JULIA DIXON EVANS: FICTION
JULIA DIXON EVANS: FICTION
Availability: 5 hours per month
1-hour session: $20
2-hour session: $35
4-hour session: $50
ABOUT THE MENTOR
JULIA DIXON EVANS is author of the forthcoming novel How to Set Yourself on Fire (May 2018). Her work can be found in Pithead Chapel, Paper Darts, Hobart, Barrelhouse, and elsewhere. She is program director and editor for the literary nonprofit and small press So Say We All, based in San Diego. More at www.juliadixonevans.com.
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 Julia, 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 HOW TO SET YOURSELF ON FIRE
It’s the third morning of a wildfire to the east and everyone’s used to the smell by now. Still, I’ve been awake for hours and my brain seems to crawl inside my skull, equal parts anxious at and tired of the smoke. Every wildfire season, when a thick blanket of ash hovers between the fire and the ocean, I wonder if I’m far enough from it, if this concrete grid of hundred-year-old suburb will repel fire the same way it repels me. Maybe fire will feel right at home here, the same way I do. Every wildfire, I feel safe and I don’t feel safe. I care and I don’t and this is my California. From the concrete walk of the courtyard, I count the ants in twos as they rush across the tops of my shoes, two, four, six, dozens, hundreds, too many to possibly all know where they’re going. There’s nothing out here for them, just sidewalk cracks, lifeless plants leaning against the walls, cheap patio furniture, my neighbor’s ashtray, the low-hanging loneliness heavy in the air. I wonder what the ants know that I don’t.
Greyish-orange skies yield to heat already and I hear my neighbor start up a Skype call. It’s barely six.
“Hello, Vinnie,” a woman says. His ex. She lives on the East Coast somewhere with their daughter, Torrey. I know all this because his place is so close to mine. I’ve listened to Torrey grow up on the other side of these video calls. I’d feel more like the creeper I am if Vinnie weren’t so obnoxious and unconcerned with being loud at 6 a.m. I’d feel more like the creeper I am if I knew how fathers were supposed to be with their daughters.