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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.




Emily Geminder.jpg
Emily Geminder.jpg
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Categories: Fiction, Nonfiction, Hybrid or Cross-genre
Availability: 6 hours per month
1-hour session: $20
2-hour session: $35
4-hour session: $50

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EMILY GEMINDER is the author of Dead Girls and Other Stories, winner of the Dzanc Books Short Story Prize. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in American Short Fiction, Conjunctions, Kenyon Review, New England Review, Prairie Schooner, Tin House, and elsewhere. The recipient of an AWP Intro Journals Award, a Glenna Luschei Prairie Schooner Award, and a Pushcart Special Mention, she previously worked as a journalist in New York and Cambodia. She now lives in Los Angeles, where she is a PhD candidate in creative writing and literature at the University of Southern California.

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 Emily, 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.


Homeless: this is the game. Eskimo and me in the backseat. Eskimo and me inside blankets, sheets. At a rest stop, we pocket gummy worms, Milky Ways. We shoot like comets down the aisles, then disappear fast as light. Outside, on a picnic table, our mother sits smoking. Outside, our mother says, Let’s go.

In the backseat, we pull blankets over our heads. Eskimo does the sign for house: hands flat like a roof, then walls. He likes to be inside. He likes to peer out. Every day, we build this house from scratch. I tell him, This is what it means to be homeless. You carry your house around inside you.

We’re not homeless, says Mom, overhearing. We’re between places. We’re in between.

We keep driving: Eskimo between silences, Mom between cigarettes. Me: a too-tall girl between seventh and eighth grade.

We get a hotel room with two beds, and I build Eskimo a house on the floor between them. Mom smokes outside, then crawls in beside us and we all lay there breathing at once.

When Mom was pregnant, she dreamt she was giving birth to an Eskimo baby, and that’s what Eskimo looked like when he came out: shock of black hair, squinty eyes. The watery thing that’s supposed to break unbroken and shining like snow.

Look, Laney, said Mom, placing him in my arms. Our Eskimo baby.

Eskimo squinted and kept squinting like he was always looking past. He got another name, but Eskimo was the one that stuck.