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Mary aimed a flashlight at each Emily Henry novel at the Block Island B&B but Great Big Beautiful Life had . . . vanished.

“Mutilation”

When a friend returned Jamal’s Crying in H Mart, pages were coffee-stained and thoughts other than his own were scribbled in the margins.

“Abandoned Area”

The debut author read her work to a dozen empty folding chairs and the bookstore calico. 

“Jump Scare”

Susan leaped off of the public bus to avoid hearing two passengers spoil the end of The Girl on the Train.

“Creepy Kid”

Perched on Chiara’s first edition Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, a pink-cheeked toddler ate pasta Bolognese. 

“Cursed Object”

Edmond’s e-reader was always running out of charge and now it refused to download Stephen King’s Never Flinch.

“Paranormal”

Something was removing all the Oxford commas from Professor Johnson’s copy of Dreyer’s English. 

“Mad Scientist”

Gladys tolerated Stan’s ChatGPT love letters, but then he showed her his new novel . . . written by AI. 

“Final Girl”

Babette was the only one in her book club who couldn’t get through Where the Crawdads Sing.

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Given quarterly to a Southern-born limericist who lives in (note: not “on”—see our FAQ) the Arkansas River. Residents must live underwater in Colorado, Kansas, Oklahoma, or Arkansas. Must be named Dave (note: not “David”—see our FAQ). 

The George R. Herman Award 

The George R. Herman Society of Altoona, Pa., invites fiction writers, nonfiction writers, and poets to send thirty pages of work that directly honor the life of George R. Herman, a Blair County resident. Please submit your George R. Herman–based work by May 25, 2015. Prize: $50,000. Entry fee: $90. Judge: George R. Herman. 

Award for Excellence in Writing and Parenting

Seeking parents of one or more children under the age of five who demonstrate excellence in both writing and parenting. Given annually to no one because nobody with children that age is any good at either. 

Aging Teen Grant

Aging teenagers with five or more years’ experience in the art of reverse graffiti are welcome to apply for 1st- ($1,500), 2nd- ($500), or 3rd-place ($300) prizes. Applicants should submit a resume, ten images of current work, and definitions of what they think “aging teen” and “reverse graffiti” mean. (We’re a little fuzzy ourselves.) Nobody has won—or applied for—this grant, and it’s a good thing because we ran out of funding in 2006. 

Baltimore–Pittsburgh “Interesting” Grant 

The City of Pittsburgh awards $300 annually to one fiction writer who lives in the Baltimore-metro area but roots for teams from Pittsburgh—preferably because “it’s a long story, but my dad grew up in Pittsburgh, and . . .” Please provide a description of your allegiance to Pittsburgh teams in the “bio” section along with an author photo (must be wearing a #87 Sidney Crosby Penguins jersey and a mustard-yellow Willie Stargell–era Pirates hat). 

JoAnn Fabric Residency 

Awarded to anyone of any artistic discipline (need not be fabrics) who can squat at the mostly empty desk with a single piece of cobalt yarn and scary pair of orange scissors in the back of any going-out-of-business JoAnn location and pursue their art for as long as they can before Brigitte passes by a third time and asks if they need any help. Not available at this time because somebody’s already sitting there, but maybe try the dressing room in T.J. Maxx? 

The One Where You Don’t Have to Reside in a Certain State

This $1,500 / month grant will be awarded to a poet, memoirist, or fiction writer from any state in the U.S. who shows your-level of competence in writing and doesn’t even necessarily have any qualifications except liking to write and talking about other residencies they’ve been to. Applicants can just sort of send us a loose email about wanting the award. Deadline: yesterday. 

The Don DeLillo Prize

Tired of restrictions on writers’ grants? The Antioch Foundation of Washington, D.C., awards $150,000 annually to a fiction writer, nonfiction writer, memoirist, playwright, or poet living in the United States, Mexico, or Canada whose work—even loosely—reflects the values and style of award-winning author Don DeLillo. Send us five pages of any genre written within the last twenty years. No entry fee. Must be Don DeLillo. 

The “Jack Kerouac Experience” Residency 

Scraping the bottom of the barrel? Remember, your aunt Winnie still has that guest room you can write in, like Sal Paradise in On the Road. But unlike Paradise’s aunt (who was based on Kerouac’s mom), Aunt Winnie is intensely interested in your writing—and, like, always home. Think about it, though. Could be good, actually. Update: She just leased it to a grad student. 

The Hoboken “Your Apartment” Residency

You still have your apartment, right? And isn’t your apartment a sort of residency in itself? All it entails is you sitting in a chair or at a desk and trying to write something. How is that different from “unemployment”? It isn’t! But hey, any residency’s better than no residency, right? 

MacDowell

I mean, you can apply . . . Anybody can apply . . . 

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We regret that your story does not meet our current needs—much as we apparently do not meet Mandy’s current needs. We wish you luck placing this piece elsewhere. We also wish Mandy would give us one more chance. We suppose we don’t always get everything we wish for.

Sincerely,
The Editors

Dear Writer,

Thank you for sending us your poetry. Please know we have fully considered your work. We have also fully considered all our old text conversations with Mandy. We see now that we probably came across as overly eager. Our friend Derrick says we should use less capitalization and punctuation in our messages, so as not to look “uptight.” But Mandy knows we’re an editor. Does Derrick think Mandy would be impressed by us being bad at our job? Not that we’re prescriptivists—we believe in original expression over adherence to grammatical “rules.” But sending a “u up,” as Derrick suggests, feels crass. Anyway, we’re not accepting these poems.

Best, 
The Editors

Dear Writer,

“We appreciated the opportunity to review your submission; unfortunately, it is not a right fit for us at this time.” 

That’s the rejection we just got for our hybrid narrative, “Nor/Mandy Invasion,” and while we’re not upset, we do find the phrasing odd. “A right fit?” It sounds hillbilly-ish to us, like “These britches ain’t a right fit, Paw.” It’s fine, though. We’re fine. 

As for your piece, we have decided against offering publication at this time. See how professional that sounds compared to “not a right fit”? So that should be some consolation.

Regards,
The Editors

Dear Writer,

Thank you for your interest, but your writing is not a fit for our magazine. 

Actually, “fit” by itself still sounds wrong. Is it us, or does “fit” almost imply something sexual? Sorry, we’re in a strange place emotionally. We’re going to take a pause and finish this rejection later.

Cordially,
The Editors

Dear Writer,

We are unable to include your flash fiction in our upcoming issue. This is not a comment on the quality of your writing. 

It obviously is, though? That’s such a lie, like when Mandy said that we were a great person, but she wasn’t looking for anything serious. Meanwhile, word has it she and Derrick are pretty serious.

Respectfully,
The Editors

Dear Writer,

Unfortunately, your essay was not among the pieces we selected during this reading period. Many authors of original and well-crafted pieces will receive this letter, and you are also receiving it.

What if we sent Mandy our hybrid narrative? Super casually, like “Haha, look at this random thing we totally wrote as a joke”? Is that a crazy idea?

Casually,
The Editors

Dear Writer,

Thanks for the look, but we’re afraid we’ll have to pass. As writers ourselves, we know how much time goes into one’s craft. For example, one can pour one’s life’s blood into a piece of hybrid writing that combines prose, poetry, song lyrics, animation, NFTs—a real Gesamtkunstwerk—only to have another person respond with a two-line email about how they “don’t really get this experimental stuff, but good for you, being creative.” And then one sees that person’s Instagram story where they’re out with Derrick at a glow stick party at the trampoline park. And Derrick has posted a snarky comment alluding to one’s very vulnerable work, even though one did not give permission for it to be shared with said ex-friend Derrick. Then one remembers that people can see who looks at Instagram stories, so one posts a thumbs-up emoji like it’s no big deal and one isn’t dying inside. And one resumes reading literary submissions alone, which one has done ever since the whole masthead quit because they felt “disturbed” by one’s crying during staff meetings. In conclusion, hopefully this piece will find the perfect home, like Mandy and Derrick found each other.

–The Editors

P.S. Please subscribe to our newsletter. It’s all we have.

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Given that  the premise of a dating show is to turn love into a competition—demonstrable and quantifiable, able to be won or lost—this may come as no surprise. Such demonstration requires a reliance on romantic tropes: flowers, candles, fireworks, and—you guessed it—poems. What better way to prove your love but compare it to a summer’s day? 

But as both poet and longtime lover of reality TV myself, the tendency has raised some questions for me. For instance: who are these people? Have these contestants been poets all along, their writerly souls lying dormant until at last awakened on Love Island or some such place? Or is it all a well-meaning veneer, and the poet in question ceases to be a poet once they secure the object of their affection? 

By looking at the distribution of poems per reality series, as well as analyzing some key examples, we might uncover something about the nature of love—or, at least, answer one critical question: does love make poets of us all?

The Stats 

Since 2012, roughly 42 poems have been written by reality dating show contestants, spread over this randomly, but widely, selected sample. Though it appears some shows have significantly more poets to their name, this is primarily due to more seasons and spin-offs. On average, poems appear at roughly the same frequency on each of the selected shows.

But who, exactly, are these poets? 

(Note: the following charts don’t include nonbinary, transgender, or other non-cisgender identifying individuals. Not, of course, because they don’t write love poems, but due to the cisnormative, heterosexual structure of nearly all reality dating shows that results in a lack of representation.)

When we breakdown the poets by gender, male contestants are found to be far more prolific than their female counterparts. 

Now you may be asking yourself, how does this compare to the gender distribution of poets in the United States at large? 

Not only are we currently a more feminine poetic society, but this number has held steady since around 2010.

When we compare these numbers to our reality series, the difference is frankly striking: 

 Why such discrepancy? This is due to something I like to call The Romeo Complex. 

The Romeo Complex

The Romeo Complex is the idea that, in a setting of heightened reality, when confronted with a forbidden object, man will attempt to secure his desire through poetry—an act he believes will demonstrate both his romance and intellect—only so he can throw it all out the window to sleep with her (or, in more extreme cases, die for her) at the first possible opportunity. 

How to Identify a Romeo? 

• Often employs rhyme. 
• Wants what (whom) he can’t have.
• Excessively dramatic about his last break-up 
• Quick to marry. And to say “I love you”.
• Courts his love through a watery veneer (see: figures below). 

But what do we make of his poetry? Let’s take a closer look at some examples. 

The Poems

Our first subject is Izzy from Love Is Blind season 5, the creator of the poem “Why I Love You.”

Izzy’s meter is fairly irregular, emphasized by the amount of feminine endings he employs. (Note: a “feminine ending” is when a line of poetry concludes on an unstressed syllable. This type of ending often signifies uncertainty or otherwise calls attention to itself, as in Hamlet’s famous line to be or not to be, that is the question.)

It may be a simple side effect of the name “Stacy” that the syllables fall this way. Nevertheless, we might question what it means about his love that nearly each line falls on an uncertain, dangling, syllable. (Spoiler alert: Stacy & Izzy do not end up together…)

Let’s turn this lens on “An Introduction,” a poem by Jonathan on The Golden Bachelorette, Season 1.

Jonathan starts off fairly regular and in a more typical poetic tradition. However, by the end of his second stanza, the main meter of his poem is no longer iambic, but anapestic (something more commonly encountered in a Greek epic than a modern love poem). While he engages with some internal rhyme, his conclusion puts rhyme above emotion, ending on a superficial observation about the poem’s object (Joan)’s looks. 

His rhyme, however, remains romantic. Jonathan’s poetic efforts are clear. His priorities or intentions in the relationship, less so.

Our next poet is Miguel from Married at First Sight Season 15, who penned two poems, each untitled.

Miguel says it best himself: they’re better with a beat. 

He writes more in the tradition of rap or slam poetry than the lyrical greats. This is to say: his sense of internal rhyme is top notch, even if that’s the only thing truly happening in these works. 

Most notable here is that these poems are not an expression of love so much as a gesture meant to elicit love, or validation. The televised lover gives a poem sometimes as a gift, and sometimes as a wish to be seen. 

Now we’ll be looking at our first woman poet: Stacy from Love Is Blind Season 5, the recipient of Izzy’s previously discussed poem, “Why I Love You.”

Stacy is one of our finest poets, and her response to Izzy’s poem is what some might call a modern masterpiece. The rhyme is constant, the intent is pure, the pay-off is golden. Stacy’s poem reads more as a limerick, in part due to its meter and, in part due to its playfulness. 

This poem is more a gesture of mirth, and succeeds only by not taking itself too seriously. 

Last but not least, let’s dive into “I Just Hope I Don’t Vomit on Your Shoes” from Joan of The Golden Bachelor Season 1.

Joan, a teacher, is, perhaps, our most formally consistent poet.This is metrically wavering at times, but not erratic, and the assuredness of her rhyme seals it all up. That said, Joan’s poem professes academic prowess while obviating any true or more vulnerable expression of feeling.

This is to say that, sometimes, the televised lover leans on the poem as a crutch—a thing which holds the auspice of romance, while not necessitating any real spilling of the gut. All in all, a lovely effort from Joan. 

Conclusion

To return to our original question: does love make poets of us all? No.

Is what we see on reality television actually love? Also no.

What have we learned here today? Nothing.

We’ve just analyzed some bad poems. And given some Romeo’s the time of day.

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Literary fiction will have the title in Helvetica along with amorphous shapes in shades of that year’s Pantone color. 

Genre fiction will have a little cutout showing the face of either a wizard or a rakish duke. It opens to reveal the whole picture, and they’re standing in the snow. 

2. Contemplate the book’s central questions.

Literary fiction asks: 

• What more can be said about humanity and society, really? 
• Should this novel perhaps have been a short story instead?
• Will my book club notice if I SparkNotes this one?

Genre fiction asks:

• How do so many vampires get onto public school grounds?
• Should they just replace all police detectives with plucky grandmothers? 
• Why didn’t Regency-era inns ever have more than one available bed?

3. Ask, “How does this engage with our reality?” 

Genre fiction, with its over-the-top characters and scenarios, offers an escape from real life. Literary fiction, with its unflinching honesty, confronts it.

However, certain variables may apply, as shown in the example below:

4. Analyze the main characters.

If the protagonist is a man with a job related to publishing, that’s literary fiction, and he will spend the novel lamenting the profound things he could write but doesn’t. If the main character is a woman with a job related to publishing, that’s genre fiction, and she will spend the novel buying shoes and never thinking about writing at all. 

5. Interpret the symbolism. 

With literary fiction, the reader can ascribe any meaning to the text because the author is either too dead or too busy working multiple adjunct jobs to argue. With genre fiction, the reader can ascribe any meaning to the text because the author already wrote eight more books this year and no longer remembers what The Rakish Martian Vampire Duke is about.

6. Consider other determining factors:

7. Try the process of elimination.

There are defined types of genre fiction: romance, mystery, fantasy, western, horror, science fiction, historical fiction, AP Historical Fiction, Calculus fiction, P.E. fiction, chick lit, kid lit, lamb lit, baby armadillo lit, cozy mystery, itchy-scratchy mystery, Jane Austen retellings, smutty Jane Austen retellings, novelty books about cats, novelty books about Jane Austen, novelty books about smutty cats, dystopian fiction, dystopian Jane Austen retellings, books where adolescents get sorted into categories, books where strangers are secretly angels / spies / Santas, and books that reveal the one true secret to getting rich (the latter may be labeled “nonfiction,” but come on).

Now, if your book doesn’t fit into any of these categories, chances are you’re holding a novel in which a man eats a fancy little cake and ponders his existence for five thousand pages. That’s literary fiction.

8. Reflect on the ending.

Genre fiction tends to neatly tie up every loose narrative thread; this is satisfying to audiences who read for entertainment. Contemporary romance in particular will end in an HEA, which stands for “Happily Ever After.” Literary fiction is more open-ended and ambiguous. Truly brilliant literary writers will shock the reader out of complacency by ending a work abruptly, even in the middle of a

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It’s been an amazing three years and I’m sorry to have to do this, but I think our relationship has run its course.  

The fireworks in the beginning were explosive. I couldn’t get enough of you. Like a besotted word nerd, I looked forward to our daily dates on the subway, at Starbucks, in the loo, and in bed at night. You are wonderful. Smart, funny, entertaining – even educational. You should know you did nothing wrong. It’s not you, it’s me. I have the attention span of a Gen Z-er mindlessly scrolling through TikTok. And when Spelling Bee and Sudoku winked at me, how could I resist?

This letter may not come as a surprise. I’m sure you’ve noticed our skipped lunch dates and lapsed streaks these last few weeks. I even tried playing your “hard” version hoping it would revive my waning passion, but I’m afraid I found it more annoying than arousing.

When our meetings dwindled from daily to once a week, then down to once a month, and then to nothing, I  knew our love affair was over. And no, it had nothing to do with my husband. He and I have an open relationship. He spends way more time with the New York Times Crossword than with me and will happily while away a lazy Saturday afternoon just staring into those big beautiful squares. My trysts with you, however, only average about three minutes. And while this is absolutely not the reason we’re over – I appreciate quality over quantity – I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t longing for more.

You must also remember we agreed to keep things casual. You are loved by millions yet I never let jealousy get the better of me. Being greeted every morning to my friends bragging about their time with you, posting their winning scores on Facebook and gushing all over you until I wanted to gag wasn’t easy, but I hung in there.

I stuck by you through thick and thin, even when you sold out to that mercenary behemoth of a newspaper that didn’t keep track of our scores just to rope us into buying a subscription. I get it. You were number one and that stuff goes to your head. And who couldn’t use the money? Sure, I was heartbroken over the betrayal and felt manipulated when I caved and bought a subscription to keep our relationship alive, but I forgave you anyway. I would’ve done anything for you. You were my drug of choice. I craved you more than Scrabble, and you know how I feel about Scrabble.

I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding someone else. Everyone loves you. And let’s face it, most long relationships fizzle eventually. C’est la vie. But I have absolutely no regrets. I’ve learned a lot from our time together – like every five-letter word in the English language, or how to use “rainy” and “house” as starting words so you have all the vowels. And I’ll never forget our good times. Getting your answer in two tries (one doesn’t count, it’s just luck), beating my friends and making them as jealous as a gang of mean girls crushing on a hot quarterback with a perfect LSAT score, was one of the best feelings in the world. I’ll cherish it forever.

I wish you the best of luck and hope we can still be friends. An occasional breakfast or lunch would be nice. You should meet Spelling Bee and Sudoku sometime. They’re a lot of fun, and they last a lot longer.

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The Candidate by Cormac McCarthy

McCarthy’s novel moves slowly, like Biden. The gray narrative follows his struggle to determine if stepping down from his candidacy is the right decision. Short sentences help the 81-year-old President get through his thoughts.

Trump I, Part III by William Shakespeare

Donald Trump’s overconfidence and recklessness make him a truly Shakespearean protagonist. Heightened language suits his strange soliloquies, and iambic pentameter makes his words surprisingly comprehensible. Despite the inaccurate plot, audiences are captivated by the drama.

The Laughing Warrior by Margaret Atwood

Kamala Harris aims to save a dystopian nation where women don’t have the right to bodily autonomy. Her opponent claims that if he wins the presidency, citizens will never vote again. Clearly, Atwood has a wild imagination.

Material Truth: Stories by Jhumpa Lahiri

In each short story, a different voter faces a shocking reality, including a Project 2025 supporter who learns that the agenda would ban pornography, a liberal arts college student who purchases a camouflage hat, and a couch salesperson who confronts customer JD Vance.

Say It to My Face by James Baldwin

A woman navigates racism at her “Black job” and homophobia in her family. She’s excited to vote for Kamala, who knows what it’s like to be marginalized. When “DEI candidate” becomes a euphemism for the N-word, she supports her candidate by doing a silk press with a round brush. 

Courtesy and Civility by Jane Austen

Affluent white women gingerly discuss politics, attend a whites-only Zoom call, and raise millions of dollars for Harris. Free indirect discourse reveals that many of them are anxious about their vote until they hear Vance disparage “childless cat ladies.”

Independence by Toni Morrison

An unaffiliated moderate remains undecided between candidates. She first considers trivial factors—like Trump’s raised-fist photo and Megan Thee Stallion’s performance—but ghosts, memories, and identity turmoil urge her to contemplate her values and determine her beliefs.

To Be Young and Free by Zora Neale Hurston

As the nation crumbles, Gen Z voters enjoy dancing to “never-Trump guy” remixes on TikTok and posting images of Tim Walz on tampons. The authentic dialogue includes phrases like “Kamala is brat.” Critics call the book “unserious” until realizing its impact much later. 

To The White House by Virginia Woolf

Through stream-of-consciousness narration, Trump grapples with the concept of mixed-race identity, while Kamala daydreams about inauguration. In epistolary sections, fundraising emails claim Walz will “unleash HELL ON EARTH” and press releases ask, “is Donald Trump ok?” 

A Story of a Strained Country by Charles Dickens

Dickens needs more than 1,000 dense pages to recount the summer. He focuses on political issues—a fresh angle—instead of coconut emojis. Still, the novel amuses readers with vivid character descriptions, masterfully portraying Trump and Vance as “just plain weird.”

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