Kathy Fish is one of my favorite writers of short short fiction. I hope to meet her one day and tell her as much in person, to hug her and try to rub some of her magic onto myself. In my first shaky months around these parts I reached out to Kath and she said yes and yes and yes again. More, I admire her humility and restraint. She is a gentle and gifted presence among us.

Here she is, under the glare.

–Ethel Rohan

Writing-wise, where are you now?

It is never a nice, straight line for me. I have these periods where I hardly write at all. And then that painful period ends and I’m productive and happy for about three solid months. I think I just live for the productive times and endure the rest. I’m just coming out of a down time now and it feels great.

Writing-wise, where are you going?

I have a new chapbook I may call “Fine Girl” or “Foreign Film” coming out from Willows Wept Press in the distant future. Also, I am working on a novella in flashes built on a sort of nonlinear, mosaic structure. I am trying my hand at writing some one-act plays. I’d love to eventually publish a full-length collection of my flashes and short stories, but I am extremely picky about what goes out to the world, so it may be awhile.

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Let’s talk fruit and veggies. I get mine just up the street at Frutería Miryan, where a week’s worth of produce — about half a kilo each of bananas, tangerines, pears and onions, a few avocados, some lettuce and garlic and eggs — normally costs me a little under ten Euros. That’s kind of amazing, especially since most of the goods are brought in fresh from regional farms. I think of the little flecks of chicken poop on the eggs (a hen’s parting shot, as it were) as my freshness guarantee. It occurs to me that the proprietor of Frutería Miryan, a stout, matter-of-fact young woman named Miryan, would probably be puzzled by the “eat local” movement back home in the States. That locally grown produce frequently costs more than produce shipped across oceans and continents, and is often only available one day a week, at a specially staged “farmer’s market,” would no doubt confound her. It certainly confounds me. Back home in South Carolina, shrimp pulled from local waters by local shrimpers tends to be more expensive, by a long shot, than shrimp imported from places like Thailand. I’m guessing this has something to do with economies of scale, all that, but it still seems backasswards.

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Every so often we are filled with an urge to do something important. Instead of plotting narrative techniques and trolling literature sites, we feel the urge to take a bus to Louisiana and help clean the Gulf, or begin government work devoted to the public good, or study medicine and treat impoverished people living in third world countries. Such are noteworthy and, we’d wager, common impulses held by the modern-day writer/editor. Regardless, onward we plot, onward we troll, because we know that even in moments of self-doubt, great importance lies in our daily literature habits (that’s our excuse and we’re sticking to it). Neanderthals are important, go read their epic tale in Salon. Roddy Doyle is an important Irish writer, the third installment in his Henry Smart trilogy is given attention in SF Gate. What’s more important than the NBA finals, especially when it’s between the Celtics and the Lakers? Nothing, according to George Packer. Seamus Heaney’s poems have surely had great impact on humanity, Rain Taxi provides commentary. If our memories broke, how would we remember anything important? Computers, you big dummy. The Boston Review explains. Jessica Ferri’s novel is reviewed in The Second Pass, and in Critical Mass a panel of literary critics talks about the future lives of literary critics. Important indeed. — Kevin Murphy

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