Katrina Denza is a Pushcart Prize nominated writer whose work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in such journals as Confrontation, Lynx Eye, The Jabberwock Review, New Delta Review, The MacGuffin, RE:AL, Storyglossia,, SmokeLong Quarterly, Word Riot, Staccato, Insolent Rudder, Cranky, elimae, and The Emerson Review, among others. Her story “Snake Dreams” was the first runner-up in Storyglossia’s 2006 fiction prize competition. Katrina lives in North Carolina with her husband and two sons. Visit her blog.

Your story “Snake Dreams” was the first runner-up in the Storyglossia 2006 Fiction contest. This story was also nominated for a Pushcart Prize, as was “Quiet,” published in the Rebel Press Anthology, and “Bighead,” published by The Jabberwock Review. Of the three, which is your favorite, and why? And congrats on all the honors, by the way!

Thanks, Kelly! Tough question. I guess if I had to pick one it would be “Bighead.” It’s the story of a young woman with an over-sized head. She’s partially independent, partially cared for by her parents, prone to seizures and works as a collector of trivia for a game company. She’s in her early twenties and has never had sex. She seeks out her local postman to remedy that. Unlike my other stories, this one went through only four drafts and it’s weird and playful and there’s not an emotionally dysfunctional person to be found in it.

Where did you get the idea for “Bighead”?

There’s a woman in my town, probably in her late fifties, who wears large hair bows and makeup reminiscent of “Who’s Afraid of Baby Jane?” She fascinated me and she sat in my mind for about a year and then I sat down to write about her and she evolved until I didn’t recognize her anymore.

Your work has appeared in a number of highly regarded journals. As writers, however, we are always trying to climb the totem pole, so to speak. Which publications are still on your “to crack” list?

I’ve read a lot of journals over the past three years online and print. My to-crack list is HUGE. Too long to list–I love so many. I sub to a variety without as much thought to the totem-pole as whether or not I’d be pleased to have a piece published in them and if I think my work might be a fit. I’m always grateful to place a story.

Tell us about the novel you are working on.

It covers about thirty-forty years beginning in the 1970s and deals with the fallibility of memory. There’s a family in it, some sex, a dash of science, a shaman, reality TV and a large conflict that nearly destroys the family.

What is a typical writing day like for you? Do you maintain a structured routine, or are you relaxed about when and how you write? What are your habits, the good and the bad?

I’m fairly structured. I’ve learned that if I don’t sit down and write as often as I can, then a whole week will expire and I’ll be ranting about not having writing time. It took me a few rants to realize that I was the only thing standing in my way.

Now that my youngest is in school, I actually have a chunk of time to spend writing, and lucky for me, it’s in the morning—the best time for me creatively. When he was a toddler, my husband and I hired a young woman to come in for a couple of hours a day, but it was in the evening and often I’d spend almost the entire two hours cooking dinner. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize this. The good: I’m disciplined. The bad: When I get to a tough place in my work, I leave the chair.

As a writer of both flash fiction and short stories, I’m curious if, or how, your writing process differs between the two forms.

Writing flash is dream-like for me. It’s like emotional shorthand and I have to be in a receptive state of mind to do it. But there’s something wonderfully freeing about it. Anything goes for me in flash. I wrote many of the first drafts to my flashes in ten minutes.

I tend to work longer stories more, mostly because I have to feel my way into the characters, to the right structure, to the nuances I want, and that takes about twenty to thirty revisions. With flash, the story seems to grow organically around the original inspiration.

You recently stepped down from your post as a Submissions Editor at SmokeLong Quarterly. Before I got a chance to work with you, I might add! What do you think your editorial taste is? As an editor, what are your biggest pet peeves?

I love pieces that are surprising, evocative, clear, with plenty of white space. The things published by SLQ very much represent my taste. I’m not fond of those pieces with twists at the very end.

I miss SLQ! I would have loved to work with you, too.

Who has been your biggest influence, in writing, life, or both?

My smart, grounded, beautiful husband. And my mother who inspired me to love books.

You’re originally from Vermont, but now live in North Carolina. How does North Carolina differ? Does being in a new place affect your writing?

The mountains are more intense, the coast is breath-taking, and the summers last half a year or more. And what people say about southern hospitality is true: I nearly fell over with shock when a man opened a door to a convenience store for me. Where I come from the prevailing attitude is: you want equal rights? Open your own door.

I live in a small town in the Sandhills. I love the town, love the people, but I don’t think I’ve taken to the land yet. The majority of trees here are loblolly pines, and the soil is sandy and difficult to grow things in (not that I’m much of a gardener anyway).

I used to paint and teach art classes to children through a gallery in Vermont. When I moved down here, I lost the visual inspiration to paint. It probably had more to do with the transition than the lack of beauty, because it is beautiful here, just different. So I wrote a short story and entered a contest and told myself that if it placed, I’d turn to writing again—something I hadn’t done since my early twenties. I don’t know, maybe there’s something in the land down here, but I feel compelled to write.

Ironically, the land I write most about is Vermont. It’s as if I had to leave it in order to see it clearly. Sometimes I long for Vermont, for its extremes, and the only thing I can do about that yearning, short of moving back there, is write about it.