They are also the author of a fiction collection, Reveal Codes (2023), winner of the Moon City Press Short Fiction Award; a chapbook, #stringofbeads (2023), winner of the Diode Chapbook Competition; and five volumes of poetry, most recently tsunami vs. the fukushima 50 (2019), named a “Best Book of 2019” by the New York Public Library and listed as a poetry finalist in the 2020 Lambda Literary Awards. Roripaugh received the Association of Asian American Studies Book Award in Poetry/Prose for 2004 and was a 1998 winner of The National Poetry Series. A professor emeritus of English at the University of South Dakota, they live in Atlanta, Georgia, and Laramie, Wyoming, and currently serve as a faculty mentor at the Carlow University and University of Nebraska low-residency MFA programs.
Roripaugh's new book, co-edited with Heidi Czerwiec, is The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Writing the Lyric Essay: Insights and Prompts from Contemporary Writers and Teachers.
Recently I asked the writer about what she was reading. Roripaugh's reply:
I just finished reading Ruth Ozeki’s enchanting debut collection of short stories, The Typing Lady—a collection that is about, among other things, writers and readers, memory, and loss. In the closing lines of the eponymously titled opening story, “The Typing Lady,” Ozeki writes: “Stories are like that. They are collaborations between people who read and people who type. They are how we co-create each other and dream ourselves into being.” These are stories in which characters counter profoundVisit Lee Horikoshi Roripaugh's website, and learn more about The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Writing the Lyric Essay at the publisher's website.loss through intense curiosity and engagement—tracing the narrative threads of their lives backwards into past memories, as well as intrepidly turning the pages forward into surprisingly quirky, or unexpected moments. Ozeki seems to suggest that curiosity and attentiveness are how one remains present within the story of one’s life, and that books, reading, and writing, are a means by which to anchor, commemorate, and assign meaning to these stories. In the end, though, even what has been preserved in the materiality of books or printed matter are not perdurable in the face of time, as evidenced by images of silverfish eating language, and rendering typeface into an intricate lace. And yet, it’s the stories that are told, exchanged, co-created, and dreamed in the present, that seemingly give a calamitous world meaning. In the final story, the protagonist, a writer and retired English professor, says: “Books are like a rhizomatic network—a vast, subconscious fungal mat that spreads beneath human consciousness, knitting the world of thought together...” I read this book in the late summer, in my former childhood home in Laramie, Wyoming, full of my deceased parents’ hoarding, an anthropological site of memory and absence, and I was struck by the collaborative power of these stories: how they intertwined and tangled themselves within my own network of narrative threads, how they made me want to read further, how they made me want to pull the dust cover from my father’s Olivetti Studio 44 manual typewriter and type.
--Marshal Zeringue





























