“Where we’re going”
From the editor – thank you for reading Issue 4 of Locative Magazine, Honey//Lemon.
This is unusual for me. I’m not usually one to do an editorial for Locative. I’ve always believed in letting the writing speak for itself, and I’ve enjoyed the anonymity, distance and facelessness that the online space (and an occasional swapping of “I” for “we”) offers.
But I’ll make an exception this time, on the publication of Locative Magazine’s fourth issue. In my mind this is the occasion where something transforms – more than just an aspiration or a whimsy, this is now an ongoing project. I’ve made a pattern.
I’m quite resistant to the individualistic (and capitalist) urge to make each iteration bigger and better than the last. It’s an allure which burns within me, but which I know is unsustainable. To bring numbers into my reflection, I can reveal that each issue of Locative Magazine attracts a submission count of around 80 – 120, which gives us an acceptance rate of a little over 10%. I really like these numbers – it means I can read each work with detail and care, and leave positive feedback to any writer who deserves it. I have plans in case submission numbers rise, but I’d also be wholly satisfied for them to stay where they are.
Issue 4: Honey//Lemon is, in particular, a determined exercise in remaining small. Retreating from a lofty theme of Fate//Chance where the published works danced with notions of eternity and destiny, I hoped that the grounded symbols of honey and lemons would attract writing that delighted in the everyday. That recognised the gently sweet and sour moments of our lives.
Ordinariness is a difficult theme in this day and age. In just the two years since the start of Locative Magazine, we’ve all had to bear witness to events which should never feel ordinary. We’ve seen generative AI emerging as a threat to the arts, and to human creativity. We’ve seen political policies enacted which harm the vulnerable. And we’ve seen heartbreaking loss of lives and livelihoods due to armed conflict.
What is a poem in these times? What is a writer to do?
I’ve put in the labour for Issue 4 mostly by reminding myself to keep going. By setting aside the larger political and social ramifications of creative work, to focus on the more practical tasks of reading, editing, promoting. But I’ve also tried to consider an answer to these questions. This is what I have settled on.
My answer to why we continue to make literature in this age of crisis goes beyond the argument for literature’s ability to enact political change. I certainly believe it can. But I also think that as humans, we are making literature in all circumstances. We do it always. We eat, we sleep, we dream, we leave a record. To feel disturbed or guilty about doing this in a time of crisis is natural, but we cannot put creative expression on pause in hope of a return to what we might consider normal. Even in the darkest times of human history, where creativity and free-expression have been violently suppressed, writers have not only produced creative work but gifted us some of the most urgent and enduring words we have. They are words we can seek out to make sense of what is happening today.
In a way, our desire to create is the same as our desire to survive. I am reminded of the ancient poems on trading cards my grandfather challenged me to recite as a child. At the age of five I couldn’t appreciate the meaning behind the verses or the significance that they were older than me by a millennium, but I did grasp a simpler truth: that poetry is words written in a special way, to be worth remembering.
We are writing. Our words will be remembered. I’m very humbled, as a small publisher, to be able to aid in this process.
My friend Helen recently had a story published in Meanjin titled “The flight of birds”, which reminded me of a habit I’d practised since I was young and when I was feeling anxious or overwhelmed. I’d step outside and listen closely to try and find the sound of a bird. There would always be one. No matter how artificial or polluted an environment was, I’d be able to find one. It’s a grounding strategy that I often forget that I have, until the very moment I need it.
In fact, let’s take a moment to listen together. Below is a short recording from my balcony. I live in an apartment above a train line and a busy street. Can you hear the birds?
I think of fiction and poetry as functioning in similar ways. Just as birds call out to one another to signal that they are alive, our writing calls out to one another too. If the sounds of birds are the signature of the land they live on, then writing is a signature of people, where they live, what they are going through. Whether it’s a delicate familial memory as in the poems of Allanna Bills or the social implications of local and ancestral cuisine in Troy Wong’s poetry, or a coming of age as in Tara E. Berg’s short story “Spilled Milk”, I hope that these words will be enjoyed just like the first sounds of birds on a bright morning.
The protagonist of Chris Browley’s “Where the Rubies Come From” shares this same habit with me, searching for the call of the violetbird even though he lives in a desolate place where there hasn’t been a bird’s song for years. And yet, he holds out hope. He crafts beauty out of the tears of a dying world. He knows that things are not normal, that they were once better, and yet he continues on.
I hope we all continue on in that same way. I have nothing but admiration for those who devote their time and resources, and their physical bodies, to making the world better in spite of the circumstances we face. Let this collection of poems and stories not be escapism or distraction, but grounding birdsong. A small celebration of new, emerging and established Australian voices, turning language into meaning and beauty the way all human beings do. I want to say an enormous thank you to all our published writers, everyone who has supported us in person and on social media, everyone who has submitted work to Locative Magazine, and all our wonderful readers and community members.
I’m excited to say that this project is going to continue. I hope I’ve been able to articulate my motivations. So, now. Let’s keep going.
Harvey Liu
Harvey Liu is the editor and founder of Locative Magazine. He lives and works on Gadigal and Darug land. He is working on a novel manuscript titled White Ash, Black Ash, which has been shortlisted for the 2025 Richell Prize. He is of Chinese-Australian background.
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