Introduction

Some people say there are only five possible plots. A stranger comes to town, a person falls in love with a stranger, a stranger’s true identity is revealed to themselves or to others, a war is fought in a strange land, and then—full circle—a person leaves town for a strange land. There are many variations of the five stories, and the notion that the plots of stories are limited may or may not be true, but there is one thing I’ve always believed: what matters most in storytelling is voice.

I am convinced that those writers who affect us most are those with a singular and unique voice. When you read the first line of a novel, say, “The North Carolina Mutual Life Insurance agent promised to fly from Mercy to the other side of Lake Superior at three o’clock,” you know you are hearing Toni Morrison’s voice and entering a world she and she alone can create. You want to hear more, no matter where the story takes you; you’re transported by language and emotion.

In this issue of Ploughshares, there are stories and poems by writers you may have read before and those whose worlds are brand new. Each, I believe, is told in a singular voice, whether it is a story about love and betrayal far from home, or a tale of a street that may or may not be haunted in the Bronx, or a fairy-tale poem about the possession of two brothers. What I was looking for, and what I found, were original voices that were true to themselves. No one else could tell you these stories or create these poems; they are unique, full of heart, and surprising. They are voices that will shake you up, anger you, tell you the truth, make you believe.

Often, beginning writers are given examples of what and who they should be if they want literary success. It makes sense to imitate the voices of the writers you love at the start, the ones who made you want to cross the line from being a reader to being a writer. It’s often the way new writer learns their craft. I loved the voices of Grace Paley and Leonard Michaels, and it was in trying to write like them that I discovered my own voice, which, as it turns out, was nothing like theirs. That is when you know you’ve found yourself: when you sound like no one else.

It was a pleasure to read the stories and poems in this issue, to enter worlds that were familiar along with those that were startlingly new. There turned out to be a good deal of magic, but maybe that’s what so many of us are looking for in these difficult times. What we read is often the best magic of all. It’s the way to escape from the here and now, but it’s also way to learn the lessons we need to hear most of all. This issue is timely and timeless; it’s filled with cautionary tales and real love, great beauty and great sorrow. I’m so grateful to the writers who contributed and to you, dear reader, for entering each writer’s exceptional and singular world.