THE BLOOMSBURN DISPATCH - On Witnessing
THE BLOOMSBURN DISPATCH
The Editor's Desk | May 2026
On Witnessing
A Note from the Editor
There is a word that has surfaced across our network this
month, appearing in various forms, in various contexts, always with the same
quiet insistence: witness.
It's a word we often take for granted. To witness is simply
to see, isn't it? To observe. To be present. But the stories our writers have
been telling this May suggest something far heavier. Something that carries
moral weight, terrible cost, and unexpected grace. To witness is to choose not
to turn away. It is to accept the burden of seeing, and to carry that seeing
forward.
What follows is not a summary of what our network has
published. It is a conversation with it. A chance for us, here at The Dispatch,
to consider what these writers are telling us, and what we make of it.
On The Book Club Gazette
The Gazette's May selection has struck me as particularly
urgent. Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar is a novel about a young poet and recovering
addict whose mother died in a plane crash when he was an infant—a tragedy of
chance, not politics, yet one he cannot stop trying to turn into meaning. As he
researches martyrs for a strange, experimental art project, he confronts the
question haunting his entire existence: Can a life be a prayer? Can a death be
a poem?
What moves me about this selection is its insistence that we
need our suffering to be witnessed. Cyrus desperately wants his mother's death
to mean something—not because he is naive, but because he is human. The
alternative—that tragedy is random, meaningless, indifferent—is unbearable. So
we make meaning. We tell stories. We witness one another's pain, and in doing
so, we make it bearable.
The Gazette asks: "Does the novel argue that meaning is
imposed or discovered? Is a random tragedy harder to bear than a sacrificial
one?"
I find myself wondering: what tragedies have I tried to make
meaningful? And what have I simply refused to see?
The Gazette's other selections echo this theme. The Heaven
& Earth Grocery Store by James McBride is a novel about who gets to be
seen, who gets erased, and who secretly watches and remembers. I Who Have Never
Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman asks what remains when all witnesses have left.
We Are Not Free by Traci Chee follows fourteen Japanese American teenagers
witnessing the same injustice differently. And Migrants by Issa Watanabe offers
a wordless, stunningly rendered journey that asks us to bear witness to
displacement without the buffer of language.
Together, these selections form a kind of syllabus for moral
attention. They ask us: who witnessed you at your most invisible? And whom have
you failed to see?
On The Writer's Herald
James and Evelyn have turned their attention this month to
the dreaded "sagging middle"—that vast, treacherous territory between
the promise of Chapter One and the fulfillment of The End. It is, they argue,
where many manuscripts falter, not for lack of ideas, but for lack of momentum.
Their diagnosis is sharp: a sagging middle is almost always
a problem of consequence. Scenes become episodic—"this happens, and then
this happens"—rather than causal—"this happens, and so this
happens." The middle, they insist, must transform the protagonist. They
should end it as a different person than they began it, forged in the fires of
the obstacles placed in their path.
What I admire about their approach is the practical humanity
of it. They acknowledge that the middle is the marathon, not the sprint.
Evelyn's strategy—when the main plot feels stuck, pivot to a subplot—is a
reminder that creativity is not always linear. Sometimes, the solution to a
problem is found not by forcing it, but by stepping sideways.
Their "But/Therefore" rule is a gift to any writer
struggling with momentum: replace "and then" with "but" or
"therefore." See the difference? The second version creates
propulsion. Every beat is a reaction, forcing the next move.
This, I think, is what writing demands: the willingness to
keep moving, even when the path is uncertain. To witness our own process, and
trust that the ending will arrive.
On The Young Listener's Chronicle
Katie Jones has written something this month that feels
particularly timely. She addresses the modern dilemma of balancing screens,
audiobooks, and the irreplaceable act of reading aloud together.
Her premise is refreshingly balanced: technology isn't the
enemy of storytime. A well-chosen audiobook during a long car journey or a
beautifully animated short before bed can be a gateway to imagination. The
challenge lies in intentionality—in choosing tools that enhance, rather than
replace, the human connection at the centre of a good story.
Her "Story Layer Cake" model is a practical
framework that I find myself wanting to share with every parent I know:
Base Layer (Daily): Physical, shared reading. This is
non-negotiable nourishment.
Middle Layer (Frequent): Audiobooks enjoyed together during
quiet time or travel. This is supplemental enrichment.
Top Layer (Occasional Treat): A watched adaptation or
animated short, engaged with actively and discussed.
What I appreciate most is her insistence that the human
voice—with all its imperfections and familiarity—is the most important sound in
a child's literary world. It carries love and security. No algorithm can
replicate that.
This is, I think, what Bloomsburn is ultimately about: not
rejecting technology, but putting it in its proper, subordinate place to the
irreplaceable act of reading together. Choosing tools that serve the story, and
our relationships, rather than distract from them.
Katie's practical advice—listen together, seek quality,
follow the spark—reminds us that witnessing is not passive. It is active. It is
a choice to be present.
On Folklore & Fable Wire
Folklore & Fable Wire has done something remarkable this
month: they have traced the thread of the bargain myth from ancient legend to
modern anxiety, and the result is a piece that feels urgently relevant.
They begin with the anatomy of the mythic deal: the
desperate need, the otherworldly dealer, the tempting offer, the hidden cost,
the reckoning. From Rumpelstiltskin to Faust, from djinn to Fae lords, the
pattern is consistent. Power, wealth, love, talent, or life itself is offered.
The price is always something profoundly human: a firstborn child, a soul, a
voice, a memory, a true name.
What strikes me is their insistence that these myths persist
because they dramatize a fundamental human truth: everything has a cost. They
speak to our hunger to bypass struggle, to achieve our dreams without the
tedious, painful work. They admit how seductive that is, then show us the
skulls lining that easy road.
Their connection to the modern world is particularly deft:
the "terms of service" we sign without reading, trading our data and
privacy for convenience; the celebrity who "sold their soul for
fame"; the Faustian bargain of industrial advancement—untold power and
comfort in exchange for the long-term health of our planet.
"Read before you sign," they conclude. "Count
the cost. Name the hidden terms. And ask yourself: when the bill comes due,
what currency will they demand?"
I find myself wondering: what bargains have I made without
reading the fine print? What have I traded for the sake of convenience,
ambition, or escape?
On The Imaginarium Review
The Imaginarium Review has returned this month with
something that feels like a gentle, firm hand on the shoulder for anyone who
has ever doubted their own magic. Their review of Kiki's Delivery Service
(1989) is a meditation on the magic of the unremarkable.
Kiki, a young witch who must leave home for a year to find
her own town and her own specialty, excels at only one thing: flying. And so,
she becomes a delivery girl. Her magic isn't used to fight monsters, but to
return a forgotten pacifier, to deliver a herring pie for a grandmother's
birthday, to help an artist find her voice.
The film's central metaphor is Kiki's loss of her ability to
fly—not from a villain's curse, but from burnout, loneliness, and a crisis of
confidence. Her path back isn't through a grand battle, but through friendship,
rest, and a moment of selfless courage that rekindles her spark.
What moves me about this review is its insistence that the
greatest adventures are found in the application of our own unique skills to
the world before us. Kiki's story argues that your gift, however simple, has
value when used to weave the fabric of a community. It posits that losing your
passion is not a permanent failure, but a sign you need to reconnect with your
heart.
The Review's second offering—Swallows and Amazons by Arthur
Ransome (1930)—echoes this theme. The magic here is not of wands, but of
protocol. A wooded island becomes uncharted territory. A camp becomes a
fortress. A pair of dinghies become a merchant vessel and a pirate sloop. The
children are granted breathtaking agency by their mother's famous telegram:
"BETTER DROWNED THAN DUFFERS IF NOT DUFFERS WON'T DROWN."
Together, these two works—separated by decades and
mediums—sing the same essential song: that the greatest adventures are found in
the application of your own unique skills to the world before you. One does it
with introspective beauty, the other with hearty, outdoorsy rigor. Both are, in
their way, perfect.
On The Bloomsburn Dispatch
So, what do we make of all this?
Witnessing, in all its forms, has been the thread running
through May's publications. The Book Club Gazette explored it through fiction,
asking who gets to be seen and who gets erased. The Writer's Herald examined it
through craft, teaching us to witness our own process and trust that the ending
will arrive. The Young Listener's Chronicle found it in the intimate act of
reading aloud, insisting that the human voice is irreplaceable. Folklore &
Fable Wire traced it through myth, warning us to count the cost of our
bargains. The Imaginarium Review celebrated it in the generous act of receiving
a story.
Across the network, a single truth emerges to witness is to
choose not to turn away. It is to accept the burden of seeing, and to carry
that seeing forward. Whether we are witnessing a character's suffering, our own
creative process, the voice of a child, or the weight of a myth, we are
participating in the oldest human covenant: to see, and to be seen.
But here is what I take from these pieces, collectively:
witnessing is not passive. It is not simply observation. It is a choice. A
commitment. An act of courage. The stories we read, the ones we tell, the myths
we inherit, they are all, in their own way, invitations to witness. To see the
world more clearly. To see ourselves more honestly. To choose not to turn away.
And perhaps, as Kiki and the Swallows and Amazons remind us,
witnessing is also about finding our place. About using our gifts, however
simple, to weave the fabric of a community. About claiming our own sovereign
territory, whether it's a foreign city or a wooded island, and building a life
of meaning within it.
This Month's Audio Feature
Throughout May, we continue to celebrate the audio universe
of Joules Young, available at hocksbox.com.
Tales from the Story Catcher—the full collection—is now
available to stream or purchase. From Oliver Hefflewhistle and the Gingham
Glimmergit to The Wizard of Nibble-on-the-Moor, these stories are a reminder
that witnessing is not always heavy. Sometimes, witnessing is simply sitting
with a story and letting it be. Letting it wash over you. Letting it change
you.
Purchase at www.hocksbox.com.
Looking Ahead: June is coming and we are open to it.
We invite you to join us.
A Final Word
Bloomsburn is not a finished thing. It is a living thing. It
grows with its readers. It changes with the stories it publishes. It becomes
what we, writers and readers together—choose to make it.
This month, we have explored witnessing. And always, always,
we will return to the stories. Because that is what this is, in the end. A
gathering. A community of people who still believe that words matter.
And the read is the point.
Bloomsburn. Independent blogs
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