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5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd.
Ann Arbor, MI, 48103
United States

Dzanc Books is nonprofit press specializing in literary fiction and nonfiction. In addition to publishing activities, Dzanc Books also supports the Disquiet International Literary Program.

ELLE NASH: FICTION

OUR MENTORS

ELLE NASH: FICTION

Elle Nash.jpg
Elle Nash.jpg

ELLE NASH: FICTION

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Categories: Fiction
Availability: 4 hours per month
1-hour session: $20
2-hour session: $35
4-hour session: $50

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ABOUT THE MENTOR

ELLE NASH is the author of Animals Eat Each Other and a founding editor of Witch Craft Magazine and a fiction editor at Hobart Pulp. Her work has been featured in Cosmopolitan, Elle, NAILED, Reality Beach, Hobart, and other places. She is a former member of the Denver Press Club and now lives in Arkansas. Occasionally she reads tarot in exchange for money.

Mentorship sessions are available at a cost of $20 for one hour, $35 for two hours, or $50 for four hours. All payments are processed through Submittable at the time of manuscript submission.

To book a mentoring session with Elle, please select one, two, or four hours (depending on availability) from the product menu above.  Please continue clicking through the checkout process; though you will not be charged at this time, finishing your purchase reserves your hours with this mentor.  Though you will need to provide a billing address, you do not need to enter a credit card at this time.

Once your purchase is completed, a Dzanc staff member will be in touch to help you submit your manuscript and your payment through Submittable.

SAMPLE FROM ANIMALS EAT EACH OTHER

Matt placed the knife on my face, pressing down against my lips. He wanted me to lick the edge of it, to push my tongue up against the serrated edge so he could watch the way the muscle in my mouth looked against the metal. With his other hand, he held my neck to the floor.

The one who tied me to the coffee table was his girlfriend, Frances. Her hand was on my thigh, small and smooth and birdlike, occasionally caressing back and forth across my leg as I lay on my back, pressed into the living room carpet. Frances was naked and sat with her legs under her, tourmaline hair falling to her lower back. We were drunk again, their baby asleep in his crib in the bedroom down the hall.

I squirmed my hips to get comfortable, inched my head left to keep my hair from pulling. Matt’s fingers, thick and callused, wrapped tighter around my neck. The pressure in my skull increased in slow heartbeats, the room fading into an inky black vignette. His eyes, the kind of blue you only see in nature documentaries about very cold places, stared into mine. I stared at the bridge of his nose to seem like I was staring into his eyes. At moments, I would catch his gaze and almost see a flash that I was a Real Living Thing, visceral and bleeding.

I wanted to be validated, the way everyone does. I ended up between a floor and a knife, between a man and the mother of his child. This was before I understood what it was like to be held close, to-the-ribs close. Close like I was the only one.