Dear [PANK] Readers & Writers,
I hope this dispatch finds you all well or well enough.
I broke my arm, badly, this fall. Although I’m on the mend, combined with the usual messiness of life and love, I’ve found myself more reflective, maybe even a little maudlin and nostalgic (does that add up to depression? it probably does, doesn’t it?), these past weeks. Apropos to you, readers and writers, I’ve been musing lately that founding and running a literary magazine has been, for me, a little like having a family with kids. [PANK] is part mine, has some of my DNA in it, looks and acts a little bit like me. But as it has aged over the last seven years it has become increasingly clear that this thing I helped create is its own unique entity autonomous of me, alive in its own throbbing skin, and out running amok amogst you all. I can still push [PANK] a few degrees left or right, but it has come into its own strange and particular being and viewpoint, with its own agenda and voice, its own peculiarities and eccentricities. And as I continue to watch this thing grow into whatever it will eventually become, and although I sometimes no longer recognize myself in my own creation, my love for it continues to mature and complicate. It’s a beautiful thing, and I’m grateful to you all out there in the void for helping me shepard it along, helping me make [PANK]’s evolution happen. Continue reading