Writers of the Month: July 2017

Poet of the Month, July 2017


Ariel Endress

Ariel Endress is a traveller, engineer, shark-lover, dog foster mom, conservation business owner and writer. When she isn’t trying to pay the bills, she’s doing the things she loves. Writing & traveling are her two favorite hobbies, and she tries to make a difference while doing both. She calls herself a recycling enthusiast & through her conservation company, Conversation Ocean, she tries to inspire others to make small changes to help save the world. She writes because she feels herself needing an outlet to express her empathetic emotions for others, and to try to connect with people on a deeper level. She was very hesitant to submit to the journal as most of the things she writes never make it off the page & into the hands of anyone else; especially not strangers. She hopes to inspire people to not only write, but to share it with others! It’s an amazing feeling.

You can check out Conversation Ocean here:


I want people to remember my magnetism.

Isn’t that what we all want?

To form intimate connections,

Like strands of a spiderweb;

Lacing ourselves together with

Memories of inspiring laughter?

But you…

I want your face to light up

When you think of me.

I want the tears that drop

From your eyes, to be

Accompanied by laughter of simpler times.

I don’t want you to remember these tubes,

Or this cold skin.

I want you to remember me

catching you smile.

I want you to remember the wild,

unparalleled attraction.

Don’t remember hospital visits

& starchy white sheets.

Don’t remember poison running

Through my veins, and exhaustion on my face.

Don’t remember holding my hand

When I met my defeat.

Remember my magnetism.

Remember the way I could draw you to me.

One soft look would make your heart race.

Remember that, remember Me.



Prose Author of the Month, July 2017

Samantha Campbell

Samantha Campbell is a native of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and a current student at Duquesne University.  She has been writing fiction for as long as she can remember, and credits her inspiration to two pioneering female authors: Louisa May Alcott and Margaret Fuller.  At Duquesne, her focus is on Literary Studies in early American history as well as Global Politics. Her mom is her number one motivator, the eternal president of her fan club, and the person who really encouraged her love of books from the beginning.  She owes all of her writing and reading abilities to her mom.  The Liaison was borne of a writing assignment for a creative writing class and is Samantha’s favorite piece of fiction that she has written.  It represents her love of both literature and history, and continues to be one of her proudest accomplishments.  In addition to 1932 Quarterly, she has been published in :lexicon Literary Journal and on’s winter writing competition.  In the near future, Samantha hopes to spend some time teaching English language in Germany before continuing her education by pursuing a Master’s degree.  She occasionally publishes personal essays on Medium and enjoys talking about politics, movies, and much more.  Follow her on Twitter and Instagram @sammil3igh!


The Liason

Heat rose from the pavement in dense waves, warping and twisting the shoes of the passers-by hustling to their day jobs.  It was early, but the determined sun had been hard at work for hours now.  Businessmen sweating in professional suits and young collegiate men and women passed the concrete steps upon which a young woman was perched, cradling a notebook in one arm and erasing with the opposite hand.  I pulled into the open spot slightly down the road from the house, windows rolled down.  As I shifted the car into park and attempted to focus on my job, the girl glanced up and back down to her work.

Eyes closed, breathing steadied.

Eyes opened.

“Breakfast is ready,” called a woman’s voice from inside of the house.

“I’ll be right there,” said the girl, scribbling furiously as she furrowed her brow.

She stood after a moment, gathered her supplies, and turned to meet her father’s gaze as he stood in the doorway.  He reached out and grabbed her elbow, pulling her with careful force through the threshold.  Adjusting my hat, I turned on the radio only to be met, however ironically, with the voice of President Johnson, declaring that the war in Vietnam was not yet moot despite overwhelming opposition from the American public.  A glance to my right revealed, through a picture window, the kitchen of the family.  The girl, all dark hair and sullen eyes, sat across from a man I assumed to be her father as her a woman I supposed was her mother took a seat between the two.  One chair sat vacant next to the girl.  I heard snippets of the conversation as it drifted through the thick summer air, their voices undulating in volume.

“—behavior last night was unacceptable—,” the man said sternly, eyeing his daughter.

“—sharing the political opinions of dirty hippies—,” her mother added, averting her eyes to the food on her plate as she spoke.

I grimaced at the conversation and turned the radio off quickly.  Obviously, this was not going to be smooth for anyone involved.  My official papers sat scattered across the passenger’s seat, the most important one lay on the top of the pile.  Each official document was one delivery that I had to make today.  Gathering them, I sighed and buttoned my uniform, using the rear view mirror to check the quality of my work.

“Excuse me!” a woman’s voice pierced through my consciousness.  I tore my eyes from the mirror and looked straight ahead.  She stood in front of my car, hands on the hood, as a man on his bicycle skids to a stop behind her.

“Are you deaf?” the girl spoke in a conversational tone now; looking at me with familiar sullen eyes, shared by many sisters, mothers, and wives.

“Not quite deaf yet,” I said, “Can I help you?”

“If you could possibly give me a ride, that would be helpful,” she said, nearly under her breath.

“Sorry, miss, I’m afraid I can’t.  Government car.”

I opened the door and stood in the street, remaining close to my car.

She shrugged.  Cautiously, we continued to survey each other.  I felt a twinge of guilt in my stomach as my eyes caught sight of a button on the bag that she held to her side: Draft Beer not Students.  Another on the strap of the bag: give peace a chance.  I met her eyes and a flash of realization passed over her as she took in my Class A uniform and what my presence implied.  She maintained her stony visage for just a moment before her eyes were brimming with tears, and she left, turning on her heel and walking off down the sidewalk.  The bicyclist was nowhere to be found.

Stepping up onto the sidewalk, I took a few unsatisfying breaths of the sticky midsummer air.  My lungs felt starved.  Normally, I prayed that the family didn’t see me coming, as in most cases it only made the job harder.  This time, I hoped they saw me from their picture window or heard the exchange between their daughter and myself.  As I moved toward the doorway, again I heard the same speech by President Johnson, this time emanating from an abandoned radio balancing on the ledge of a window.

His words mingled in my head with the image of the girl’s button – give peace a chance. 

Climbing the stairs, I heard her parents’ conversation through the open window in the kitchen.  Plans for an upcoming trip, I guessed, or maybe a visit to relatives or a vacation destination.  I would never know, but it was pleasant to imagine.  Listening for a moment, their rapport comforted me greatly and reminded me of my own parents.  Quick, clever responses – their communication laying mostly in eye contact and the sort of mind reading only many years of marriage can perfect.  I rang the doorbell.

Their conversation halted.

Footsteps padded through the kitchen as I glanced down at the name on the top of the paper.  I didn’t like to know too soon, it felt too personal.

The door swung open, and terror flashed across their faces.  Tears stung my eyes as the woman wordlessly clung to her husband.  I passed him the Union telegram and began my army-issued speech: “Mr. and Mrs. Beck, at this time the United States Military…”

At times like this, I felt like an extension of the grim reaper – not the collector of the dead but his liaison to the living.  I had a stack of telegrams to deliver today.

Writers of the Month: June 2017

Poet of the Month, June 2017

Lindley Rose Yarnall

My name is Lindley Rose Yarnall, and I have spent the majority of my twenty-nine years as a walking contradiction. Hopelessly romantic and perpetually realistic, I use my writing to reinterpret life experiences and examine the what-ifs pinballing around in my brain. As hopeless a romantic as I may be, however, I’ve never been very good at writing happy, whimsical pieces. To borrow an Anne of Green Gables phrase, my best work typically emerges from analyzing my “depths of despair.” Even the most skillful of writers cannot change history, but I find it therapeutic to try. A lot of my poetry focuses on people in my life that I have somehow lost. It’s a way for me to say the things I wish I still could.

“Memory Thief” is my second poem published by 1932 Quarterly. Like the first, this piece is about my brother and how his death has impacted me. No matter what anybody says, there is nothing quite like losing a sibling; it leaves a void nobody else can fill. Inside jokes and childhood memories mean the most when you remember them with the person who lived through those moments with you firsthand. Although they are a poor substitute for the real thing, my poems are a way for me to honor that sibling bond, and to share my perspective of Jesse with other people – those who remember him like I do, and those who never had the chance to meet him.


Memory Thief

You are not who I remember
when I see you now.
You are
soft edges and
lost tomorrows,
a boy who thought that he could borrow
all the time in the world.

You are not who I remember
when you come drifting through my dreams.
You are
a gap in the frequency
and forgotten yesterdays.
You are blurry features
that drift away
right before I wake.

You are not who I remember
when I imagine time that we have lost.
You are
our father’s grief
and a memory thief;
the brightest smile I have known
and a void my mind can’t leave alone,
even when I sleep.

Prose Author of the Month, June 2017

Sonja Laaksonen

My name is Sonja Laaksonen and my experience with writing isn’t too extravagant, but not too boring either, I don’t think.

My past wasn’t necessarily ideal, and I fell into cycles of abuses to not just myself, but towards others as well. I won’t bore you with that dark-and-twisty backstory, but I feel as though it does influence my writing style.

I will tell you this:

The issue with being medicated is that you lose part of yourself in the process: you question how much of you was “you,” and how much was the “disease.” But, if this diagnoses is a part of you, doesn’t that make it “you?” Undesired behaviors (Well, deemed “undesirable” by society) and all?

My writing tends to be darker and more morbid, which lie hand in hand with some of my darker interests.

“Judgement,” is one of the lighter pieces of prose I have written, but still hints towards aspects of the human experience. The concept of guilt is made apparent, but there is some ambiguity over who exactly is experiencing it, if at all.

Should one feel guilty for what they’ve done if they themselves do not consider it wrong? Who has the right to enact judgment? Why?

These questions creep into my mind whenever I think of my personal existence or behaviors. Is who I am wrong, even if I do not feel bad about who I am? If I exist, how can certain parts of me be wrong?

Do I even know who I am? Do any of us? We are the trees, the soil, the stars. We are timeless energy, the universe in ecstatic motion. Perhaps we are all just here for a brief while, searching for, and waiting for ourselves. Perhaps it’s okay to “not know.”



When left in high sun in the midst of summer, it takes approximately 7-10 minutes for the interior of a standard car to reach upwards of 120 degrees. If the vehicle is dark in color, this time is shortened. A curator examines a similar formula when the fever of daylight exceeds 80 degrees during funeral processions: he will specifically place the polished metal or lavish wood finish of the coffin, cocooning a corpse, in an air-conditioned mausoleum or beneath a sheltered shadow for ceremony purposes. After the procession, the conductors and priests immediately separate the remains from the remainder of the ceremony’s company, and lower the casket to the depths of the raw earth before the sultry blaze of high noon gets the chance to replace the perfume of the elegant bouquets with the stench of decay.

His body convulsed rhythmically, quivering like a schoolboy pinning his first corsage, as his father hauled him from the pried open porta-potty. The boy’s head held in place by his father as his body coiled, his vertebras digging craters into the dirt. Unblinking eyelids revealed petrified pupils that constricted so much so that irises of sea foam blue dissipated any remnants of onyx. I stared: they were clasped open, unresponsive. A chipped tooth revealed itself behind parted, dusty cracked lips trembling tenderly. A faded baby blue t-shirt clung to his meager frame in a new hue of navy, beads of sweat clung to swollen, crimson blushed flesh. Once blonde hair singed together in saturated, disheveled bronze mats. Breathing rampant.

My hands clammy, eyes wide as his. My mother kneeled beside me, her frail fingertips clinging to my shoulder-blades.

“It’s not your fault,” his mother calls, on her knees, tear stained cheeks even with his tormented body, her hands shaking in unison with his frame and my own, stroking his decrepit visage.

“It’s not your fault,” my mother whispers.

In Anglo-Saxon culture, court officials woulds place a stone in a cauldron of water, which was then heated. The fire was removed and witnesses and the accused gathered around the bowl. In order to determine fault, the accused then had to take the boiling hot stone out of the cauldron, and carry it a certain distance. The impaired hand of said accused was then mended, wrapped delicately in sterile bandages. After several days, the wound was examined. If the wound was progressively healing, with no fester or infection, the accused was considered innocent and accepted back into the community, and by the moral eyes of God.

Lurking beneath the obscure canopies of towering maples, ash woods and pines was only us, illuminated by the dim glare of bisque ember flickering against the otherwise pitch landscape extending beyond into the forest’s abyss. My mother balances metal rods intended for marshmallows on the edge of one of the river stones, “It’s to kill the germs. Cleans the bad stuff,” she coos through the brisk windchill, the silver pokers boasting florid glows as the flames lap at the encased hardware. I extend my continuously trembling fist forward, the crackle of the torrid timber replaced with that of my harrowing howl, the thicket of woods stoic in response. My father scooped my minuscule torso from the flame, the few embers that managed to cling to his polished trench quickly evaporated into a modest smokescreen as he immediately dunked my right hand into the frigid cooler to his left, a thin film resembling tissue paper sliding from the bones and tissues of my paralyzed palm and coating the surface of the melted ice. The repugnant stench of scorched flesh mangled with that of charred hair, both visuals masked by the now choked flare exhibited from the makeshift fire-pit.

“Dante’s Inferno” opens on the evening of Good Friday in 1300. Traveling through a wood, Dante had lost his path and now wanders aimlessly through the forest. After attempting to climb a mountain guarded by three beasts, Dante returns to the dark wood to find Virgil. Virgil acts as Dante’s guide as the pair journey through Hell. Dante bears witness to the various punishments experienced by a multitude of sinners of various degrees. Whilst going deeper into the Seventh Circle of Hell, Dante meets an old patron, walking among the souls of those who were violent toward Nature on a desert of burning sand. The pair continue. By the end of the tale, Dante encounters a large, mist-shrouded form. He approaches it, finding it to be the enormous Lucifer, plunged deep into the ice that coats the ninth cycle. His body pierces the center of the earth, where he fell when God hurled him down from Heaven, unforgiven in the eyes of God.

“It wasn’t your fault…what happened last week..” the words slide off my mother’s tongue like venom, her thin lips pursed as her manicured tips clawed into my armpits, prying me up from the weathered floorboards and sitting me on the edge of the cabin’s sink. “That boy shot a fox. You didn’t mean to lock him in that porta-potty for so long…” her breath faltered, her eyes transfixed on any space besides the one I occupied. I clicked my light up sneakers together, the echo of the soles’ dried dirt collapsing to the oak boards below my dangling, bruised knees breaking the hollowed silence. She firmly toyed with my treated hand, the clatter of the first aide kit causing me to jerk momentarily as she fumbled for an ointment that stung. She slowly picked away at the layer of tape on the folds of the dressing, unwrapping my mummified limb carefully. As she peeled away the final compress, a layer of skin peeled with the gauze, revealing infected pus-infused blisters, stained rose.

Writers of the Month: May 2017

Poet of the Month, May 2017

Chelsea Brown

My name is Chelsea Brown and I’ve been writing for a long time.  However, I always write more consistently and better when I’ve suffered recent heartbreak- the silver lining, I suppose.  I recently had my heart damaged a bit and am also suffering through the effects of a different unrequited love so get ready for some quality shit.

I started a writing journey when I was 22 after being dumped by a “boyfriend” (because there’s no other label that quite sums up what we were) because he was in love with his best friend, a girl who had always hated me. I decided to go around and interview all of my ex-boyfriends and see what they had to say about me.  However, as a writer I have always struggled with consistency and this project was enlightening but hard to stay behind, so I started investing more of my time in poetry. 

“Science” was written about the love of my life- the one who got away- etc. and so on.  Most of what I write is about him and while that’s sad, it’s also excellent because the material is so endless it provides its own consistent tone to my work overall. I write often while driving (don’t do this- it’s not safe), before I go to bed, or at work.

When I’m not writing, I work full-time for a non-profit that helps support students in under-resourced schools.  I graduated from West Chester University with a degree in Women’s and Gender studies and Youth and Urban Empowerment Studies, so I’m insufferably feminist and constantly worried about the state of our world, and not fun at parties (but that’s more about social anxiety then being opinionated.)

My family means the absolute world to me and I would not be successful or anything, really, without them.  I also am particularly close with the folks I live with (Leona, Phil, John & James), and those who I don’t (Rileigh, Lauren, Chris, etc.) and love and appreciate them constantly for never letting me mount my high horse and instead knocking me down several pegs when necessary.

So even though heartbreak is horrible and it can be caused by any number of things beyond boys just being big old bags of dicks, use it to empower and fuel your writing, because heartbreak blows but being uninspired is way worse.



I’ve seen a lot of things regarding the body renewing its cells every 7 years.

It’s been about 3.5 year since I saw you.

This means that there is still half of you that I have touched and kissed that exists. My lips have danced across the cells that haven’t renewed yet.  Half of you still knows what I feel like.

But days pass and soon it will be 4 years and over half of your body won’t even know that some nights my skin wanted so badly to be an uninterrupted continuation of yours.

In some number of weeks, the majority of your body wouldn’t be able to recognize mine.



My cells renew as well.

And they’re forgetting you, too.

For more of Chelsea’s poetry, follow her blog: or her instagram: @Blackoutsandmakeouts


Prose Author of the Month, May 2017

Benjamin Rozzi

My name is Benjamin Rozzi, and my coming-to-writing story is probably significantly different than most and, then again, maybe not at all. At face value, I’m one of a multitude of pre-health hopefuls who didn’t quite fit the bill (if you listen closely, you can probably still hear the boom of the cannon echoing through the air). However, not everything is as it seems. I wish it were.

I was a science man for most of my life and had dreams of being a surgeon, and when I found out in my sophomore year at Washington & Jefferson College that my dreams weren’t the same anymore (and were only my dreams in the first place because of the idea of financial stability), I suffered from a massive identity crisis and subsequent spell of deep depression. To anyone who has ever experienced depression, I’m so unbelievably saddened that you had to go through that. I sympathize with you wholly, and I wouldn’t wish depression on my worst enemy.

But, then, I found creative writing and became empowered by words; and slowly yet surely, these words and the power that they held drew me out of my depressive state.

(That’s just a fancy way to say writing made me happy again.)

“Ten Minutes,” oddly enough, is the first piece of fiction I ever wrote—a little over a year-and-a-half ago at 3:30 in the morning on a Thursday night (or, rather, Friday morning) under the spell of McDonald’s black coffee. Granted, the version you see in print for the inaugural issue of 1932 is slightly different than draft number one (it now has fewer hyperboles/clichés), but the fact that this first baby of mine is my first national publication is justification for this new path I hope to walk in life.

As far as motivation for “Ten Minutes” is concerned, I wish I knew. But, perhaps my draw to writing darker-themed stories stems from my personal experiences, knowing that life isn’t as perfect as we would like to believe. I have since dabbled in writing on death and marginalized groups and mental health, just to name a few topics.

To all those who have supported me in my endeavors in finding myself again, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Look ma’. It seems as if I’m on my way.

Ten Minutes


Birds nestling in trees draped in auburn and goldenrod leaves—sunshine streaming through the gaps. A gentle breeze came whistling by, causing some of the browner foliage to fall to the earth below. Cigarette smoke from the designated zone pulled away with the wind—patients infectiously smiling at one another. Today is the day, the day we are finally taking our little one home. Claire.


Born 11:42AM on October 22 nd . Seven pounds, eight ounces. Twenty inches long. Her piercing squeal was reminiscent of Marie’s loud mouth—something all of the Smithton girls innately have. Each cry sent a lightning bolt down my spine, which coursed through my body and exited through my toes into the linoleum floor beneath my feet. But, when our eyes met, the tension between my wife and I subsided. Our daughter was here, and she was healthy. Claire.


I always associated the hospital with death row—a marginal amount of the populace rotting away as they walk their own Green Mile. All through the halls, sounds of coughing and somber moaning surface between beeps and squeaking cart wheels. However, today is significantly different. Today, as the automatic doors close behind us, I picture the gates of heaven closing and a cherub in Marie’s arms. Claire.


Luckily, Marie and I were the planning type, so our baby making an early appearance didn’t catch us off guard. After the news of the unexpected pregnancy, we kicked our asses into high gear. Or should I say, Marie kicked my ass into high gear, ordering me around. I always knew that gag-gift whip from her bachelorette party was going to backfire. By the end of the first trimester, I had already baby-proofed the house and had a new IIHS top safety pick sitting in the garage bay. Claire.


As ready as we were, nothing can prepare a new parent for putting the carrier in the car for the first time, which I failed to do until Marie’s water broke. “Damnit, Henry! I told you to get that done a week ago!” Marie exclaimed between her contractions. Now, with Marie silent in the front seat and our daughter asleep in the back, all of that seemed pointless—the nagging and the screaming and the fighting—because our sweet angel is going home. She’s finally going home. Claire.


Smooth roads are something for which West Virginia is not known, a fact I knew too well having worked for the Department of Transportation for the past few months. “I thought you were supposed to fix all these holes, not make them worse!” Something Marie doesn’t realize is the entire state is sitting on quicksand. No matter how many times you patch something, it’s going to come back—sometimes worse than it was before. Even parking lots are Swiss cheese. “I just need to make sure I don’t…” I begin to say before hitting a crater at the top of the street. “Shit. So much for the baby having an easy first car ride.” Claire.


“Henry, can’t you do anything right? I can’t even trust you to drive home without messing up,” Marie said. I know it’s difficult to believe, but Marie has redeeming qualities. She keeps the house clean, makes dinner every night, and respects my mother, which can be quite difficult considering Marie’s short temper; and—let’s be honest—my mother isn’t always the easiest person to get along with. Let’s just hope our daughter doesn’t inherit the short fuse. Claire.


Red rings began forming around the angel’s eyes from all the crying. I turn around in the driver’s seat and begin singing a lullaby to the bundle of fire, crackling raucously. “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. And, if that mockingbird won’t sing, papa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.” Marie chimed in, sarcastically, with a “Yeah, I’m sure,” probably referring to the fact that I couldn’t afford a proper engagement ring given the circumstances. In the few moments it took to glare at Marie contemptuously and glance back at our baby, the wailing had ceased, and all was calm once more. “Well, Marie. If this is a telltale sign of what parenting is going to be like, I think we’ll be just fine.” Claire.


Staring at my baby, I gently press the gas pedal to begin into the intersection. High-pitched screeches fill my ears. A truck hits us and sends us careening onto our side. Through my winced eyes, I caught glimpses of my surroundings. Glass shards glimmering in the same sunlight that was filling the gaps in the trees just minutes before. Sparks as friction brings our vehicle to a stop. A pacifier flies from the back of the car, rattles off of the dashboard, and rests just out of reach. Complete silence. And then, nothing but black. Claire.


Everything is hazy; reality is coming back to me in waves. The car is resting on the passenger side. The faint smell of gasoline fills my nose. “Marie? Marie, are you okay?” I see blood, forming a pool under her head. “Marie?! Answer me!” Why isn’t she responding?! But, wait…the baby…our daughter. “Claire, honey?!” Her arm is limp, hanging across her body. “Someone help!” I began screaming through coughs. The smoke filling the cabin is starting to grow more dense. But, just then, I heard the Smithton squeal and glanced quickly enough to see her hand clench into a fist. “It’s okay, baby. I’m here. Daddy’s here. Hush, little baby, don’t say a wo…” Blackness fills my eyes once more.


Frequently Asked Questions

Hey everyone,

It’s Layla, the Editor in Chief of 1932 Quarterly, and I’m here to answer some frequently asked questions for everyone who has been interested in how exactly the general literary journal process works.


How many people are involved in 1932 Quarterly?

There are roughly 25-30 associate editors. Then we have the Editor-in-Chief (me), the General Managing Editor, a Managing Editor of Prose, and two Managing Editors of Poetry. We have a Website Coordinator, a Managing Editor of Design, and a design team of roughly 4 associate design editors. We also have various other people who help solicit submissions and marketing, we work closely with other creative endeavors as well. So we are operating with a team of about 40 people.


Where are good places to go to find literary journals that are currently accepting submissions? 

DUOTROPE.COM!!! Seriously, is the best. It is very helpful.  Also, I’m currently a member of about five facebook groups for writers as well as a member of two different email groups. Here, people will post about which literary journals are accepting submissions. Once you start to get your foot in the door of this literary realm, it becomes very easy to find literary journals that fit your style.


How does the editing process work?

Editing works similarly in most places, but this is what we do at 1932. The poetry editors get a packet with all the poems in them and the prose editors get a packet with all the prose in them. There is no indication of the identity of the author on any of these pieces.  They are then asked to read them and rate them on a scale of 1-10. They can write as many or as little comments as they want on the pieces. We then take the average of all the rankings and we have a big meeting where we discuss all the pieces and people defend why -or why not- a piece should be accepted.


What happens if the editors want to change my work, but I do not want to change it? 

Unless it is a grammatical error in a some prose, we will never ask you to change your work. If you’re accepted, we will give you the opportunity to revise it before publication, but we will never ask you to change your work. We accept work as is, so if there is something we don’t like about it, we won’t try to change it to fit our style or preference. There will never be a conflict of the writers creative license vs. our personal preference.  I can say this is true for nearly every literary journal to which I’ve submitted as well.


How Many Submissions do you normally get?

Well, we’ve only had one reading period thus far, but we got over 200 submissions. I’ll keep you posted once this reading period begins!


How is 1932 Quarterly funded?

I pay for 1932 Quarterly out of my own pocket. Which seems intense, I know. Shortly we will be allowed to apply for grants, but currently I pay for everything. The price of shipping and some small things are offset by the revenue from copies we’ve sold, so it’s not all bad.


How frequently do people get accepted when they submit to literary journals?

I can only speak for myself, but for every 5-7 poems I submit, only 1 gets accepted. Unless I have a really good month, like in November I got three acceptances in 2 days. So it is discouraging but it is totally worth it.


Can you make a living having your work published in literary journals?

If you want to be homeless, sure. I’ve had quite a few poems published, but I’ve only gotten paid three times for a poem that was published. One check was for $30.00, the other check was $250.00 and another check was $3.00.  Most writers do this as a point of personal fulfillment so the fiscal aspect does not matter. So it’s nearly impossible to use this as a source of income, however writing your own chapbook or self publishing is an entirely different story.


Some Extra Pointers:

-Always read previously published pieces for each journal to which you’re planning to apply, to see if you fit what they’re looking for. Most journals have a very specific vision, so check out an older issue to see if you’d make a good fit.

-Making a account is the best thing you could possibly do. It keeps track of most of your submissions and it makes submitting super easy.

-It takes months to hear back from most journals so don’t think they forgot about you, you will always hear back, unless otherwise noted. So don’t worry!

-Don’t get discouraged. Rejections suck, but the acceptances make it worth it.


I hope this answered some of your questions, and if you have any more questions feel free to comment on our facebook page and ask. We still have a week left until our spring deadline so submit, submit, submit!



“First Amendment, my ass…” by Alessandra Jacobs

After graduation, I learned that writing is not just this intense academic pursuit. Writing is not only something you do to get graded on. Writing does not solely encompass the ages 5 to 22, and then you are off the hook. Writing is entwined in life; it is as necessary as speaking. In my post-college life, I write to-do lists, memos for work, post-its to my boss, Instagram captions and, Facebook statuses, more-often-than-not linking to a politically-charged article.

 The need for decorum in social media is seldom mentioned, and I didn’t even consider it until this recent political campaign and the dawn of a new era in free speech. Up until this point, I have never been very political or personal on Facebook or Instagram. My rule was: if I wouldn’t say it to a stranger, I wouldn’t post-it online. I still follow that rule, but I recently have had to add a few more stipulations in the wake of this new climate.

Recently, I had posted a link to an article on Facebook, a link from I would deem NPR a fairly reputable source, but hey, who am I to say? The article was titled: “Nonreligious Americans Remain Far Underrepresented in Congress”. I liked the article because it identified the fact that just one of the 535 members of Congress was affiliated as “nonreligious”. I considered that a topic worth exploring and was a fresh way of looking at the Congressional make-up. Oh wrong I was.

I say wrong, of course, satirically. A comment on my post from a non-friend surprised me. He had seen my status from a friend of mine liking it and adding it to her timeline; he , then, felt compelled to comment. I am always open to dissenting opinions, welcoming them even. Yet, I did not expect such aggressive and random disrespect. He questioned the validity of the article and the need of representation for the nonreligious portion of America. I was fine with his disagreement, but I was not fine with his response to my comment. His response was as follows:

I call them as I see them. Like or lump, your choice. Get your candidates up to run on your thoughts. After the polls close. Crawl home with your tails between your legs.

He had also proceeded to repost the article and called me an idiot in his repost (when someone reposts your article you get a little notification – not so wise on his part).  So I, of course, was not thrilled. I love a little political battle but not this type of petty nonsense. My initial reaction was to insult his small-mindedness, his political beliefs, his lack of education, and his rudeness. I wanted to answer in all caps, without spellcheck and all sorts of syntax error.

            I did, though, stop myself because I wanted this brief exchange to be productive. I calmed myself and gave a succinct and thought-out answer – at least to me:

No need to attack. It’s just an article written to express someone’s feelings. And I call it like I see it, and my opinion is just as valid as yours. Have a great night! And agree to disagree.

            I wanted the conversation to be of value, no matter how absurd two strangers fighting through Facebook statuses may be. He responded as such:

            Agreed, like your style, wish it could have been subject we both agreed on.

And that was that – two strangers battling it out online came to a respectful consensus. That is a rare result these days. I decided to write this on this particular because this is writing in its most basic and mundane form. This writing has the same value as a short story or poem you may create. I post articles on Facebook because I have passion for women’s rights and civil rights. I repost an article with a well-written explanation and defend it with statements and facts. My writing that I submit to literary magazines is of the same caliber that I respond to troll comments.

            That is the power of writing. It makes the mundane have value and influence. It can make you have said influence, be it of a positive or negative nature. I know I felt voiceless in this strange and overwhelming campaign. I took back my voice by finding legitimate articles (use your English 101 training for that) and posting them with a purpose. I didn’t, and still don’t, post articles to make a petty point or inundate peoples’ feeds with my brainwashed opinions. I need my ideas to have purpose.

            Society will continue to use social media as a professional and personal platform. Twitter is where many people find out what is happening in the world, moment by moment. I used to write every day without realizing it. I forgot that my notes to my boss on rough drafts and my twitter bio were still representations of me and my writing.

            I know that most of you reading this very sentence at least appreciate the art of writing, so remember the importance of daily writing. I love to use words to captivate people, and said words can have the power to have a stranger consider a world beyond the four walls of their skull.

I hope that the next time you find yourself in a Facebook tug-of-war, you consider that the comment you write has the same power, the same moving parts as “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief…” And allow your digital writing footprint to be as illustrious as the remarkable Charles Dickens.


Writing and Stuff pt 3: The Kori Williams Story

I read a number of books as a child, but I wasn’t introduced to actually writing creatively until sixth grade in English. We went through part of the year learning about Greek mythology, and one of our projects allowed us to create our own mythical God, draw how they looked, and write their story. I was awful at drawing as I was at writing back then, but the beginning of my mythical God, Sarah, opened up a world of possibilities for me. Her story was nothing too complex, but she was a hero, saving other Gods and mortals from death or fates worse. I think she had a power over fire, and she wore a fiery dress. It was so long ago, but it still makes me smile because I felt a sense of pride in my work.

However, my passion for writing didn’t really flourish until high school, where I made myself practice daily to get to where I am. I wanted to be a writer; it wasn’t my only passion, but I knew that I wanted it to be part of my life. The more I wrote, the more at peace I felt. This is definitely going to be cliché, but writing eventually saved me from myself and my surroundings.

Depression, as I’ve observed, is definitely a common trait among people who enjoy the arts, who pour their souls into what they’re creating, and I wasn’t immune to it. There was abuse at home, and we had moved so many times I felt a loss of friendship and connection. I felt a lack of control over myself, and my self-esteem fell lower than rock bottom. Of course, there was family I could turn to if I needed help, but I didn’t feel safe. Until the abuser left our lives, I felt imprisoned in my mind, screaming to do something about the situation, but knew even my voice didn’t have merit. She pushed me down until I felt I was nothing.

Some days, I looked at what I wrote and felt worthless. On those days, I couldn’t feel that sense of pride or purpose as I did when I was younger. That saying, “you’ll always be your biggest critic”, it is incredibly true. Looking back now, I was too hard on myself, and I know many writers have these same experiences. Don’t get me wrong—I had some good days, too. I saw progress in myself, and I felt happy with what I wrote.

Practicing, I realized, will only take me so far, and it will never give me that same satisfaction I had years ago. I still have to remind myself of that, because, eventually, you’ll have to take that leap of faith and start writing a story that matters to you, a story from the heart.

Writing from my heart, from my experiences, my dreams, and my wishes gave me the control I so desperately needed. I could create the character any way I wanted to. I could make them a superhero, like Sarah. I could give them what I wanted to see in myself, and I could give them a happy ending. I could give them lifelong friends and have them travel the world. Anything was possible. Once I realized that, I could feel that sense of purpose growing again, and writing has led me to do incredible things. I grew out of my shell, started to smile more, befriended many, and traveled.

My experiences, regardless of how painful the memories are sometimes, they allowed me to see who I am with huge amounts of help from my family. My grandmother, a wise and dearly loved woman, always stuck by my side. She inspired me to pursue an actual career in writing and never made me doubt myself. My father, whom I’ve always admired for never giving up on his own dreams, inspired me to never give up on mine. My brother and sister have always been by my side, and I would certainly not be the person I am today without their help. My mother Staci, one of the most caring people I know, for showing me what a family can be. The friends I’ve made, high school, college, from around the world, have shown the deepest connections can be from those who are far away. And the love of my life, as spontaneous as I am to travel and who shares the same love for food as I do, has shown even in the darkest of times, there will always be a light.

This is where I am today. While I only have one story published (soon to be in this journal, actually), I’ve had about five rejections. The first one is always the worst, but you become resilient on the second and so on until you are triumphant. You are your biggest obstacle, but you don’t have to overcome that alone. Once you realize that, anything is possible

Writing and Stuff Pt2: The Benjamin Rozzi Story 

My road to writing creatively began in perhaps not the most conventional manner. In fact, prior to my first semester as a college junior, the extent of my writing repertoire began and ended with class-assigned essays and lab reports. I always flirted with the concept of writing a book, but who has time for writing recreationally when you don’t even have time to breathe or eat lunch or what have you; and when I did have the time—as far as a plot is concerned—every stone I upended fell flat on the ground where I first found it.

However, what most people don’t know is I struggled pretty heavily with depression from the beginning of my sophomore year in college up until I found myself in my writing. I’ll be the first person to admit that a part of my depression was brought on by overreactions to personal situations, but another part—and the part that was far more substantial—was my rather sluggish realization of trying to be something I wasn’t anymore. As a chemistry major, I began falling into a miserable cycle of waking up—if I got any sleep at all that night—and going through a set routine, eventually to the point that the day of the week constantly escaped me. As I continued to push myself through a discipline that was pulling out what little life I had left within me, the depression became debilitating to the point that I felt crushed under an intense, yet nonexistent, weight. Getting out of bed in the morning was, perhaps, the biggest struggle. Lying in bed, wrapped in my makeshift blanket burrito, with nothing but darkness around me was an aesthetic I wore far too long; everyone knew I was self-destructing, but no one knew why because everyone saw me as I was before—the brainiac with dreams of being a surgeon.


To try to stray away from using platitudes, I won’t accredit writing with saving my life, but that creative writing class in the fall of 2015 was certainly a bright light in an otherwise dark existence. That same year, I made the brave decision to change my major to English and attempt to finish my degree in but a year and a half, something I am proud to say I am completely on track to do despite my late transition.


Since making that brave leap, I’ve found a lot of success. First, I was named a Content Creator for, eventually working to the point where I was brought on as a Contributing Editor for my community. Just a few days after finishing my creative writing class, I submitted a short story and three poems to my college’s literary journal, The Wooden Tooth Review, and all but one poem was published. Shortly after the end of my junior year, I had a few columns published in my local newspaper, Herald Standard, and I was named lead prose editor for The Wooden Tooth Review’s 2017 volume (for which I wrote a new short story and poem, which are being considered for publication). And, that’s when 1932 rolled around.


Although 1932 isn’t my brainchild, I still treat it as if it was. My official titles are Managing Editor of Prose and Social Media Coordinator, but I go far beyond what those positions entail. I pour every inch of myself that I can into making sure that it has a chance at being successful, not just because my name is on it but also because I know how much it means to Layla, who was brave enough to follow her dreams. Our first issue, which will be in print soon (shameless plug), houses one of my short stories—the first piece that I ever wrote. If that’s not a storybook ending to my struggles over the past few years, I don’t know what is.


As far as tips for writing are concerned, I have a few that—much like my story in finding creative fiction—are unconventional, but I try to employ them in every piece I write. The first is that you shouldn’t always give your work a fairytale-style ending. Life doesn’t always end as neatly as Disney movies portray, so you shouldn’t be afraid to capture the evils that we and others around us face. The second is that a blank screen isn’t your worst nightmare; it’s the beginning of something potentially beautiful. Don’t let the absence of words deter you from finding your own. And, lastly, don’t be afraid to use your own experiences to fuel your writing fire. People will respond well to your writing if they can feel emotion exuding from the page.


Dare to be creative, find inspiration in nothing, and make yourselves vulnerable.

Writing and stuff: the Layla Lenhardt Story

When I was seven, I wrote a screenplay inspired by the Hall&Oats song, Rich Girl. But before that, I was writing stories with the help of my mother. My mother raised me in a library and I found books and knowledge to be the most respectable thing. My mom made me memorize Poe’s Annabelle Lee before I could efficiently spell and that jump-started my love for memorizing and reciting poetry (I know more Sylvia Plath than Ted Hughes did), and ultimately, for becoming a poet myself. In middle school, I was a gigantic fan of the pyramid scheme called and I had many of my  “poems” “published” which basically meant I wrote some nonsensical, existential bullshit about the world was always moving and people’s lives were always ending and told me they’d “publish” it and I could buy the book for $80.00USD or some craziness like that. Through this, however, my infatuation with seeing my own words written in a book had been sparked. It wasn’t until I started smoking cigarettes (which I do no longer) in high school that my poetry had gotten better. I found things a lot more inspiring at that time -though the cigarette smoking was merely incidental. My biggest dream was to fall in love and it inspired two unpublished novels (we can thank my first unrequited love, Dr. Eric Emilio Casero), and many poems and short prose. My writing found a home on Xanga, and I was pleased by it.

It wasn’t until I actually fell in love that I realized I could no longer write about love. My words no longer could explain love or give it justice. And I’ve continued to struggle with this quandary since then when writing fiction. In the next eight years, a lot of things happened. I believe life is a series of vignettes, each one completely separate from another, and I have volumes of them, all which inspired my writing. I fell in love with my honey-haired first love during a Sufjan Stevens song while counting cracks in the sidewalk, I lived in, and subsequently, got deported from the UK, I travelled the world with a man with a gambling addiction, I did some drugs and played some music, and, despite all odds, I moved to the Midwest with the person who has inspired most of my writing. My writing had a lot of inspiration, but it was still really hard to write at times.

I never got much recognition for my writing because I never looked for it. Save for my xanga friends, my college professor and Isreali author, Pearl Abraham was really the only one to outwardly recognize my writing and I look to her as a really special and important influence; I mean, she showed me Kate Chopin. This lead to a series of professors helping me become the writer I am today. Andrew Mulvania followed Pearl, and finally it was Dr. George David Clark. Dr. Clark chose me to be the editor-in-chief of our college literary journal, The Wooden Tooth Review, and I loved every minute of it. It was four AM and I was drinking bottom shelf whiskey from an orange Starbuck’s mug, while looking over the poetry submissions, totally exhausted, and I said aloud to no one specifically, “Oh my god, I love this. I need to do this with my life.” And I meant it, I was a law school drop out who really had no idea what I was going to do.

So that’s how 1932 began. I moved to the Midwest from a fast paced, east coast city and I was lonely and bored and drunk in a swimming pool. It was then that I realized I could take control of my life and do whatever I wanted to do. And I wanted to make a literary journal in hopes that I could share the feeling of pride and fulfillment with others, in hopes that I could bring people together. And it has been truly incredible.

In my time after college, I have gotten three poems published in literary journals and I’ve gotten about 13 rejections. Being a poet is basically constant rejection littered with an occasional acceptance. And while waking up on a Monday morning to a rejection letter absolutely blows,  that one acceptance letter will lift your spirits higher than e.e. cummings’ hot air balloon and honestly, it will inspire you to write that much more. So I guess the moral of this story is never give up and it’s okay to feel discouraged, but there always will be that acceptance letter just waiting around the corner for you, and it makes it all worth it.  If I’ve come this far, anyone can.


Update on Inaugural Issue

Within the next week or so, our managing editors of poetry and prose will be reaching out to those who submitted! We’ll be sending acceptance letters and potential edits back shortly! Our inaugural issue is really shaping up to be something spectacular! Prepare for it at the very end of January. We had such an overwhelming and unexpected amount of submissions all of which were phenomenal and I am so thankful for every single person who has helped in any way, no matter how small.

I love you all and I’m so excited!