Hi! I’m Saturn, and I’m so honored and excited to be an editorial intern! A little about me: I’m a Chinese-Vietnamese immigrant to the U.S., a Taurus and ENFJ, and I currently study in Connecticut as a prospective Comparative Literature and ??? (TBD) major. In my free time, I like to create graphics and websites as a means of self-expression, boil maple syrup, drink iced coffee, DJ techno music, visit art galleries/museums/aquariums, and consume an absurd amount of content—books, films, video essays, old albums only discoverable on YouTube, UI/UX tutorials, personal blogs, you name it. This sense of media also pervades my interests and my mind when I write: much of what I produce has been ekphrasis, and I see it as a form that elevates writing to new levels. I also write a lot about bodies of water, love, and grief, and it can be seen through my chapbook BLOODPATHS (Kith Books, 2023), and my work-in-progress project EMPRESS OF LONGING (book about my situationships that have destroyed me). 

The world does not end when you’re seventeen. I knew this when I began writing, yet, at the same time, it does not feel that way for me. When I began writing a few years ago, I had no idea where this practice would take me, and it’s brought me so much wonderful people and things into my life, and I can’t imagine where I’d be otherwise.

I’m currently a senior in high school (hello youngest Sundress intern title!), and entering college next year. Life, for me, has barely begun, yet I also feel that I have experienced enough for a lifetime. Since my sophomore year, I’ve always been the youngest person at poetry commitments, online internships, activism spaces, and more. It’s challenged me in the way that I’ve had to work twice as hard to gain the respect of my peers, yet the feeling of my voice being heard has become much, much more valuable.

I began writing at a time of self-crisis and discovery, yet I’ve been reading for years before. Growing up in southern China, I found myself learning about the world through novels and websites, and when I moved to America, the language barriers fueled my urge to understand my surroundings even further. 

It makes sense, then, why I take so much inspiration from other teen-into-adult poets, and especially writers who are also queer and Asian, such as Kaylee Jeong, Stephanie Chang (both of which were undress interns and helped me find this opportunity), K-Ming Chang, Jennie Xie, Alexander Chee and others. I also find inspiration from pieces of art which honestly document human experiences—Tracy Emin’s My Bed, Felix Gonzalez-Torres’s Portrait of Ross in L.A., On Kawara’s Today series, for example—and art galleries highlighting marginalized voices and communities from around the world. When I began writing, I’d hoped to channel something similar: by using my experiences as queer, immigrant, FGLI, and more, I wanted to speak to others and let them know their experiences and identities do not make them alone.

My offer at Sundress meant that I could work on becoming the platform to elevate these same artists I admired for most of my life, and be a part of the community which made their voices matter. Whether it be through helping put together PR for manuscripts or writing reviews and interviews highlighting smaller authors, I hope to work and uncover more such voices of intersectionality at Sundress, and bring them to more budding writers like myself. 

Saturn Browne (she/they) is a Chinese-Vietnamese immigrant and the Connecticut Youth Poet Laureate, East Coast Asian American Student Union (ECAASU) Artist-in-Residence, and the author of BLOODPATHS. Her work has been recognized by Gone Lawn, GASHER, Beaver Mag, the Pulitzer Center, Foyle Young Poets, and others. She is an incoming undergraduate student at Yale University.

Before I picked up Robin Gow’s Lanternfly August (Driftwood Press 2023), I couldn’t imagine a rich, in depth fascination with lanternflies, or any bug, for that matter. Gow’s exploration of the oft overlooked, the things so carelessly crushed and destroyed for being invasive, invited me to see them, instead of just stamping out that which is different or other. Lanternfly August a fascinating entry into his body of work as a proud and prolific queer author, well-versed in the poetic canon in which he
belongs.

I love noticing moments of deception in poetry. Often the speaker hides a deeper meaning underneath their lines, and is strategic when revealing truths; Gow makes this look really easy. For example, in “Ant Trap,” it writes, “I / promise you, I know what it means to crave” (78). At a casual glance, you can see it knows its stuff (and it’s showing off a bit!). He is a well-studied poet, as is evident in the way he weaves multiple different styles into the collection. There’s a ghazal, an elegy, an aubade, and a handful of visually experimental poems that are just loads of fun to twist your head around to read. In an era where the merit and utility of the MFA is constantly and hotly debated in journals and on Reddit alike, it is nice to see a clear answer: Gow knows its craft so well, and you can tell because it’s practiced and polished in a way that can only be achieved through the sort of sanding down that an MFA program provides.

As a result, countless moments in these pages tugged at my heart while I read. In “Yard Sale,” Gow writes,

“For a few dollars

I will let you own the faint smell of my mother and

a quilt that comes alive at night and tries to heal you

with spoonfuls of olive oil. Then, also, the wall clock

only capable of announcing afternoons.” (77)

Here, Gow retreats slightly from the conceit of lanternflies, opting instead to dwell in a more casual entomophilia. It refers to the offerings in the yard sale as cradled “armfuls of species” and clothing from its past life as its mother’s daughter as dresses with “moth winged shoulders” (Gow 77) The suggestion of insect, of other, inserts this work in a larger conversation, without feeling shoehorned into an obscure subject matter.

We are treated to gorgeous existentialism in “Lanternfly Futurity.” Gow writes, “Tomorrow we will all be born again in a bowl of sugar. Will I still be / beautiful without my hunger?” (76). This is the heart of Lanternfly August, as we finally reach the place readers have been circling throughout the first half of the collection. Gow continues: “To be a lanternfly is to forget the future while somehow living / inside it” (76). Here, fae touches on so many of the central points of the book but, primarily, what it means to be trans to this author.

This specific poem teases out that feeling many of us artists have stowed away deep: the need to always reinvent the present self, to always be one step ahead. When Gow questions, “will I still be beautiful without my hunger?”, I hear, will I still be beautiful on the other side of the need to always reinvent myself as a person, as an artist? Further, when I have achieve accolades, and the need to earn a place in the artistic canon wanes (because I am there), will my work still be as good? As necessary? With Lanternfly August, Gow reaches beyond the confines of his pages in this work, took all of our hands, and said: I see you.

An important aspect of poetry, but specifically queer poetry, is an inherent act of defiance (perhaps even activism). By its very existence, and that of its author, queer poetry dares to be present and take up space. That being said, defiance can be messy, and can leave behind wounds in its wake. Always having to stand up and be present in spaces that aren’t always welcoming can be daunting, scarring. After healing, will I still be beautiful? It’s a heavy question to undertake, and yet Gow asks in such a plain matter that if you blink, you’ll miss it. Slotted in as the second sentence in this work — not the first — makes it an easy strike to miss, and yet this only demonstrates the author’s tactical skill and love for the artform.

Lanternfly August is available at Driftwood Press

Sierra Farrare, a skilled self-published author with an MFA in Creative Writing & Publishing Arts, proudly calls Baltimore her home. With an enduring passion for storytelling and a keen eye for detail, she can turn even people-watching into an extreme sport. When she’s not crafting her next piece, she can be found meticulously organizing her workspace or dissecting niche pop culture theories.

I do not just have a love for reading, but a love for books as well—the physical embodiment of the story in paperback form is my favorite, but I don’t mind a hardcover either. I admire the people who do not walk through life with back pain and bad posture because they are content with a kindle or ebook. I, however, am not that type of person. To me, my bookshelves stand almost like a work of art.

I am currently a senior in college, but when I return to my childhood home for breaks, I always look at my first bookshelf as the truest masterpiece I have ever curated.

“The Masterpiece” has been read many times over. It is four rows, stuffed without order, to hold 98 books. In addition to literature, there is a shocking amount of dust and trinkets (seashells, a high school diploma, the original box from the box set of The Selection series, etc.). Of course, the centerpiece is a hardcover set of all seven Harry Potter books.

“The Masterpiece” carries stories that strictly happen “in a land far, far away.” It is littered with magic, superpowers, and world-saving teenagers that possess some sort of extraordinary ability that they were unaware of until the first, maybe second, chapter of this trilogy (it was always a trilogy). There are diamonds in the rough, here, that have withstood the test of early adulthood (Red Queen, Cruel Prince, Percy Jackson, The Hunger Games), but the majority of them are books that you only realize are unintentionally hilarious upon forethought. This recognition only makes it more amazing and magical that I held them so close to my heart, and with such sincere care as a kid. 

A moment that is not rare amongst those who love books is the moment you realize that you need another bookshelf. Mine did not come to me, but rather to my mom, no longer delighted with books splayed across various random surfaces. Thus, I was gifted two more bookshelves to reel in the damage, and they are towering. 

Half way through filling up one shelf, I suppose I was no longer satiated by tales of magic and happy endings. Mysteries, contemporaries, biographies, and historical fiction are stacked towards the bottom. They are all sun bleached, the borders yellowed, the covers lighter, and the pages softer. This is because when I was 16 I got my first job as a lifeguard. The change in genre preference most likely came as a result of me not wanting to explain to my coworkers that I was on the seventh book in a nine part series about fairy warriors overthrowing the corrupt fairy government in a fantastical land, that is actually part of a much broader fictional universe, when they casually asked me “What are you reading?” For all parties involved, it was much easier and more normal to answer, “Michelle Obama’s memoir.” And so, my bookshelf began to be filled with realistic fiction, and even nonfiction (a concept that would have made fifteen-year-old me shudder with boredom).

The books that I read as a sweating, miserable, and overly dramatic high schooler, sitting in 100 degree heat at my first job, are stacked together in unity and remembrance of that time. Paper Towns by John Green became an important book to me that summer because the concept of a literal paper town encouraged—and gave importance to—my feeling that fiction could be powerful, and that it had the ability to embed itself into reality. The story took place in a suburb of Florida, and I, as the characters, grew up in a suburb in Florida and wanted more than it could offer me. 

Deciding which books to bring to my first semester of college was a month-long thought process. Should I bring just the ones that I haven’t read yet? Should I bring the ones that I know I love so things can feel a little bit more like home? Should I trust the library and pack sparingly; it’s hard to move everything you need for college in the first place? 

I cannot even describe the emotional toll that leaving the Twilight series behind took on me. I would bring it back with me after I came home for winter break because me and Edward Cullen just could not spend another semester apart.

As I said, college complicates life for a book lover because your books exist in a sort of liminal space—some come with you, some stay back, some are acquired here, there, in airports, on road trips, and then you bring them home to your childhood bedroom and just start stacking.

When I look at my bookshelf at home, I think of where I was when I read it: physically, mentally, what my favorite song was, where I started the book, where I finished it, what it meant to me back then and what it means to me now. I am reinvigorate with reading, reminded of the many ways these books have changed me, and reminded why I came to love reading in the first place. 

When I look at the stacks of books I have in my college apartment, compared to the ones I grew up surrounded by, I see that I now read to understand the world around me, rather than to take a break from it.

I suppose that is what growing up is, and I suppose my shelves, stacks, and piles of stories tell a bit of a story about me. For that, I am content with the back pain that carrying a book gives me, and will continue to avoid the temptation of the ever-appealing ebooks. 

Caitlin Mulqueen is a senior at the University of Tennessee majoring in English and Journalism. She loves reading, playing piano, watching sports, and the Oxford comma. She has worked as an Editorial Graphics Production intern at ESPN, is a copy editor at The Daily Beacon, a student writer for Tennessee Athletics, a graphics and video operator for the SEC Network, and a marketing/social media intern for the Knoxville Ice Bears. With the majority of her undergraduate work being in sports media, literary media has remained her sincerest passion, finding stories that come out of sports to be as moving as those from literature.

These days, I try to visit libraries more than bookstores, but the damage to my wallet has already been done. The books I own are easily the most valuable thing in my home, both monetarily and emotionally. Though, remembering my brother’s complaints about the heaviness of my boxes while helping me move, I doubt I will come home one day to find a thief has stolen my books. Some of my books are below my tea collection on the shelf pictured above. Others are in odd places in my apartment. A few have taken a permanent place in my tote bags or near my bed. Most of my books were bought used and hold small reminders of their previous owners; old plane tickets, receipts, stickers, photos. When I finally sat down to read Edward Said’s memoir, twenty dollars silently slipped out of its pages and into my lap. Some books are well-loved, others not so much. Most of the books bought after a recommendation from a teacher or friend fall into the latter category, but maybe I’m just a picky reader. Other books I bought before being recommended them, namely Claudia Rankine’s Citizen and All About Love: New Visions by bell hooks. One professor excitedly told me about a Palestinian play being shown at a local theater, which turned out to be a playbook I already owned: The Shroud Maker by Ahmad Masoud.

Despite not writing much fiction myself, fiction is what I consume the most of. I cannot rave enough about The Beauty of Your Face by Sahar Mustafa, but my favorite book is The Blue Between Sky and Water by Susan Abulhawa. It isn’t Abulhawa’s most popular book by any means, but I’ve yet to find another work of art that has moved me the same way, though her other books have also brought tears to my eyes. My poetry collection collects the most dust. I do love (most) of my poetry books very dearly, but I just don’t consume poetry as easily as I do fiction and nonfiction. I like to read poems unrushed so I can take the time to contemplate and annotate. I like to read poems freshly showered. I like to be warm and comfortable when I read poems, with a candle blazing quietly and a little drink near by. This sort of free time has become rare to me as a student, so most of what I read is assigned to me for class. Though I was required to buy and read these, I’ve grown to love and learn from Marwa Helal’s Ante Body and Customs by Solmaz Sharif. My love of fiction and poetry collide with a flower from my family’s pomegranate tree on Tar Baby by Toni Morrison in the form of a signature that does not belong to Toni Morrison. A poet signed Tar Baby for me after I met him with Morrison’s book in my bag instead of his own. I sometimes wonder if authors could recognize their signature among other vague squiggles. If you can guess who signed my book, give yourself a pat on the back.

I cannot write about my books without including the nonfiction that helped shape my view on the world, like the classic by Edward Said, Orientalism, or others, including Frantz Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks. I would be doing a greater disservice to myself if I didn’t mention the most influential author in my life: my grandfather. In 1948, my grandfather was expelled from his home and land in the Palestinian village of Ishwa’ outside Jerusalem. His attempts to return were cut short after his imprisonment by Zionist militias, but he never stopped trying to return to Ishwa’. His priceless memories of his village and people were published in Ishwa’: a Palestinian Village in 1998. The book is a preservation of Ishwa’s history with testimonies from my grandfather and other Nakba survivors. David Ben-Gurion famously once said about Palestinian refugees, “The old will die and the young will forget.” My grandfather and family stand as just one refutation to this statement. Our old live after death and our young are born with the memories of the Nakba.

Hedaya Hasan is a Palestinian writer and designer based in Chicago.

Where threads of culture, family, and faith intertwine, lies Nomenclatures of Invisibility (BOA Editions, 2023). Navigating the liminal spaces between past and present, homeland and adopted country, Mahtem Shiferraw skillfully weaves together a tapestry of verse that speaks to the heart of the immigrant experience. Through his evocative imagery and lyrical prose, Shiferraw invites readers into a world where identities are constantly in flux, shaped by the ghosts of ancestors and the weight of inherited trauma.

The core of Nomenclatures of Invisibility is stated openly in the starting poem, “The Eucalyptus Tree I.” Writing, “Everywhere we go, we smell of death / and something sweet” (9), Shiferraw immediately plunges the reader into a lush world juxtaposed by color and grief. This whole collection, too, follows death, yet combines it with motifs of nature. In the title poem, “Nomenclatures of Invisibility,” Shiferraw writes,

Here, Shiferraw paints a bright image for the reader, imagining the loss of memories and personhood due to the voyage (as part of the transatlantic slave trade). With the lines,  “When white faces sprout, / we are told to set ourselves ablaze” (10), she addresses the involvement of colonialism within the process of her family history. Shifferraw also writes: “the loss that follows us everywhere: /  behind mountains, past oceans, into / the heads of trees, how to swallow / a tongue that speaks with too many accents?” (10), showing the impact of those structures onto their individual personhood.

This idea of death haunts the reader throughout the collection. In “the Slaughter,” death is not simply mentioned but becomes the refrain. Shiferraw writes: “By this, we know to expect / the slaughter, and though our deaths are / not new, the dread will always break us open” (45), once again showing the amount of brute violence within her family’s past.

Shiferraw boldly confronts her roots and adds depth into her lineage, breaking past generational and other larger, institutional molds. The poem “Wuchalle” is a perfect example of Shiferraw’s poetic challenge. Written after the Treaty of Wuchalle, in which Italy claimed protectorate over Ethiopia, “the Italians, in Ethiopia, / granting anything, which implies: permissions, / relinquished” (22). Later on in the poem, Shiferraw questions the etymological nuances behind ownership of not just land and people, but also of language. Writing through the full history of the word of Ethiopia, but also keystone events in Ethiopia’s history,  Shiferraw culminates the resistance of her work in the poems’ final lines: “all over our bodies, suddenly spewing outwards / the insidious ways of ownership” (28). The idea of possession as colonial is something which Shiferraw hinges on through this whole piece, and with these two lines, she hits her point home. 

Another motif Shiferraw employs is that of the body. In “War,” Shiferraw exemplifies: “all things foreign – note: referring / to me, or, my body, as a thing; an object – are / made of war, or: things infested by war” (#). Similarly, in “Black Thing,” she writes, “we wear these maps on our bodies, / filled with bone etchings” (54). Here, Shiferraw uses the body and its parts as a metaphor for the different ways which history and lineage of colonialism has imprinted upon her. Yet, Shiferraw also radicalizes the body as a form of memoir and beauty. For example, in “Transcendence,” she writes of a woman whose “skin browns, henna drizzling / with the maps of ancient cities / she understands are found in her belly” (52). In “Mother Mango II,” Shiferraw directly compares her mother to a mango tree, writing, “Mother grows tall and orange; / everywhere she goes, a small / sun adorns new horizons” (65). The tone here becomes more hopeful and positive as Shiferraw changes our perspective of the body not just as a basin of hurt but also love and joy. 

Near the end of the collection, Shiferraw too seems to have undergone the same metamorphosis, writing in “Little Fires” that “I take these little fires / with me everywhere I go” (73). She has understood the differences in which her body—along with other female bodies—can be used for good, utilizing that confidence for herself to create change.

Nomenclatures of Invisibility is a collection full of promise, growth, and emotion. By the end, readers will not only understand the deep cultural roots behind Shiferraw’s work but also emerge freshened from their previous connotations on the body and language. As Shiferraw writes herself at the end of “Nomenclatures of Invisibility,” “This kind of language we know; / naming new things into our invisibility / and this, we too, call home” (13).

Nomenclatures of Invisibility is available from BOA Editions.

Saturn Browne (she/they) is a Chinese-Vietnamese immigrant and the Connecticut Youth Poet Laureate, East Coast Asian American Student Union (ECAASU) Artist in Residence, and the author of BLOODPATHS. Her work has been recognized by Gone Lawn, GASHER, Beaver Mag, Pulitzer Center, Foyle Young Poets, and others. She is an incoming undergraduate student at Yale University.

My bookshelf is more of a figurative shelf, one that follows me everywhere. The above bookshelf is the one in my bedroom in my parents’ house, which houses tomes I haven’t chosen to bring with me in my new places.

I moved from my home state, California, when I was twelve. In Montreal, my new home, I moved to two different houses. Now I live in an apartment in Vancouver, the second place I have lived in this new city.  

The bookshelf in my parents’ home carries memories from many years. I am a Virgo, which suggests that I am organized, and in most ways, this is true. I tend to organize in a way that works for me only, though. An organized mess, you could say.  

My methods are exemplified in the way I ordered the books on my parents’ home bookshelf. On the left side, I have a favorites shelf, and then a second-favorites shelf. These include childhood reads like Cornelia Funke or Philip Pullman, as well as teen favorites, like John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. I have two “to read” shelves, and these grow consistently, particularly around the holidays. One of the new additions is a poetry collection by Mary Oliver. 

On the right side, I keep all my academic texts, from high school to CEGEP to university. Within these I have a favorites (and then a second-favorites) shelf as well; notable mentions are Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Bernard Schlink’s The Reader, and Norman Cantor’s Civilization of the Middle Ages. The organized mess continues here. Every book is where it should be, but some are placed horizontally above a row of others, or leaned strategically against a shelf wall to keep others in place. 

In my current apartment is a sporadic collection of library books, academic books, and the select few I brought with me when I moved. Sometimes when I visit my parents for holidays, I bring back others to join that group. Favorites in my apartment include Eve Babitz’s Slow Days, Fast Company, Orion Carloto’s Film For Her, and Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis. My last library read was Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston. 

Books follow me everywhere. Last week I flew from Montreal to Vancouver, and I was worried all flight long about my new orange leather purse, weighed down well past its limit by the many books I decided must come with me. I have always been someone with things strewn across the world, it seems. Sometimes I forget a title in my childhood best friend’s home in California. Sometimes I lend books, and forget who the lucky recipient was. Sometimes I leave them all around my apartment and then spend a frantic ten minutes running around the place before I leave for class. It’s natural for me, and although it can be frustrating, it feels right that stories would attach to me this way. They’re never really mine, anyway. I just borrow them for little bits of life, learning devoutly from one before becoming enamoured with another.  

Isabelle Whittall is pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in combined Philosophy and Political Science at the University of British Columbia (UBC). She co-hosts the radio show Hail! Discordia! on CITR 101.9fm, and is an Editorial Board Member of UBC’s Journal of Philosophical Enquiries.  

The act of writing about oneself always seems weirdly impersonal to me. The donning of a narrator role to reveal my triumphs, my failures, and all that’s in between seems like it’d be a job for someone else. I think that it’s still the Northerner’s privacy mindset talking. I grew up about an hour away from Chicago alongside the corn, snow, and prairie grass of the Midwest. My town was the same as any other small town, we had the typical small-town Americana feel: a parade every so often to celebrate some event or another, a fun rivalry with the next town over, and a big fancy house in the center of everything that the local government had invested in preserving. 

Knoxville feels entirely different; this city feels more like a bunch of towns shambled together underneath a trench coat. The people are different too, kinder and way more interested in making eye contact. The “good mornings” and “ma’ams” got to be grating pretty quick, but they too became less anomalous after a while. Family dinners became a weekly occurrence when I moved down South, I came the year after my parents and it seems they acclimated rather quickly. My mother got cast iron within the first month and now swears by it. I’ve never seen my dad more invested in a sport other than collegiate women’s basketball. Making good friends proved to be difficult for a while, but thankfully a fellow out-of-state transplant and a die-hard Swiftie came to my rescue. They support me in everything I do- even when I’m in the wrong. I am very lucky to have the people in my life that I do and I am eternally grateful for them.  

Upon my graduation in May of 2024, I will be the second woman in my family to have achieved a college degree, with my mother having the honor of being first. It took a while and it was difficult, especially as I have worked and gone to school simultaneously since I was fourteen. My mother convinced me to take a semester off between my sophomore and junior years as I wasn’t unsure as to whether or not I was taking the right path. Even though I could not see it then, I can see now how necessary that break was to recalibrate. My first semester back I met someone who prefers to not see their name in print and has since become a trusted advisor of mine.  This past fall, I met a scholarly artist who convinced me that I should have bigger dreams. Since my return, I have steadily improved my skills, joined The Daily Beacon, and performed at my academic best.  I am incredibly lucky to have had the opportunities I have both professionally and personally and look forward to my future in graduate work.

Maggie Diedrich is a senior at the University of Tennessee Knoxville and will graduate with her Bachelor’s in English Rhetoric and Writing. She is a contributor at The Daily Beacon and enjoys tattoos, reading, and music. 

Hello! My name is Hiba Syed, and as one of the new editorial interns, I can’t wait to work with the amazing team at Sundress Publications. I graduated just last year with a BA in English from Maryville University near St. Louis, where I am still based. Though my field is a highly unusual choice in my cultural community, I chose it because I believe books have been my life’s most constant passion for a reason.

Coming from a big family of people who don’t read more than they have to, I make up for it by reading enough for all of us combined. Some people stress-eat, or stress-clean, while I am prone to stress-read. Of all the problems my first-generation immigrant, engineer parents anticipated when they had their first child, having to listen to elementary school teachers explain that their daughter’s library book had to be confiscated mid-lesson was not one of them. My ability to focus has improved greatly since then, but even now, I always have an e-book or a physical novel within arm’s reach. So naturally, I couldn’t picture myself happily working with anything other than the written word.

In terms of reading tastes, my first love was definitely fantasy, but nowadays I gravitate towards translated literature, classics, and poetry. I am also always scoping out works, new and old, English and translated, by Muslim and South Asian authors. Some of my favorite titles are The Laughter by Sonora Jha, The Bandit Queens by Parini Shroff, and Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier.

In my free time, aside from reading, I hoard recipes, try some of those recipes, and go on long walks until my audiobooks run out. My professional journey is only just kicking off, but I’m excited to see where this opportunity will take me. Thank you for reading! 

Hiba Syed is a Pakistani-American writer and reviewer with an appreciation for all genres. Having recently graduated with a BA in English, she fills her time traveling, experimenting in the kitchen, and reading anything she can get her hands on. Currently she resides in St. Louis, Missouri.