Editor's Note


Kaitlyn Andrews-Rice, Editor-in-Chief














Dear Reader,


I'm not religious, though I'm often looking for something to believe in. I used to believe in MTV and America and that I would marry my high school boyfriend. I thought we would ride off to Hollywood, embrace our fame. I thought we would last. It didn't happen. He eventually broke up with me via email, and I went to work in the file room of a software company, which happened to be next to a giant mall where I bought overpriced jeans and contemplated giving up writing and taking the bar exam.


At the height of our romance, high school boyfriend and I were religious about film, our sacred rituals involving late-night visits to Dunkin' Donuts and Criterion Collection DVDs. We held hands and worshipped at the P.T. Anderson altar. It was the first time I understood entertainment could be art.




Here at Split Lip Magazine, we're just back from AWP, recovering and basking in the glow of being surrounded by 15,000 fellow writers. For us, AWP is a kind of religious pilgrimage, one requiring immense faith and preparation. As I flew thousands of miles across the country, Mt. Hood rising into view from 30,000 feet, I was thinking of nights with the high school boyfriend, a three-hour indie film, singer-songwriter soundtrack, the miracle that is storytelling. During our offsite AWP reading with Indiana Review, I felt that same sense of religious awe. I was moved. I held my beer. I went to church. 


This month, with work from Scott GarsonMH RoweCarolina Ixta Navarro-Gutiérrez, and M. A. Bowersock, art by Saba Farhoudnia, and Emily Webber's review of K Chess's Famous Men Who Never Lived, we're celebrating the divine act of storytelling, and we're celebrating stories both sacred and profane. This month, we're having a little faith.