielbasy. Yellowed newspaper clippings hang in frames behind the counter, and a photograph of Pope John Paul II dutifully overlooks the cash register. After making our purchases, our food is handed to us in a large brown paper bag—20 pounds of pure culinary heaven. Our parcels act as a source of heat as we make our way back outside. Customers in line outside eye the trophy in our arms as we walk past.

The rest of our day is spent driving to three or four Polish bakeries—most are easy to spot with the country’s red and white colors proudly displayed. As we drive from bakery to bakery, my mom and aunt point out familiar landmarks:

“This is the cemetery where Babci [Grandma] is buried.”

“There’s the corner store our cousin used to own.”

“Here is where I first learned to drive our orange station wagon.”

Our foggy car windows display family history like a photo album. With each street comes another memory, and with each memory comes another anecdote.

By now it’s nearly 1 p.m., and we make our way into the last bakery for our most valued item: paczkis. Paczkis (pronounced PUNCH-keys) are Polish doughnuts filled with fruit jelly or cream. Their airy dough makes them significantly better than traditional American doughnuts. We select a variety of paczkis in flavors such as plum, prune and apricot.

As I walk back to the car—paczki in hand—the chilling wind hardly bothers me. I remove my thick gloves and let the powdered sugar fall onto my skin. The purple jelly stains my lips and tongue. I gaze once more at the grandiose churches dotting the avenue. From where I stand I can see the churches where great-grandma Frances Rybicki, great-grandpa Mikolaj Czekaj and grandma Catherine Wojcik all lived out the major events of their lives. I smile as our car pulls away and these familiar landmarks disappear into the Philadelphia skyline.

Once back at Aunt Pat’s house, the crinkling of the brown paper bag acts as the dinner bell. My five cousins—Brook, Matt, Monica, Chris and Erica—come running down three flights of stairs. We gather around my aunt’s round table and immediately begin to unwrap food from its paper packaging. We laugh for hours as Mom and Aunt Pat continue to share stories while we feast. Once my belly is finally full and I can’t bear to eat another paczki, there’s one thought running through my mind: I can’t wait until next year.


Born & raised in northeast Philadelphia, Rachel Garman has always had a passion for telling stories. She recently graduated from Penn State with a degree in print journalism, and she is currently a Public Relations Specialist for Penn State IT Communications. When not busy writing, Rachel continues her quest for the perfect doughnut (paczkis are currently in her top five).

Leavened by Doris Ferleger

Doris Ferleger’s appropriately named new book Leavened speaks of the devotion of family. The book explores the familiar themes in Ferleger’s work of her and her family’s Jewish identity as survivors of the Holocaust. She does this through weaving recurring threads of ceremony, sacrifice and food. The collection’s title and its cover painting by writer and artist Natalie Goldberg contrast the adjective “leavened” against the rush of unleavened of Biblical significance. These elements speak to the time and attention Ferleger has given these characters, voices and stories. Each poem is a meditation that seems to resolutely set a new place at the table of the feast of her work.

The subject of survival is a familiar one, but these poems stun the reader with their sharpened craft and honesty. There are so many poems told in the voices of long-dead relatives that could have been overwrought, or worse, caricatures. Instead, Ferleger tempers every potentially sentimentalized story with starkly heartbreaking details. There is a powerful section in the first third of the book that explores the importance of different foods to two generations of family. The poems “Sitting on a Suitcase” (about an uncle guarding thousands of pieces of stale bread inside a suitcase instead of consuming them), “First Supper,” “Salt,” “Lucky” (about Momma licking salt from a train’s windows to survive), “Salami” and “Raspberry” (about confronting an aunt’s suicidal wish) form a masterful progression. Her lines, in “Inheritance,” describing Poppa’s lack of visible scars after the war, “unless you counted/his vigilant eyes, screams in the night/in his native tongue, though terror/sounds the same in any language” made this reviewer burst into tears.

Not every poem in this collection is sad. There are the poems in the latter half that reflect on the family’s current generation and the different productive ways that a brother and sister process their parents’ grief. Ferleger compares her family’s growth to Aspen roots cropping up in unexpected places. The final poems “Another Creation Story” and “Leavened” (of the title) are widely encompassing poems that, placed next to each other, are tinged with the losses and lessons she and her family have learned. They are the microscope and telescope of the collection. Ferleger’s unflinching treatment of these stories forces readers to see. There is a new refugee crisis today; especially in this time of mounting human suffering and need, this is a fiercely important book because it dares to show the smallest ways in which the world’s problems become the fears, fixations and hopes of one family.

Without His Fingers

The day was hot and humid, typical of a Philly summer. Bernie and John couldn’t wait for their ocean swim. They always took a dip before a concert, no matter what the weather. It was their ritual, a way to release tension and diffuse the jitters that accompanied a performance.  But with sweat already clinging to their shirts, they were even more eager than usual.

The concert would be held at the Metropolitan Opera House or perhaps the Academy of Music on Broad and Locust at 8 p.m. that evening.  So it must have been around noon, after a morning practice, when they felt as ready as they’d ever be, that they hopped a bus for Atlantic City, arriving an hour or two later.

I can see them during the ride, jibing each other, laughing, joking. And I hear Bernie asking John to pinch him, still in disbelief that he was a violinist in The Philadelphia Orchestra. Perhaps that night, Leopold Stokowski was conducting, the innovator who encouraged “free bowing” and was helping to create a unique, Philadelphia sound. The New York Times had just praised the Orchestra as possessing “uncommon excellence,” and Stokowski had no small part in its evolution. Would the program include Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor? I like to think so, like to believe that Bernie was anticipating playing one of his favorite pieces, the last great work of the Romantic composer, with its immediate entrance of the soloist, who, if Bernie worked hard enough, he would surely one day be.

In Atlantic City, the sand must have felt good under their feet. Soon, hard shoes and stiff tuxes would bind them, but now they were as free as their bows, imbibing the sea air, running toward the waves, admiring the female bathers. It was 1923, early in the decade, and they, too, were in their early twenties, embodiments of the period’s youthful exuberance. They dove into the surf, perhaps hearing in the rush of water the concerto’s frenetic, final coda.

After an hour or so, Bernie swam back to shore. Time to go. Their towels were where they left them, in a heap. In the water, he and John had drifted apart, one doing a fast crawl, the other lazily floating. Bernie must have been drying himself off, looking casually to the placid blue surface for his friend. There had been a light current, a bit of an undertow, but nothing out of the ordinary. He spotted a curly blond head that he at first thought was John, but no. He glanced toward the dressing stalls, their established meeting place, but John wasn’t there either. Bernie returned to the water’s edge, getting his feet and then legs wet again. With his hand blocking the sun, he gazed more carefully now, out, far out, and up and down the coast. And then, the first inkling that something was wrong. His stomach must have tightened, his breathing grown rapid. Time passed, and then the real panic set in.  Rushing to a lifeguard. Shouting down the beach, questioning everyone he saw. Thirty minutes, sixty. Longer.

That night, the string section was surely a little off. Someone had to fill in for the missing player, and if Bernie played at all, it must have been out of key. The search continued for weeks, but John was never found, drowning listed as the official cause of death. Soon thereafter, one of Bernie’s fingers began to ache.

Bernie, Bernard Greenberg, was my great uncle, and before I tell the rest of that story, here are a few things you might want to know: Bernie grew up lower-middle class in the Logan area of Philadelphia, the second child of four in a secular Jewish family. His parents owned two delicatessens in Strawberry Mansion. He was a happy, loving kid, known for being a prankster, often dangerously so. Once, pretending he was Zorro, he carved a Z into my aunt’s arm with a pocketknife, and that was tame in comparison to some of his other antics. My grandmother Rosella, married to Oscar Kahn, brother of noted architect Louis, was his sister. The family was close and Bernie, despite his mischievous nature, was a favored member. He was handsome and athletic, known for his nasty English, both on a ball and in speech. And then, of course, there was the music, the combination of passion and talent, charged with that ineffable something that separated him from the crowd. His pranks were infamous, but everyone knew that his violin would make him famous.

His left ring finger was the first to suffer. Why that one, I don’t know, maybe because Bernie never had the chance to marry, even though, before he got sick, he had a girl in mind. Soon all of his fingers turned cold, went white, then blue. For a while he could play through the soreness, but soon the pain became unbearable. One, then another and another, until he was forced to quit the orchestra and seek medical help.

The family thought his symptoms were related to the shock of losing his friend. And maybe in part they were. But on what I can only envision as a gray winter’s day, with snow beginning to fall, Bernie was diagnosed with Beurger’s disease, a circulatory disorder where the body essentially attacks its own blood vessels. All organs can be involved but the limbs and digits are especially affected. Pathologist and namesake, Leo Beurger, first identified the disease in 1908, and Bernie was one of the first patients to undergo Beurger’s trial and error treatments at Mt. Sinai hospital in New York.

I could describe in graphic detail his twenty-two years in and out of hospitals, the freezing and boiling baths, the nerve surgeries, the eventual amputations. I could tell you of the constant agony, of pain so excruciating that my uncle became addicted to morphine. And I could, and should, tell you that cigarette smoking was related to the disease, and that, despite being told that he would lose his toes as well as his fingers if he didn’t quit, Bernie continued to smoke. That was before the tobacco industry even knew enough to lie about how addictive their products were. I could tell you about this nightmare. Yes, I could tell about when the music stopped. But I’d rather tell you about when it began again, when spring finally returned.

By the time I came into consciousness, the disease had burned itself out.  I wasn’t there when Bernie swore there were bats flying in his hospital room or when he stood over my parent’s bed, begging my father, a physician, for a fix. By my time, Bernie was in his forties, living with my great-grandmother in L.A. He had gone cold turkey off all drugs and was a frequent visitor in our home. The only remnants of his illness were his constantly perspiring forehead, and of course, the mangled stubs where his shapely, violinist fingers used to be. I grew up with those stubs and thought nothing of them. It took others’ reactions to make me understand that they could be disturbing. Nor did it strike me odd at all when, after taking a year of piano lessons with a mediocre instructor, Bernie became my teacher.

I don’t recall how the deal was struck, but I’ll never forget those sessions. I was young, only nine when they started and seventeen at the end. Bernie was patient, but also demanding. He wouldn’t tolerate a sluggish trill, too heavy of a pedal. Every note was to be defined, every passage a delicate balance of restraint and force. Often, it was too much for me. Sometimes I’d run out the room, screaming and crying.  I’d tell him I hated him. But there were other times, when we were in a groove, when his stubs would sway over me like a conductor’s baton, and the music came to life. All those scales, those repetitions until I thought I’d go mad, suddenly paid off, and my hands flew over the keyboard, smooth and clear. At those moments, I cared for nothing else. My mother might call us to dinner, and I’d shoo her away. We were in a world of our own, one that, without his fingers, my uncle had made possible.

Soon, word spread. “Ona’s pretty good at the piano. Who’s her teacher?” “Bernie, her Uncle Bernie.”

 “But he doesn’t have…”

That must have often been the reaction. But it didn’t prevent anyone from pursuing him as a teacher. First to sign up was a friend of mine down the street, and then another around the corner. As his fingers had once fallen, one by one, his list of students, for violin as well as piano, grew, until he had more than he could handle. It was the autumn of his life, but he was in high demand.

Now he was Bernard Green, music teacher. He’d dropped the “berg” to make his Jewish identity less certain, although the Yiddish obscenities that peppered his talk were a bit of a giveaway. He lived, as did we, in an area where vague and sometimes overt anti-Semitic sentiment was common. The change was purely a business decision, and it may have contributed to him getting his foot (minus his toes) in the door. He frightened some initially, more with his expectations than his deformity, but everyone recognized his gift. He breathed music, and the air entered our lungs, traveled to our brains, and sent a special message to our fingers.

A few other things about Bernie:

He had a cockatoo that stood on his head and ordered him, by name, to wake up.

He was an animal whisperer before the term was known.

His room was crowded with National Geographics and smelled like Old Spice.

He repeatedly dropped cigarette ashes into our Steinway.

He feared my Beatlemania.

He pretended to hate my mother’s meatloaf.

He drank up my father’s scotch.

He could have done stand-up comedy.

It is lately, as I approach the age when he died, that I think not only about what Bernie might have been, but what he was. To say that he overcame adversity is an understatement. Like many artists, he created beauty out of anguish. But also, in his quiet way, he transformed lives. When children asked him in horror what had happened to him, he would say that he didn’t listen to his mother when she told him not to play in the street. When adults stared, he smiled back. Without his fingers, he touched everyone he met. Still, I like to think of him that summer day back in ‘23, before the drowning, with John alive, and all possibility before him, running toward the waves, with his hands outstretched, reaching for the horizon.


Ona Russell is an educator, mediator and widely published writer whose story, “The (O)ther Kahn,”  was published in Philadelphia Stories and included in the first Best of Philadelphia Stories anthology.  She has just completed her third historical mystery, which will be out next year.

Judging a Story by Its Title

I confess that I frequently judge books by their titles. In some cases, this kind of snap decision works every time. Like, if the paperback features a woman wearing a hoop skirt with a plunging neckline pressed up next to a man wearing a white blouse with a sword at his side, I know I’m going to love it! Just kidding. It means I know I will not be reading The Pirate’s Bride, because that book falls into the bodice-ripper genre and I haven’t read any romances since I stumbled on a collection of them as a kid during a vacation at my aunt’s house. Those paperbacks pretty much ruined my expectations for how sex would unfold, though they did improve my vocabulary so that I was able to spell and define the word “tumescence” should anyone ask. But that’s a tale for another day.

Similarly, I find that when I’m reading stories submitted for publication to Philadelphia Stories I often have a quick reaction based solely on the title of a story. This does not mean that I don’t read the whole thing, only that I am put on guard when the title is “The Day I Died.” (Side note: please do not kill off your main character in a short story, particularly if you’re telling a first-person narrative. Don’t make me ponder how the story got told by a dead guy.)

Good titles are difficult to create, but the title of your piece is the first thing an editor sees when she’s looking at your work, and therefore a bad title can set your story on the path toward rejection. Bad titles make the reader suspicious that the writer doesn’t know what he is doing. For example, any title that seems completely obvious, like “Returning Home,” or melodramatic, like “Feelings of Sadness,” or too weird, as in “Sebastian and the Ginkledork Cherry Blossom Pie Aliens,” has me on the defensive before I even read the first sentence, “Today was the day that Sebastian felt the saddest even though he was on his way back home.”

When in doubt, keep the title simple. Lorrie Moore, in her latest collection of short fiction (Bark: Stories), has stories called “Bark,” “Foes,” and “The Juniper Tree.” Those are straightforward nouns that don’t confuse or give too much away. Stories in some of Moore’s other collections have titles such as “Thank You for Having Me,” “You’re Ugly, Too,” and “People Like That Are the Only People Here.” The common thread among these examples is that they turn out to have more than one interpretation. In this way, the best titles do the same thing that good stories do. They have both a surface meaning and a deeper one. For example, the title of Jhumpa Lahiri’s story “A Temporary Matter” refers to the fact that the electricity in a house will be cut off for a short time and also reflects the state of the marriage the story explores. Often, a reader will fully appreciate a story’s title only after reading the entire piece. And a really good title will connect with the ending in a way that feels justified but isn’t easily anticipated.

If you’re having trouble coming up with a title, try going back into the story and looking for key words or phrases that you like and see if they can hold the weight of the story. The title doesn’t have to do all of the work—it doesn’t have to explain the whole story, nor should it—but it does need to be well thought out. You have so few words in a short story—make the title count.