Congratulations to Korie for having their following short story chosen for publication on Blank Canvas Post. The short story that follows is a truly wonderful exploration of coming of age, identity, and loneliness. Please read the follow conversation between us at Blank Canvas Post and Korie to understand more about the writer and the context for this brilliant short story.
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Writer Spotlight: Korie Cedre
Raised in California, currently based in Washington State, USA, Korie has been writing since they were an elementary student, reading the infamous Warrior Cats. “However, I have been pursuing writing seriously for about six years now”, says Korie. “I graduated with a BA in English Creative Writing in 2020, and recently my MA in Professional and Creative Writing. Although I academically pursued writing, I have only just begun truly chasing the writing dream and submitting to journals and literary reviews, and even more recently, posting on Substack!”.
What was it that made you start writing?
Dare I say One Direction fan fiction. I have always loved reading and the idea of writing something that makes people giggle, gasp, or even shed a tear. Once I started writing, I realised that it was much more than typing out a story. It was a release, a powerful tool, and could be life changing. There is so much that goes into writing than we even realise, such as rhetoric, the impact of literary devices, hours of research, trial and error, and more. Although the cheesy fanfics are what inspired me to start writing, the writing process is why I continue to do it. There is no greater feeling than seeing growth in my writing, and how vastly different my first drafts are to their final product.
What experiences have you had that have shaped the writer you are today?
There are two that come to mind. One is from when I would write short stories about my friend’s original character and hearing the absolute joy in her voice. She would comment how amazing it was to see her character come to life, and I could not agree more. I love complex characters and the layers to unpeel that attaches us to them. Another experience is when I had my first big writing workshop on my short story in college. Everyone had read my story, then we sat in a circle and everyone discussed as I listened. Receiving not only feedback, but comments about what made my writing strong stirred something inside and I would hang on to every word. I carry each piece of feedback with me into m next written piece, which I think reflects in the writer I am today.
What genres are you writing at the moment? What genres do you enjoy writing?
I have a passion for coming-of-age themes, and dragons. I am currently working on my first long-fiction project about a young male that sets off to defeat the dragon threatening his kingdom. Although it is a fantasy setting, it will address serious topics that no one teaches you how to handle, including grieving loved ones and your childhood, being unsure of who you are, and making the right decisions. I enjoy writing young adult fiction, with a splash of poetry and short story.
What inspires you to write? Where do you take your inspiration from?
Inspiration is everywhere. If there is a complex character with layers of lore, I am all over it and want to know every detail to help me write more in-depth characters. If there’s something I am struggling to understand, it also inspires me to write in attempt to make sense of it. I play video games, I read, I greet strangers on the street, and I make sure to always be kind. These little acts keep me inspired.
What does your writing process look like (e.g., environment, tools, setting)?
That is a great question, and is always changing. Currently, I write when the idea is here, beginning with bullet points. I then start with an outline, from beginning to end. This helps me approach the story I want to write without becoming overwhelmed. My tools are not fancy, primarily being Google Docs or Word, but I always keep a tab open for WordHippo. If I ever get stuck, I will step away to go on a walk, or you might catch me talking to myself. I highly recommend the “rubber ducky” method where you get an inanimate object and pretend it is listening to your lecture or you are trying to explain something to it. This helps a lot with sorting out the writing process. Lastly, I take care of myself. Sleep when you need it, eat whole foods, dance to your favorite album, then come back to your writing desk when you are ready.
What do you envisage when you are writing something new? Are you writing with the intention of sharing your work, or are you simply writing to write, for example?
I write to write, and to bring the characters I create and love to life. I also write to understand things that might be troubling me. There is comfort in writing about what I do not completely understand just yet, but knowing I have the ability to research and learn about it.
Why do you think community is important for writers and creative people?
Community is significant for writers, especially since it can be such an isolating activity. The topics we choose to write about can also be intense or complicated, and having a community to lean on when you need it is everything. I have a group of friends that are also creative individuals. We host “creative nights” where we share what we are currently working on, where we are stuck, what we want to talk through and work out, and to overall just share ideas. I always leave these sessions feeling so inspired and motivated to write, especially since this community has given my writing purpose. It encourages me knowing there are others that believe in my writing ability too, and want to support the writing process.
Where do you currently share your work?
I am currently posting on Substack, but you can find my other published works on my website kcedre16.wixsite.com/my-site-2. My recent poem publication “A Robot’s Anxiety” can be found in MSU Roadrunner Review, Issue 8.
Why did you submit your work to Blank Canvas Post? What drew you to our publication?
I submitted to Blank Canvas Post as I found it as a great opportunity to continue trying to get my work out there. Blank Canvas Post seemed like a warm and welcoming platform to all writers of any skill level, and I wanted to be a part of this value. A massive thank you to Blank Canvas Post for accepting my submission!
About the Short Story: The Youngest Daughter
Regarding The Youngest Daughter, what inspired you to write this piece?
This was the first short story I wrote during my graduate program. I had applied to this program on a whim, and was caught in a spiral of how I got there and wanted to reflect on who I was.
What is the context for this piece? What is the main feeling or message behind it?
“The Youngest Daughter” is a coming-of-age short story that follows a young girl through her childhood as she experiences the loneliness of being the youngest child, all while trying to discover what it truly means to “be yourself.”
What was the process of writing this piece like for you? What did this process look like?
I was able to workshop this piece through my graduate program, dedicating a few hours a day to this piece. I had a great community of other writers also starting the program who provided feedback and support. If I was ever unsure, I would look at my childhood photos or call my family to chat, not about the writing, but just about us.
Why did you choose this piece specifically to Blank Canvas Post?
I decided to submit this piece as I had it lingering in my documents for a while, but I wasn’t sure if I was ready to share it just yet, but I knew I was proud of it. I found Blank Canvas Post to be warm and welcoming to all writers, so I wanted to take my chance and submit.
So, without further ado, here is The Youngest Daughter, a short story, written by Korie.
The Youngest Daughter, by Korie Cedre
At seven, I am seated at a round dinner table. There’s a thin veil of smoke hanging over, carrying the smell of cooked food from the stove. It blurs the faces around me, but I can tell from the laughter that I am surrounded by my family. My sister, Lorena, is removing the husk from a tamale and puts it onto our brother’s plate as she talks about her enlistment. Mom and Dad are sitting next to each other, sharing a cup of coffee as they listen intently. It is an early Christmas morning, California’s sun peeking through the blinds just enough for me to catch a glimpse of their smiles.
I try to pay attention, but I am too young to understand anything, so I drift into the background instead. The smoke’s warmth coats me like a blanket.
At eight years old I am crouching at the top of the staircase, watching my sister lug a camouflage duffle bag down the steps. I raise my hand to wave at her one last time, but she doesn’t see it from where she hugs my mom goodbye at the front door. The same hand drops and touches the spot on my forehead she kissed just a few minutes ago as if in an attempt to preserve it, but I already feel it fading away like an old photo. The fog grows denser as my mom closes the door behind them. She wipes a few tears from her eyes, and we both stare at the door for a while.
The year I turn eleven is the same year I start middle school. There’s a buzz in the air from students jogging to meet with their friends, catching each other up about their summer activities. I recognise a few faces from elementary school as they group up with each other, but nobody is looking my way.
My brother bumps into me as he swings his backpack over his shoulder. I go to push him back but am distracted by a man in a yellow vest yelling at my mom to leave so the next car can pull in. Mom blows us a kiss, reminding Alex about band practice after school before driving off.
“Mom told me to show you around,” Alex starts, “but how about I don’t do that. I’ll be in the band room if you need me.” He sends a text on his phone before sliding it shut and tucking it into his front pocket.
“That’s fine, I guess. See you later,” I mumble. Alex ruffles my hair then leaves.
As soon as I can no longer see him, unfamiliarity swarms over me and a mist rolls in. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans as I look up at my new school. Queasiness rises from my stomach and into my throat; the taste of Lucky Charms lingering on my tongue.
In class, I find my name on a desk towards the back of the classroom. It’s not long until a girl finds her’s next to mine, offering me a closed-mouth smile as she sits. Stretching my neck, I read the tag on her desk, Megan.
“God, it is so hot outside.” Megan pulls her hair back with her hands.
“Yeah. I wish it would rain again,” I say. No matter my age, I love the sound of rain and watching the raindrops race on the car window.
“I know, right?” Megan grins, letting her hair fall around her shoulders before leaning into my space. “The rain makes my hair frizzy though and I hate that. The summer is better anyways,” Megan continues.
I catch the shift in her tone, a sudden change that I don’t know what to say next. My mind yells to think of something, but I can only nod.
Silence hangs in the air as her eyes scan my face. After observation, Megan just sighs and slumps into her chair. Her eyes flicker around the room to look at anything else but me. I can feel the space between us widens into a canyon. My feet are at the edge and awkwardness is behind my back, waiting impatiently to push me off as it whispers, “What would Megan want to hear?”
“I know, right? The rain sucks.” I force a smile.
They say kids are the most precious thing to exist. At fourteen I am having trouble believing this as I watch my younger cousin backwash menudo into her water cup. Lorena and all our tías and tíos are visiting for my mom’s birthday. It is my first time seeing Lorena since she left for the military, and I cannot even recall the last time I saw most of my extended family.
“Wow! Last time I saw you, you were just a baby.”
I’m pulled from my thoughts by laughter erupting from the dinner table where everyone sat. My tía shouts her story over the Spanish music blasting from the speaker, my dad is handing out beers, and my brother and sister are there too, chuckling as they listen. Wanting to be a part of whatever seems entertaining, I get up and join my mom at the table.
“You want seconds, mija?” Mom asks, squeezing lime into her bowl. She glances back to see my empty one on the plastic toy table I was sitting at.
“No, I’m full.” I look around at the disfigured faces in the haze. “What was so funny?”
“Just some adult business.” She quickly sucks the lime juice from her thumb. “If you’re bored, go show your cousins your room.”
I am sitting on my bed as the party dies downstairs, scrolling through my phone for an ounce of amusement. My younger cousins have fallen asleep in the living room, and my parents still won’t allow me to join in adult conversations, so I resign myself to where I am most familiar.
There’s a knock on the door and Lorena follows right after with a cupcake in hand.
“How has school been?” She looks at the posters on the walls.
“It’s been good,” I mumble with a mouth full of frosting.
“That’s good.”
“How has work been?”
“A lot of work, but it’s good.” Lorena picks up an old photo frame that has the word “sisters” in sparkling purple letters across the top, but there’s no photo inside.
“That’s good,” I repeat.
Lorena asks a few more questions about things she has already heard from the parents, and I ask her a few about things I don’t know much about. She had left the door open, fog rolling along the floor and filling the space in my room, becoming denser with each question. Her face little by little becomes foggy, but I am not desperate enough to try to clear it. It feels like I am trying to make conversation with a stranger at a grocery store. It’s a tiresome cycle I repeated several times throughout the night already.
As Lorena leaves the room, I can’t help the guilty feeling that ties me to my room for the rest of her stay. I make occasional appearances for meals, only to have the same conversation no matter who I speak with in my family.
Discomfort is suffocating. Begging to breathe, I seek any means to keep the conversation going, or closer to the end. So, I put into use what I know from the conversations I can have. A series of mimicking phrases, questions, hand gestures, in hopes they find comfort in the familiar.
I am fifteen. My parents ask for Alex and me to come down to the dinner table. They tell us that they are separating. It’s an early summer’s day but the clouds outside are sitting low enough that coldness trails into the house. It whispers promises of protection into my ear if I drift off into my thoughts. My mind gives into the temptations of their whispers, seeking warmth in my imagination that I miss the rest of my family’s conversation.
My friends and I are sixteen, discussing our most recent rendezvous with our crushes. When it’s my turn, I make up a story about an imaginary boy from another school. I tuck my hair behind my ear like they do, I turn my head away to hide a smile, and I make sure to throw in a few phrases that are currently in rotation in the friend group.
After school, I recreate these gestures in the bathroom to understand what they see. The steam from the running shower fogs the mirror until I can no longer see myself and instead shows the faces of my friends as I practice.
At seventeen I am saying goodbye to Alex as he leaves for college. The one face I have always seen so clearly, and I’m sure he can see me too. There’s a weight in my chest as I think about how we will no longer have video game afternoons. It is a quiet morning with no one to argue with about who makes breakfast. I make a bowl of cereal and sit alone at the dining table meant to seat five.
Fog knocks at the front door but welcomes itself in, dressed in its finest attire and sits at the empty chairs. I wonder who I am when there is no one there to reflect.
I am eighteen years old, waving to my parents from the window of my college dorm as they drive away. Turning to face my new room, I frown at the lack of colour. My side of the dorm has no decorations, just plaid sheets on the bed, a book-bag on the desk, and a mirror in the corner.
Covering the carpeted floor, is the dark fog swirling throughout the room. I begged the fog earlier to leave with my parents, but it said it needed to see just one more thing. It climbs my legs, ensuring me it just wants to keep me safe; a safety net in case I ever need to step away from everything happening around me.
Our conversation is interrupted by a turning doorknob. A girl around my age enters the dorm, wearing a hoodie despite the blazing sun outside. She is carrying a large box which she almost drops upon seeing me, a gasp escaping her lips as she safely catches it.
“Sorry,” I speak up. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” My hand finds its way to the back of my earring and twists it, seeking comfort in this action.
“No, I’m sorry if I scared you.” She laughs sheepishly, her eyes taking a few seconds to roam over me. She places the box onto her empty desk and opens it. She pulls out an opened package of sheets, plaid grey just like mine.
“Oh, we’re matching,” I attempt to speak up, a slight tremble in my voice. I continue twisting my jewellry.
“We are. Guess the website knows how to pair roommates after all.” She chuckles, referring to the site that made us answer questions about our preferences before the big move-in-day. A few weeks after taking it, the website emailed us the name of who our roommate would be based on who matched similarly. I recall opening the email and seeing the name Janell listed.
After taking the rest of her items out, Janell hops on to the bare mattress to face me. She observes me for a few seconds before her hand also travels to the back of her earring. Our eyes meet, deafening silence as we’re unsure of what to say next.
The tension is uncomfortable, but in a different way than I am used to as it doesn’t have the same tight feeling around my throat. I see Janell roll her lips as she tries not to laugh without breaking eye contact, and I do the same. The tension lessens as we both cannot win the fight and burst into laughter. The sound is warm and the fog thins around my feet.
We introduce ourselves and start to talk about the other items we brought and what the next day will bring. As she shares with me details about her career goals, I happen to glance in the mirror and notice I am, for the first time, seeing myself through someone else.
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Wow! Thank you. This so powerfully describes the neurodivergent yearning to be part of something but not knowing how until you find your people. ❤️❤️