Meet Our New Intern: Aylli Cortez

Last February, I had the honor of reading some of my poems at a book launch in Makati, not far from the city where I grew up. As a then–university student who’d only been published in one journal, I was thrilled to play a supporting role in the milestone of a great poet. I didn’t expect to come away with a message of encouragement that evening, but when the author signed my copy of his collection, he also scribbled on the title page: “For Ayl—keep writing… You don’t have a choice now.”

The note struck me as funny, scary, and touching at the same time. Both a form of pressure and a show of recognition, it seemed to say: You need to continue doing this because it’s who you are. Now, one year later, I can do what I couldn’t in that small independent bookshop, call myself a writer. Not because I have a Bachelor’s in Creative Writing, or an award, or more published poems, but because I feel belonging in this community and want very badly to give back.

In my undergraduate years, I grew as a writer, editor, and facilitator through my participation (turned presidency and editorship) in two literary organizations. Combined with the experience I gained from my workshop and publishing classes, as well as my summer internship at the university press, I realized that honing my craft wasn’t a solitary endeavor. Writing didn’t have to be isolating; it could prompt me to converse and collaborate with my peers! I later learned that many of us shared the same zest for arts, culture, and niche Internet fandoms. Still, we needed the resources and opportunities to recognize that we weren’t alone.

While the pandemic drove classes online for half of my college life, I managed to organize and often moderate literary talks, writing workshops, social events, deliberations, and training seminars. It was a great way to invite professional authors to share their work and expertise with us, but also to invite students to read widely and critically, develop confidence in their works-in-progress, and offer their skills in service of each other.

Since graduating in June, I’ve learned to become a student on my own terms. Aside from reawakening my reading practice and seeing it translate to a calmer, more consistent writing process, I’ve made a habit of seeking and attending art events around Metro Manila—especially ones that platform small presses and self-published creatives. Talking to illustrators, writers, komikeros, and zinesters gives me perspective. Our insights (and friendship) show me what needs are and aren’t being met while getting me to see more possibilities for us as artists.

Now, I believe that self-expression can only take me so far, as my ideas flow furthest when I engage with material made by others, be it literary or “extraliterary.” Poetry welcomed me by encouraging that I test the distinction between the two.

As a genre, poetry willingly lends itself to overlaps. It can house hybrid forms, it delights in playful language, and it offers endless chances to experiment. When I came to grips with being transmasculine, I felt uncomfortable with the disclaimers of fiction and nonfiction, the line between real and not. Poetry didn’t have me choose. As I began reading more books by queer and trans poets of color, many of whom I have a dear professor to thank for introducing to me, the more my conviction in my future grew. Being a poet made me realize that my transitioning self was real, even though he wasn’t fully embodied yet.

Sometimes, I wish I’d arrived at this level of clarity sooner (read: before I drowned in my thesis), but I’m grateful nonetheless. Without my friends, mentors, and those writers I admire from afar, I wouldn’t have tried to put myself out there and soak up the opportunities that revealed themselves once I paid attention. No, in this timeline, I remain spurred when it comes to sending my poems out and starting new projects while my current manuscript sits in a contest inbox.

Having these connections almost makes me forget that I’m still the slippery, spunky, and super clunky kid that I was ten years ago. A younger Aylli dreamed of becoming a published writer, but he didn’t imagine that he’d be on the masthead of an international literary journal, or work for a U.S.-based publication, or be on a first-name basis with so many brilliant artists and writers, but here I am! A bit worn out, a bit bruised, but way less “I hate my body” and much more “This isn’t even my final form.”

Looking back, what alarmed me about the note saying I didn’t have a choice wasn’t the thought of my not liking that outcome, but the fact that I could no longer hide its importance to me. I enjoy withholding details, and being vulnerable doesn’t come easy. But when you’re a writer and everything else in the drop-down menu of the word, there comes a point where you admit that not having to confess anything (if you don’t want to) doesn’t absolve you of the need to be honest about what you want.

I’m excited to spend the next six months as an editorial intern at Sundress Publications. This is a dedicated press run by volunteers who deliver on the kind of care that writers deserve, and I feel privileged to play a short part in seeing it thrive. Editorial assistance is crucial to bridging the gap between necessary stories and the audiences that seek them. I want to support and offer this practice in my endeavors at home. I want to continue being led by wonder and respect. I want to inject myself into the world. I want to dream of the places my craft will take me, and of what I’ll become. Most of all, I want to choose to admit this.

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Aylli Cortez (he/they) is a transmasc Filipino poet and creative writing graduate of Ateneo de Manila University, where he received a DALISAYAN Award in the Arts for Poetry in 2024. His work has appeared in VERDANT Journal, en*gendered lit, Bullshit Lit, HAD, and like a field, among others. Based in Metro Manila, he is currently a poetry reader for ANMLY and a member of the Ateneo Press Review Crew. Find him on Bluesky and Instagram @1159cowboy or visit his website.