Dear Readers and Writers —

We launched Longridge Review 9 years ago this March. It was the professionalization of the Essays on Childhood project that began in 2011. We would never have gotten off the ground without our launch issue writers, Margaret Ward McClain, Douglas Imbrogno, Jeremy Dae Paden, and artist Sarah C.B. Guthrie.

I keep trying to think of a magical or easy-ish way to say this is the end; maybe I can’t do it because I’m not sure it is the end. The truth is, it is the end of how we have operated for nearly a decade.

The current plan is keep the site up as an archive, to consider a print anthology, and to look at either continuing exclusively with the Barnhill Prize here or finding a new home for said literary prize.

Longridge Review built a community, a literary family. Defining an end to that community is not in my blood. We have something here that cannot die or be taken away. We have shared our life stories, our narratives of pain and joy that we brought into the world. We built understanding and grace and epiphany.

None of this was my doing alone. I am deeply grateful to editors Suzanne Farrell Smith, Mary Heather Noble, Beth Duttera Newman, and Molly Young Maass; and to readers Semein Washington, Thea Princewill, and Crystal Good; and to M. Randal Owain, Carter Sickels, Mike Smith, Sonja Livingston, and Neema Avashia for serving as Barnhill Prize judges.

And to our brilliant and vulnerable writers, our luminous artists, and our smart and compassionate readers: You made this community work. You wrote and you read and you created and shared this special genre with ferocious love. Thank you for that, and for helping me bring a lifelong dream into reality.

I will always be grateful for you.

And until we meet again, stay true to your story.

Very Truly Yours,

EDG

The past is never dead. It’s not even past. William Faulkner wrote that in his novel Requiem For A nun, and my mom liked to quote it a lot. I found an addendum of sorts to it online recently, a quote by a writer named Greg Iles from his book The Quiet Game. I want to read it to you because I think it speaks to grief in a powerful way. Iles wrote, “Faulkner said the past is never dead. It’s not even past. All of us labor in web spun long before we were born. Webs of heredity and environment, of desire and consequence, of history and eternity. Haunted by wrong turns and roads not taken. We pursue images perceived as new, but whose providence dates to the dim dramas of childhood, which are themselves but ripples of consequence echoing down the generations. The quotidian demands of life distract from this resonance of images and events. But some of us feel it always.”

Anderson Cooper, All There Is, January 10, 2024