You know that story you’ve been meaning to write? The poem sitting in your notebook? The idea you’ve been carrying around for three weeks while telling yourself you’ll get to it “soon”?
Well, this is your official notice. “Soon” is today.
The Instant Noodles Lit Mag Al Dente Writing Workshop with Robert Fleming takes place today at 5 PM Eastern (2 PM Pacific), and we’d love to see you there.
Whether you’re a writer, poet, artist, or creative dabbler who occasionally stares out a window pretending to work, this free online workshop is designed to help spark ideas, answer questions about submissions, and get you thinking about our upcoming Al Dente issue.
No fancy credentials required. No publication history required. No secret literary handshake required.
Just bring yourself, your curiosity, and whatever creative project has been lurking in the back of your mind.
Seats are limited, and once the workshop starts, you’ll have to live with the knowledge that everyone else is talking about writing while you’re reorganizing a drawer or scrolling social media.
Thinking about submitting to the upcoming Instant Noodles Lit Mag issue, Al Dente?
Before you hit “send,” join Editor Robert Fleming for a free online workshop on Saturday, June 13, at 5 PM Eastern (2 PM Pacific).
This informal session is designed for writers, poets, and artists who want to learn more about the theme, explore ideas, and discover what kinds of work might be a good fit for the issue.
Literary magazines can sometimes feel intimidating from the outside. This workshop is an opportunity to ask questions, generate new material, and connect with fellow creatives in a welcoming environment.
Whether you already have a submission in progress or are still waiting for inspiration to strike, you’ll leave with fresh ideas and a better understanding of where your work might fit.
Attendance is free, but seating is limited.
Reserve your spot today and help us make the next issue of Instant Noodles Lit Mag something special.
Every issue of Instant Noodles Lit Mag starts somewhere.
A line scribbled in a notebook. A strange image that won’t leave you alone. A poem that refuses to behave. A story that exists everywhere except on the page.
If you’ve been looking for a reason to finally sit down and create something, consider this your invitation.
On Saturday, June 13, at 5 PM Eastern (2 PM Pacific), Instant Noodles Lit Mag Editor Robert Fleming will host a free online Al Dente Writing Workshop designed to help writers, poets, and artists generate ideas, get inspired, and learn more about submitting to our upcoming issue, Al Dente.
Whether you’re a seasoned contributor or someone who’s never submitted a piece before, you’re welcome to join us.
The workshop is free, but space is limited.
Bring your imagination. We’ll provide the noodles.
Register today and join us for an evening of creativity and community.
INSTANT NOODLES LIT MAG is seeking contributors for our upcoming issue, Al Dente — and we want your work
If you’re an indie writer, poet, or artist, join us Saturday, June 13, at 5 PM Eastern (2 PM Pacific) for a free online workshop to spark your creative energies and learn where to send completed submissions.
Hosted by Robert Fleming of Old Scratch Press, Instant Noodles Lit Mag, and the Rehoboth Beach Wrier’s Guild.
Seats are free, and limited. Three lucky participants will win a signed copied of an Old Scratch Press book!
This week in the New York Timesthere is an article about Mark Oppenheimer writing Judy Blume’s biography. When he began the project, so he says, she liked him and gave him access to her life and her circle, etc. When he sent her the draft, she no longer liked him or the book he was writing about her. Apparently she sent him quite a big pile of notes, and contact ceased soon after that. He published the book anyway. He, and book’s narrator, Molly Ringwald, feel like Judy has to put up with his book, and that Mark did a fine job. According to the NYT article, Molly said, “There might be moments that Judy doesn’t like or agree with, but overall I think it’s a respectful treatment of her and her literary significance.” And, “If Mark didn’t show Judy’s flaws or humanity, it would be hard to feel invested.”
At what point does your life stop being your own? I might argue it’s when you become a parent. But, eventually they grow up, and you get to pivot back to yourself somewhat. Mark could have written the book with, or without, Judy’s help, and that’s the danger of being that level of author, but the fact that she gave him permission at first, and then was unhappy with what he made of her life, gives me pause. How much do we own our own life story?
The NYT made the main photo of the piece one of Mark sitting in a bunk bed. I don’t like this. He’s not at the age, or in life circumstances where he would actually be the person who sleeps in that bed. To me it is a ploy to make him look more innocent. I don’t think he is. I’m disappointed in Molly. For full disclosure, I read a bit of Judy Blume as a kid, from Margaret to some of the adult books, most of them for the sexy bits, honestly. Hey, I was in middle school. But, with apologies to Judy, I have seldom thought of her since. I tried reading Margaret to my daughter when she was in middle school, and we both found it didn’t age well. Plus, my daughter was not raised with the same religiosity I was. So there’s that for the longevity of the book in my life. And anybody can write a biography of anybody. The trick, like it is with our own books, is to get people to read it.
Still, do Mark, Molly, and his publishing company have the right to own Judy’s story, to make the truth of Judy’s life Mark’s version of the truth?
I say no. I say this is another woman losing agency over her own body, life, and body of work, to a man and a corporation. And it seems her only recourse might be for Judy to write her autobiography, to set the record straight. I cannot imagine anything as boring as writing out my own life story. And believe you me, I’ve had a fascinating life. Ha! Whether I have or I haven’t, I’m not ready to relive it all like I’ve had a near death experience. No, no no.
So, whose life is it anyway?
I would love to hear your thoughts.
Dianne Pearce is the chief editor and bottle washer at Current Words Publishing, and the half-cocked imaginer behind Old Scratch Press and Instant Noodles. Pearce loves helping writers realize the dream of having their work published. I mean she is really crazy about doing that for some reason. To that end, to join in the fray, to look at the thing from the other side, to stand in another’s shoes, and all of those things, she is fully expecting and promising to publish her first collection of poetry, In the Cancer Cafeteria, spring of 2026. Please don’t hold your breath. For very long. Happy 2026!
If you’ve ever been to a poetry reading, you’ve probably heard it. The slow cadence. The dramatic pauses. The slightly mystical tone. The voice that signals: I am now doing Poetry.
In fact, when I think about that sentence read in “poetry voice” it would be read like this:
The voice that signals I am now doing poetry
And each line would end with an up tone, as if the performer was asking a question.
The recent New York Times article digs into this phenomenon, often called the “poet voice,” and asks why many poets fall into the same stylized way of reading their work aloud.
For some listeners, the article says, that way of reading feels comforting and familiar. For others, awkward, distancing, or makes the poem feel like a performance ritual rather than a piece of language meant to connect.
The article points out something important: this isn’t just about aesthetics. It’s about how poetry exists in two worlds at once. On the page, poetry is quiet, private, intimate. Out loud, it becomes physical, embodied, communal. Voice, breath, pacing, silence, and tone all reshape meaning. The same poem can feel completely different depending on how it’s read.
And yet, many readings sound strangely similar.
Why?
There’s also a bigger tension here. Poetry has deep roots in oral tradition. Long before books, poetry lived in voices, memory, and storytelling. But modern literary culture often treats performance and “serious writing” as separate worlds. Spoken word, slam, and performance poetry are seen as different categories entirely, even though they’re doing what poetry has always done: using voice to create meaning. They also might sound different, as performance, when compared to how people read on the performance evenings in your MFA program.
I remember, from the first time I saw poets read aloud, at a bar in Philadelphia in the 1990s, thinking that it was weird that many of them read their work in the same way, and wondering why they did. When I was in my MFA program, and we would read our work at student readings, us poets, fellow students, often read that way. I remember it as mainly the other white women, and that the students and teachers/established visiting poets, could be people who did it. Not that all of them did it, you understand, but that it happened at times among student readers, teacher readers, and visiting poet readers, and it was, in the main, done by my fellow white women. I don’t remember the guys reading that way. I also remember that the teachers (minus a few) and the students in the poetry track were incredibly serious about the writing and performing of poetry. I don’t know that I ever got quite that serious, which is probably a character flaw. You know I’ve got me some of those.
On Threads people are losing their minds about the article (slow news day?) so, let’s talk about it:
• When you hear poetry read aloud, does it deepen your connection to the work or pull you out of it? • Do you think “poet voice” is a real thing, or just a stereotype we’ve internalized? • When you hear poetry read aloud, does it deepen your connection to the work or pull you out of it? • Have you heard “poet voice?” • How do you read your own work aloud? Casually, dramatically, flat, musical, conversational? • Should poetry readings sound like performance, conversation, or something else entirely? • Is hearing the poet’s voice an added layer of meaning, or an intrusion on the reader’s imagination?
Have you ever considered a writing retreat? Most of them are (I think) outrageously expensive. How about a free one instead? Consider applying to Yaddo.
Yaddo is one of the most respected artist residencies in the world, offering writers something increasingly rare: uninterrupted time and space to focus deeply on creative work. Founded in 1900, Yaddo was created with a singular purpose, to support artists by removing everyday distractions so they can fully engage with their craft. Located on a wooded estate in Saratoga Springs, New York, Yaddo has quietly supported generations of writers whose work has gone on to shape contemporary literature.
What makes Yaddo especially appealing to authors is its emphasis on creative freedom. There are no required workshops, classes, or public obligations. Writers are given room, board, and a private workspace, allowing them to set their own rhythm and priorities. Residencies typically range from two weeks to two months, offering enough time to make real progress on a project or to rediscover momentum that may have been lost to teaching, work, or daily responsibilities.
Selection is based on the strength of the work itself. There is no expectation that writers arrive with a polished or market ready manuscript, and no requirement to produce a finished piece by the end of the residency. This makes Yaddo an ideal space for experimentation, risk taking, and deep revision. Many writers find that the absence of pressure allows them to work more honestly and adventurously than they can elsewhere.
While solitude is central to the Yaddo experience, a quiet sense of community is also part of daily life. Communal meals and shared spaces offer opportunities for informal conversation with artists working across disciplines, including music, visual art, film, and theater. These interactions are optional but often enriching, providing fresh perspectives without overwhelming the creative focus.
For authors navigating a literary world that increasingly demands constant productivity and self promotion, Yaddo offers a rare and valuable gift. Time to write. Time to think. Time to reconnect with the work itself. For writers serious about their craft, applying to Yaddo is not just an opportunity. It is an investment in the long life of their creative practice.
DEADLINE:
Dianne Pearce is the chief editor and bottle washer at Current Words Publishing, and the half-cocked imaginer behind Old Scratch Press and Instant Noodles. Pearce loves helping writers realize the dream of having their work published. I mean she is really crazy about doing that for some reason. To that end, to join in the fray, to look at the thing from the other side, to stand in another’s shoes, and all of those things, she is fully expecting and promising to publish her first collection of poetry, In the Cancer Cafeteria, spring of 2026. Please don’t hold your breath. For very long. Happy Holidays!
There’s a certain stereotype about writers: distracted, dreamy, maybe a little moody, often lost in their own heads. Then there are those of us whose third-grade teacher writes on her report card, “Ellis is very sensitive. She says she doesn’t feel good when she doesn’t want to participate and sometimes puts her hands over her ears.”
What we don’t always name is that many of us identify with something more specific—ADHD, anxiety, depression, OCD, autism, bipolar disorder. In other words, neurodivergence.
Far from being a barrier, these brain patterns often come hand-in-hand with creativity. Our ability to notice connections others overlook, to hyper-focus on a project for hours, or to sense language at a heightened level can all be part of what makes us writers. (Doesn’t everyone have a list of words they hate simply because the way the word feels in their mouth?)
The Double-Edged Sword
Of course, the same brain that gifts us with creative leaps can also work against us. ADHD can make finishing projects feel like climbing Everest. Anxiety can whisper that nothing we write is ever good enough. Depression can steal the life-force necessary to even begin. The very sensitivity that makes us attuned to metaphor and meaning can leave us overwhelmed by the noise of the world.
Reframing the Narrative
Instead of treating neurodivergence as something to battle, what if we reframed it as part of the writer’s toolkit?
Hyperfocus can become a superpower for deep revision. Or help you finish the book!
Restless energy can fuel bursts of freewriting that break past creative blocks. That, and dance breaks.
Heightened sensitivity can deepen character work, dialogue, and description. As long as you remember to take breaks.
The key is learning how to manage the edges—finding rest, support, and strategies so that the gift doesn’t become a burden.
Practical Ways to Support Your Creative Brain
Chunk your writing time. Short, timed sessions (15–25 minutes) can harness focus without overwhelming you.
Write rituals, not rules. A small ritual (lighting a candle, stretching, a playlist) helps train your brain to enter writing mode.
Name the inner critic. Literally give it a name or persona so it loses power over you.
Seek community. Writing groups, workshops, or even online spaces help balance the solitary nature of the work.
Honor rest. Brains that run hot need recovery time. Pushing the pause-button isn’t failing—it’s part of the process.
Why It Matters
When we share openly about the link between writing and neurodivergence, we create permission for others. Permission to stop beating themselves up for struggling with deadlines. Permission to see their “quirks” as part of their artistry. Permission to make choices others might not understand. Permission to write anyway.
Do you identify as a neurodivergent writer? How does it show up in your creative process—both the gifts and the challenges?
Ellis Elliott
Founding member Old Scratch Press Poetry Collective
Author of Break in the Field poetry collection and A Witch Awakens: A Fire Circle Mystery.
OLD SCRATCH PRESS 