By Bacopa Literary Review Creative Nonfiction Editor Stephanie Seguin
For this editor, there are very few things that are “automatic no’s”
Sue Hann’s “Portrait and Punctum” was the honorable mention for Creative Nonfiction in the Bacopa 2023 edition. In the piece, Hann deftly describes three snapshots from different periods of her life. In just these three snapshots and a brief 1000 or so words, Hann gives us such a depth of insight into her relationship (or rather lack thereof) with her father. I love a piece of writing where I can sink into someone’s skin for a bit. I felt the coldness and distance of the author’s father, and later, the overwhelming love that flowed watching her husband with their own baby.
But there’s something else I itch to tell you about this piece, because maybe it will be helpful to potential submitters. I want to tell you that normally I am not a fan of starting with a quote. After reading hundreds of submissions, I have become fairly adept at knowing quickly which pieces will probably not be for me. Pieces that start with quotes, or have footnotes, are normally not what I choose. Neither of those things are wrong of course, just usually a signal that a submission will not be my cup of tea. But upon reading Portrait and Punctum, I could see the quote was needed to provide the framework for understanding this piece. And I loved the writing that followed. I sunk in. I related. I was charmed.
I suppose I tell you this as a reminder that of course we as readers (and editors) have preferences, things we normally dislike, but if something works, it works. So if something works in your writing, do it. There’s really not anything that’s an automatic “no” (maybe with the exception of sexism or racism, start with a sexist joke and I cannot wait to hit that thumbs down button!)
From Sue Hann’s “Portrait and Punctum”:
“A photograph’s punctum is that accident which pricks me (but also bruises me, is poignant to me)” Roland Barthes
In the photograph, my father stands straight and stiff backed beside me as if facing a firing squad and not a camera lens. The corners of his mouth are stretched into a minus sign of forbearance. His brown suit is pressed and clean but his hair has grown out so it hangs over the collar of his white shirt. I can almost hear my mother’s voice chiding him about it. I am twelve years old and it is my Confirmation day. In contrast to my father, I am smiling but my smile for the camera looks polite, a reflex rather than a mood.
About the contributor: Sue Hann’s debut memoir in essays is forthcoming with Neem Tree Press. You can find her at suehannwrites.com and on Instagram @SueHannwrites.
