HOW DID YOU COME TO POETRY?

While I’d always dabbled in poetry in middle school, I was more a long-form prose person—for example, I was an avid NaNoWriMo writer (though it was a school assignment.) But there’s something fundamentally interesting about flash fiction, since every single word and stylistic choice has to fight to exist on a page. So for me, being able to write flash fiction was thrilling because it not only shared a cool story with my audience, but it did so with limited space versus a novella. After taking a short story class in high school, I started wondering about how I could express myself as concisely and cleanly as possible—after all, prose is often (but not always) bound by grammar and other limitations. That inevitably led to my interest in poetry, where those conventions are often bent or broken. At this point, I got involved with organizations like the Young Poets Network (YPN) and got to see what my peers were writing. Through YPN, I was able to explore poetry translation, which is an area I’m still interested in.

HOW HAS YOUR RACIAL AND CULTURAL IDENTITY IMPACTED YOUR WRITING JOURNEY?

Exploring my immigrant side vs. my American side is something that overtly pops up in some of my work—I’m definitely inspired by work like Amy Tan’s The Joy Luck Club. More broadly, though, people were often confused when I described myself as a creative writer since they assumed that I was just an engineer or doctor-to-be. In other words, I had already established myself as a “STEM guy,” which many felt was incompatible with being a “creative writing guy.” Therefore, I was a bit hesitant to embrace creative writing at first. For example, when I took the short story class I mentioned before, I feared judgment for my clear lack of experience. But I wasn’t behind; in fact, our class was a varied bunch, ranging from high schoolers to older IT professionals. With their support, I wrote and edited my first short story. I later wanted to create a similar support network for my high school, so I founded a campus literary magazine. Through the magazine, I demonstrated that unorthodox backgrounds and writing was OK—and I hope that I was able to motivate writers who’ve shared my experiences. Now that I’m at college, I hope to get involved in the creative writing space and meet even more writers!

WHAT IS THE BEST PIECE OF WRITING ADVICE YOU’VE EVER RECEIVED?

My short story teacher said to not be afraid to edit a rough draft down to its bare bones. It hurts in the beginning, but it's 100% important. That advice is also very relevant to poetry—every word needs to matter. This doesn’t mean that the words you cut out were a waste of time—they were a necessary stepping stone to the final product.

SISTER’S SMILE

By Alor Sahoo

I could spin a wheel to see what trendy diet she’s following,
Prescribed by her astrologer-in-law during full moon at high tide.
Despise hearing about that lemon juice cleanse.
Or is it lime? Citrus farmers must clamor for her business.

I might toss another salad for my hungry sister,
Who complains that obesity runs in the family
When no one in the family runs. I can never eat a pizza without her
Creasing her exfoliated eyebrows in judgment.

I shake my head and check my email
The next time she says she’s vegan because “like, I care, you know?”
I nod as she exalts the benefits of meditation while
Sipping a honey-sweetened latte and bopping to rock.

I entertain her ridiculous desserts,
Like strawberry-kombucha-rice milk pudding.
If I complain about the taste, she darkens into a teary tirade
About how her diet is preventing my premature death.

I’ll set up her birthday party, filled with her culinary creations:
Vegan chocolate chip “cookies,” “pizza” with imitation cheese.
Her friends smile through the soy and tofu
For the obligatory social media check-in, for the followers.

I’ll stand quietly, powerless. Their words are law.
My sister scoffs at me before chatting with them, her toxic mirrors.
Camera roll beaming with the exhausted joy of a dozen retakes,
Two different filters, a layer of makeup, and a wardrobe swap.

I see her friends mindlessly nod
At the vivid details of her recent travels to a city
Under lockdown. They praise her volunteerism
At the dilapidated soup kitchen she’s never visited.

Later, while walking past her doorway,
I catch her staring at a mirror, at the acne scars that
Her friends always “joke” about. She wipes away the tears,
Throws on a smile, and marches away.