I started The Ophelia Review for several reasons.
First, I wanted to write about Shirley Jackson (and who doesn’t?).
Second, I wanted to avoid doing my physics homework.
Third, I wanted to write and read and think about my ideas in a completely unrestrained way—not for money, not for grades, not for praise, but simply for the joy of reading and writing and thinking. I like to do those things, but a lot of the time I do them while worrying too much about MLA format.
Fourth, I am, and have always been, in great despair that there aren’t any more women’s literary magazines. In fact, I’m in great despair that there aren’t very many literary magazines of any persuasion any more. There’s really only The New Yorker, which is often exhausting. We want writing that is delightful and feminist, you fools! Stop writing exposés on vaping! There’s nothing left to expose!
Fifth, and this is the culmination of all points that came before it, I am a little bit crazy and a little bit messy, and I like to write about other women who were too. I can’t say that it’s important work, except that it’s important to me and I am important to me and therefore I couldn’t be doing anything more gravely unimportant. Or more giddily important, depending on how you look at things. I can’t say that it’s good work, except that it’s good to me.
In conclusion: I’m seventeen and self important. There’s nothing I can do at this point in my life except write. I plan to do that and I plan to enjoy it, and that is as good a thing as I can imagine. That’s why I started The Ophelia Review. That’s why I continue to write it, in sporadic and ill-mannered bursts. That’s why I am who I am right now, and that’s why I’ll always be a little bit like me.
Let’s rock and roll.