Sierra cement. That's what the weatherman called it. Thick, heavy, wet snow, falling all over the valley non-stop for days. Not the kind we're used to around here. Not that light Uinta powder that piles up like angel food cake—what our license plates call “The Greatest Snow on Earth”— but the kind of snow that weighs everything down; breaks branches, breaks shovels, breaks backs (or at least throws them out). It's great for snowballs, my kids tell me, but it has been so cold that no one wants to go out.We shovel, of course, because that's what you do if you don't want ice to build up on your driveway, and for the first few days we can keep up—but then, one morning we look out the window to find another several inches of new snow, and no sign of it stopping. Sure, something like a rumor of sun has risen in the unseen distance, but everything is gray, the ceiling of the world hangs low, the air muffled. On day one it was beautiful, but now it feels relentless, a bit isolating, a hint of menace in the creeping cold—like the great wild has put us all on notice, lest we forget who's really in charge. And now there's no use in shoveling at all, no use doing anything but wait.But then, just like that, the blizzard stops. The dark blanket of sky lifts, and neighbors emerge from their garages like hope. There's the scrape of shovels, the rumble of someone's little snow blower. Everywhere are shimmering drifts, and large clumps of snow fall from branches, as if the trees are shaking themselves free. Someone's dog bounds into the yard. Someone rolls by in their car, brave but unsteady. It's only been a few days, and I know it sounds like a cliché, but every time a storm lifts, it feels like some kind of rebirth—and I'm taken by the surprise and delight of so much life revealing itself around me.It's all not unlike my experience with the writing life, which can be beautiful, sublime even, but also quiet, cold, and sometimes suffocatingly lonely. We have all found ourselves buried in work, overcome by the relentless demands of the blank page, cut off enough to forget, even if for just a moment, that we aren't alone. But working at a literary magazine means that quite often the clouds of work part and the sun comes out, and we get to celebrate what our literary neighbors have been working on.Pat and I have enjoyed reading the many outstanding essays that have come across our desks these past several months, and we are happy to present some of them here, including the winner of our most recent Michael Steinberg Memorial Essay contest, “The Rest is History,” by Peggy Shinner, and several contest finalists as well. We'd also like to point readers to our website, fourthgenre.org, where you can find book reviews, craft essays, interviews, archival content, and the winner of our 2022 Multi-Media Essay contest, “Out of Body,” by Madeline Curtis.As always, thank you for reading.
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Jun 1, 2023
Edgelynn Venuti 
Open Access