For Suma, always. Friday morning at my local library, I’m sitting at a cool spot by the window, trying to write my first ever editor’s note for Literary Namjooning. I look around for inspiration, but the view outside is nothing special--it’s the usual garden-variety cityscape. From the 2nd floor, I see the highway steaming under 90% humidity and vehicles speeding by, and at my eye level is an overbridge that connects to the MRT station (Singapore’s subway/metro system). The sun, bright and tart, beats on everyone outside and I’m thankful for the aircon and for being surrounded by books and quiet. My desk at home has a similar setting, albeit with fewer books and less quiet. I can’t find focus there, which is why I’m here, only to find that I cannot focus here either. It’s actually not a place problem. It’s a me-problem. Thing is, after my sister Suma passed unexpectedly last year, I’m not at peace anywhere. I’m an angry, confused, grieving mess of a person. She was my twin soul, probably the only person in the world who really knew me, and I miss her, I long for her. My brain cannot fathom her absence. Most of the time, I’m in a numb fog until the waves of grief hit. I’ve learned (the hard way) to give in and do nothing on those days. Sometimes, I lose track of time in chunks, and realize at the end of the day that I’ve done nothing more than just survive. And then there are days when I wilfully procrastinate because what’s the point? She isn’t here, so what’s the point of anything at all? Some liken grief to a boulder on their chests. I feel like I’m wading (with a boulder on my chest) through knee-deep, thick wet mud--“keechad” in Hindi. The word “keechad” reminds me of our Hindi teacher at school, Mrs. Daga, having us repeat the saying “कीचड़ में ही कमल खिलता है|” (Keechad mein hi kamal khilta hai). Lotuses only grow in muddy, mucky swamps. The idea for Literary Namjooning arrived out of the blue, in a flash (ha!) on a particularly grief-y day on my way to the dentist because life, whether we want it to or not, goes on. I brushed the idea away but it wouldn’t leave. I thought about it throughout my appointment, on my way home, the rest of the evening, and the following morning. By then I knew the theme, the masthead, when I was going to open it up for subs (it had to be June 3, Suma’s birthday), publication date, everything chalked out in my head. By afternoon I had researched platforms that would host the magazine. And for that bit of time, Literary Namjooning replaced the cloud of grief on my head. Maybe “replaced” isn’t the right word. I think my grief found a companion in Lit Namjooning. Where did this sudden download, this clarity come from? It was almost like she was telling me what to do. She’s always been very persuasive, my sister. But I was also petrified--what did I know about running a literary magazine? Close to nothing. I discussed the idea with some writer friends and then I called Lakshmi that evening. Lakshmi, whom I’ve known since my blogging days, 10-ish years, fellow BTS army, a brilliant, thoughtful writer, my K-drama confidante, rant-listener, and supporter in grief. The following morning I messaged Melissa, a flash-great and overall fantastic and cool person, who’s always been a solid support through my flash journey and for many others in the writing community. I couldn’t believe my sheer luck when they both said an enthusiastic yes. The wave carried me through making a website (something I knew nothing about) and learning Canva for graphics (also something I knew nothing about, but my sister was a pro at it!) Quite the journey as the three of us navigated the new lit-mag space. A huge bonus was and still is the phenomenal support we’ve received from the flash community. 110 submissions, DMs with encouraging messages, a ton of retweets and sharing across social media, wonderfully kind cover letters--I am deeply thankful for all of this, for Lakshmi and Melissa’s presence in this project, in my life, for the flash community--my people, for all the beautiful submissions you sent us, whether they made it into the issue or not. Thank you for giving me some respite from my sadness, for sitting with me, for holding my hand and taking me namjooning with your words even on the days I didn’t want to leave the house. Finally, I cannot not thank our muse, Kim Namjoon--the leader of the Korean pop band Bangtan Sonyeondan (BTS), after whom the magazine is named! Grateful for his (and BTS’s) music and wisdom which I’ve come to hold dear and take comfort in, especially now. It’s no surprise that Issue 1 goes live on his birthday, September 12--what’s a more appropriate gift for an avid reader like him? And so here we are. We present the “kamal” that has grown in the “keechad” of my loss--Issue 1. 23 brilliant writers have taken Literary Namjooning from an airy idea to a solid thing of beauty. These stories will take you to some vulnerable, confused, melancholy, sad, and yet living, breathing, beautiful, contemplative places. Places we’ve all been to at some point in our lives, maybe some of you are there now, but here are 23 stories saying “It’s ok, it’s ok, you’re not alone. We see you.” I’ve re-read the issue over and over and I cannot help but think how Suma would’ve loved this issue. How proud she’d be! These pieces are all small bites, but don’t gulp them down too quickly though. As Suma would say, “What’s the rush? Have a cup of chai first.” We recommend taking your time to savor them--and the accompanying author notes, where our writers have kindly shared their self-care routines. Lakshmi, Melissa, and I have read each piece with care, and worked across three time zones to handpick these pieces for you, and I sincerely hope anyone looking for a pocket of calm, a sliver of peace, or a mindful moment can find it in these words, and in slowing down this way, hear their own thoughts, and maybe find a bit of themselves. Sending love and care always, Hema