Let me say how pleased I am to welcome Andrea Blancas Beltran to MIEL. Andrea will be acting as an associate editor over the course of 2016, working with me on the editing and production of many of MIEL’s 2016 books and the two final issue of 111O slated to come out this year. I’ll let her introduce herself in her own words, and leave you with my excitement at the prospect of working with her.

—Éireann Lorsung

* * *

Andrea Blancas Beltran

The west Texas border city of El Paso is where I call home. I was born and grew up here, but couldn’t wait to move away as soon as I found the chance. I lived in a suburb north of Dallas for over a decade, but my longing for my family, especially my aging grandparents, led to a long drive home, and here I’ve replanted myself among the mountains, cactus, and tumbleweeds.

I love to cook, bake, and grow and eat tomatoes. I make postcards on occasion. I’m quite fond of ants and snails and kind people. I’m a fan of Twitter as it’s afforded me opportunities to connect with many beautiful souls. My word for the year is ATTEND.

I recently completed my MFA in Poetry at Vermont College of Fine Arts in Montpelier, VT where I wrote about women and translation in my critical thesis, “milk / del trans / late?: Cecilia / Vicuña & / Rosa Alcalá.” I’m revising my first book of poems and short essays.

These words from Eduardo Galeano’s The Book of Embraces are with me everywhere: “What it all comes down to is that we are the sum of our efforts to change who we are. Identity is no museum piece sitting stock-still in a display case, but rather the endlessly astonishing contradictions of every day life.”

MIEL continues to show me the importance of creation and diversity through its curious and thoughtful writers and artists and beautiful books, microseries chaps, postcards, and the like. MIEL and Éireann have given me new ways to think about language and art. I’m grateful and delighted to be connecting as an assistant editor with the MIEL community as it’s a community that consistently reminds me why I read and write.

I think back to Metta Sáma’s Le animal & other creatures, in which she says to Elisabeth Houston: “The question, for me, is how to transform realities into art & into questions that are not heavy-handed.” This is what I feel MIEL does: transform. I look forward to helping introduce these questions to readers and the world from my corner of the west Texas border.

Andrea Blancas Beltran

Want to edit for MIEL?

literary MOT


I’m looking to add an editor to MIEL. This would ideally be a long-term working relationship, and yes, ideally in the long term a paid one. For the sake of financial transparency: printing is very expensive in Belgium. Poetry books are not bestsellers; chapbooks even less. An edition of books usually (but not always, and this has been a losing year in this aspect) covers its costs with nothing left over. The press does not make a profit, and I do not get compensated for my work. This is something I would like to change over the next few years, but it’s not possible at the moment.

Job description: You would be responsible for working on 2-3 chapbooks and/or 111O (editorial with possibility of design work, depending on experience) + possibly some reading (>2hr/month) for the 2017 anthology. Some administrative work is factored in to this position. Total commitment is likely to be 6-8 hours per month, depending on how quickly you work. This position will report to and be supported by me [editor-in-chief].

Qualifications: An attentive and thoughtful reader, a diplomatic and sensitive editor. Ability to engage with writers with firm care. Awareness of issues of justice in a broad sense and as they relate to the literary world in a specific sense. Demonstrated interest in and knowledge of MIEL: what the press publishes, why, how. Self-motivated, responsible, good with deadlines, creative, able to read and work outside of their comfort zone. You do not have to have had formal editorial experience.

Compensation: A €200 honorarium paid in two instalments (one at the end of the first six months; the second at the end of the second six months), a copy of each book MIEL publishes in 2016, editorial training, and training in InDesign if necessary/desirable. Support in kind for the development of your future projects.

Location: Anywhere. All work and communication can be done online or via telephone/Skype.

Terms: To begin January 1, 2016 with a six-month trial period at the end of which we will decide together whether to continue (and how). We will work together to edit one chapbook; then you will work further independently. We will meet once every two weeks at an agreed time for a debriefing and planning session. You will be responsible for contacting blurbers, writing front and back matter, negotiating edits with authors, and planning publicity work. You will also have a role in the book design process and in the planning of our 2017 anthology, including reading work.

To apply: Please send an email with the subject “Editing” to miel dot books at gmail dot com. Attach a PDF letter of interest (up to 2 pages) explaining your specific motivations for working with MIEL and a description of how you approach editing; also send a brief CV (up to 2 pages; PDF) with pertinent experience and/or education. Queries to the same address. People of color, women, and LGBTQ people especially encouraged to apply.

Deadline: November 30. 

a [ ] of one’s own

A “woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write”. Woolf finishes that statement with ‘fiction’, but I think it is true for all kinds of writing. And also I think ‘woman’ does not have to be ‘woman’. I think many of us need spaces of our own in order and in which to write. Sometime these are called ‘safe spaces’, an appellation met with derision (as if it is somehow an outlier to want to be safe, where ‘safe’ means ‘able to critique dominant structures without fear for one’s job/work/life/dignity/…). But really these spaces, which have always been accessible to those with power (historically speaking from a Western point of view, to wealthy, white, Christian men), are just places we know we can go into for the extended, vulnerable undertaking which is making new worlds and unmaking or remaking the ones we have.

Not long ago, the editor of a well-respected magazine made it clear that he is unwilling to examine his aesthetics and vision for unconscious bias, and, therefore, that making openings in his magazine for writers whose work might fall outside that aesthetics is not a priority. Where am I going with this. As a white person, I was not taught to think about race in literature, except when reading a black writer, an Asian writer…because ‘white’ was unspoken. White meant ‘normal’ and just literature. White was background. Ordinary. The norm from which difference was established. Which meant also that people who wrote like that (meaning: descended from a long tradition of writing mostly by white men from Europe; later also by white men, and some women, from Europe and the US) just wrote, and everything else was inflected, tinged by the invisible but sensate presence of blackness, brownness, other-bodiedness, other-genderedness (the prefix ‘other’ already separating from a presupposed norm), class (meaning the fact of labor or the question of means, i.e. the vulgarity of talking money)…. As though identity, or the politics thereof, were a kind of contaminant. As if the invisibility of whiteness were not a politics of its own. As if a literature that invisibly aligns itself with whiteness (by saying ‘canon’ or appealing to certain habitual ways of making text) were not a politics. As if neither required examination. As if preferences were natural and not conditioned. As if I could ever just read a text by a writer not operating in that white sphere, without the history and practices I had been taught, surrounding literature, acting as lenses (lenses that generally say, this is no good, which means this doesn’t look like what I’m used to, without the hmm, why am I used to what I’m used to moment).

In response to this, someone in a conversation floated the idea of editors of journals who are committed to supporting the work of writers of color (and other minority writers) might have a sort of badge on their site. Some discussion followed, pointing out the difficult logistics of this (would it be quantified? Who would adjudicate? How would decisions be enforced?) as well as the way in which a ‘badge’ might operate essentially as a congratulations or reward for (white) editors who are doing what they should do anyway, i.e. reading openly and widely, soliciting from writers of color, examining their own learned and invisible biases (and the relation of these to power/white supremacy/kyriarchy…).

Let me interrupt myself to say I know a blog post is a short forum for a long idea. This is more complex than I can do justice here. And pausing for a moment on this idea should not erase the fact that this momentary thought is a small one in a long chain of moments which are experienced and narrated in complex and multiple ways by the people who live in and through them, and that I am late to this conversation. I mean that I am by no means positioning myself as a be-all, end-all. And this text-moment is not thorough or complete. And my own education is ongoing and humbling, and much of it has been provided to me by the writers of color, many of them women, who tweet, write blog posts, and otherwise make their thinking publicly available.

But: I would not have a badge like that on 111O. I do not want to be noticed for publishing women, writers of color, or any other ‘underrepresented voices’, even though that is absolutely what I feel my remit is. I do not want to call attention to that. That seems self-aggrandizing and goes against my gut sense of what my job is. It is my responsibility as an editor to seek out those voices and to listen to them and also to make space for them. That is basic. That is not something to ask for acknowledgment for. That is supposed to be the fundamental work I do as an editor: look for writing that revises the world, help it be itself fully, make space for it.

If I am serious about the work of dismantling white supremacy, that means—for me—prioritizing a change in the way I read and how I think about what literature is, how meaning works, and how the invisible paradigms I’ve been taught to take as given constrain my ability to see, feel, and listen. I don’t want a badge to tell anyone how I’m doing. I don’t want an official seal that somehow says “accomplishment unlocked!”. Paying attention to privilege is ongoing work for me. It doesn’t have an end moment. Learning to read again is perpetual and necessary; I have thirty-plus years of having been taught/having learned to read in an erasing way. If writers of color, queer writers, trans/nonbinary writers, women writers are going to feel comfortable with my publishing them, I think it will only happen if/when they can see that I have an ongoing, extensive commitment to hearing them and to supporting work regardless of whether I have learned to read it yet.

I deeply desire for MIEL and 111O to be homes—rooms—for writers who need that space, writers who haven’t necessarily had that space, and writers who don’t feel welcome in other spaces by virtue of the way who they are intersects with how they write. I want to make a space that reads new writing with rigor, attention, and love. That’s what I feel called to do. I don’t want to talk a lot about it because I also feel that my job is to be modest, humble, and invisible wherever I can. But I wanted to state my beliefs here, too, so that if anyone is searching they can see where MIEL stands.