Before joining the editorial staff, I was published in The Citron Review. That was (ahem…) about eight and a half years ago. After a re-reading of the piece that Citron took a chance on, I’m a bit struck with wonder and curiosity. Who was that surreal writer even? Could I write like much younger me today? Would I even want to? And would the me of the future be comfortable with such a shameless plug? (Sadly, yes.) Are my writerly values and proclivities evolving or merely deemed acceptable or unacceptable by the publishing process itself. Furthermore, if I have success placing a beloved piece that highlights a specific theme or motion of storytelling, will I keep grinding that “pop” formula?

If we love music, we’ve asked this question: Why can’t (insert musician) write a good song anymore? And still furthermore, how do the Pet Shop Boys continue to make my car’s CD player pop off? The James Ford produced, Nonetheless was underrated, friends. Don’t even start on the “Schlager Hit Parade,” it knows exactly what it’s doing. Please note that’s my least favorite new Pet Shop Boys song and I still love it madly. And I love that they haven’t been casually promoting genocide or oppression with a synth pop beat. Keep that streak alive, Boys. Pride Month should be all year.

I bring it all up because I’ve been thinking about the way writers change over time and the ways that they don’t. (It’s akin to the way I might think about place. For example, did the Washington D.C. reflecting pool ever have that much algae before? Cue the research.) I can’t always see change in my own work unless I sit down and compare pieces across decades. The distance of time helps me see. Maybe my penchant for interruptions and parentheticals never disappeared. Maybe I still emphatically represent repetition. Maybe runs of three are hard for me to escape. Maybe I try to anyway. But as much as I’m certain about understanding my own mysterious writing process and product, I continue to seek out what my kindred spirits are doing these days.

So, I’m happy to report that we’re lucky to welcome a couple of former contributors back to our Micros section in our Summer issue.

The always fantastic Mikki Aronoff sent us two new pieces. One is “Agita,” a piece that loops us into the ordinary in an extraordinary way. The other piece features Citron’s longest title ever, “Neighbors Respond to the Village Detective Helping Monsieur et Madame O— Search for Their Baby, Missing Since Tuesday.” Only a couple of years ago, we published (and Pushcart-nominated) Mikki Aronoff’s creative nonfiction piece “Dysphagia.” This piece is getting a second wind over at former Citron editor Charlotte Hamrick’s quite excellent nonfiction journal, saltsugarsalt lit. If you check it out, you’ll also get the writer’s commentary. Mikki’s ever-sharp turn of phrase and her precise ability to drop us into a visceral sensory experience is always present and always welcome.

When Jose Hernandez Diaz sent us three haiku, I knew we had to snap up these defiant rule-breakers. If found myself reading them in a loop, a reminder that prayers or mantras might not always be perfect, but perhaps we can let them simply be. Rereading 2022’s piece, “Monster” made me wonder about how our writerly influences still find ways to pop out and haunt us. Can we continue to make our best work, even when we know that our inspiration points are indeed problematic? In Citron’s pages, Jose Hernandez Diaz has opened doors for us to explore who we’ve become as writers and for that I’m thankful.

I’m always excited to see our former contributors send work our way. Though we don’t always have the room to publish them, I hope that our prodigal bunch continues to break through our slush pile and show us new sides of their writing lives.

In our Summer Micros section, we are also pleased to welcome work from first-time Citron writers like Elanur Williams, (“First Flight,”) Lavinia Liang, (“Recourse,”)  Kapka Nilan, (“Night Party”) and Liz deBeer, “Beyond the Break.” The way one feels life in the body, whether it’s human, animal, or via nature unites these works in ways that felt like an escape that goes inward somehow.