Editors’ Letter: A Safe Somewhere to Run to

It’s been nine months since we published our last issue and in the time it takes to complete one academic year, or grow a new life, the world has continued to transform. Nine months ago there was still enthusiasm for what might be achieved in this space away from normal; there were aspirations toward better selves and more fulfilling lives, closer families and more authentic relationships, and through it all, constant reminders to be gentle with ourselves and others; the understanding that “surviving a global pandemic is a collective trauma,” and a recognition of the loneliness, fear, and hurt in getting by day-to-day in this particular space in time. 

Nine months later, for many of us there is the daily grind of a new normal, in which “getting used to it” can sometimes feel like a personal failure. Within the hopefulness of a vaccine and a new administration, there is also the soft blend of fatigue and desperation, and for us, still, the innate desire to escape. In different ways, each one of us has longed to run from our lives this past year, with the only thing stopping us being the realization that there is nowhere safe to run to. 

Once, during all of this, we came together, roamed a forest of burnt orange, and believed in each other long enough to keep moving forward. Like everyone, this past year we built new lives in the wreckage of our former ones: we gave ourselves over to love, got hurt, built community among other writers and dreamers, retreated into the hollows of our own desperate loneliness, hardened ourselves, softened ourselves, lost and gained pounds and pounds of temporary flesh, cut our own hair, adopted dogs, celebrated November, holed up in December, and welcomed this new year with all its promises. 

But as this era drags on—missing the past, stuck forever in the present, and with no guarantee for the future—we’ve been served a reminder that there never really was a guarantee in the first place. So, throughout this year of global and personal transformation, we’ve changed The Hunger, too. Shortly after publishing our last issue, we decided to grow our own expectations of what this venture could be, and expand outward this community of writers, artists, and readers that we have so proudly built. In Summer 2020, we launched our first ever Tiny Fork Chapbook Series Contest, now with four titles published and forthcoming in 2021 under the brand-new label of The Hunger Press. From November to January we held our first ever Winter Poetry Contest, judged by powerhouse poet Diamond Forde, with the phenomenal winning piece by Roseanna Alice Bowell featured in this issue. In just a few weeks, we will be holding our first ever Spring Prose Contest, judged by the indomitable Jackson Bliss, with submissions opening on March 1. And finally, after nearly four years, nine issues, four chapbooks, and thousands of submissions, we are proud to announce that we will be accepting all future submissions through our brand new Submittable account. Even with all these changes, we’re still looking ahead, finding new ways to grow and honor the community we’ve built with you all: our next goal is to offer payment to all writers and artists featured in The Hunger by 2022. 

It is easy right now to get caught up in the contradiction of perpetual sameness and relentless uncertainty that defines life for billions of people across the globe. It is harder to remember that, in some cases, we are only as trapped as we feel. In the end, all we have is adaptation; lucky for us, the human species is relentlessly good at adapting to whatever we’re given, for better or worse. Things are changing here at The Hunger, just like they are changing for each of us individually, and as part of the collective. And whether that change is a quiet whisper inside of you, or a proud pronouncement to the world, we choose to honor the bravery in forever trying.

For us, there is no reminder of this more glorious than the writers and artists who continue to create their way into existence, and who choose expression as mode of transformation. We are especially excited to share with you this robust issue, bursting at the seams with new truth, and howling in all the ways we have come to love and expect from The Hunger. 

As we near the one-year anniversary of everything changing, we hope you’ll join us here, in the present, where the work speaks for itself, reminding us of all the wondrous shades of aliveness still left to revel in, if only we take time to look.



Erin & Lena
Editors & Co-Founders