Author name: Claire Albrecht

Claire Albrecht is a poet and editor from Mulubinba (Newcastle), now based on Wiradjuri Country. Her work has been published widely in Australia, New Zealand, and Canada. She was the 2019 Emerging Writers Festival fellow at the State Library of Victoria, a 2020 Varuna ‘Writing Fire, Writing Drought’ fellow, the 2021 West Darling Arts Writer in Residence, and a 2022 resident at the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation in New Mexico, USA. Claire's published books include pinky swear and handshake, and her poem 'The Anabranch' won the 2022 Newcastle Poetry Prize. Claire is Editor-in-Chief of The Suburban Review.

#32 Editorial

Well, here it is—the final issue in our ten month celebration of ten years publishing The Suburban Review. This is the birthday issue, the milestone, and the feather in the cap of all the staff, writers, board directors, and supporters who have been involved since 2013. And most of all, this is a thank you—for the opportunity to learn from and lead this powerhouse of generous publishing, and for the chance to learn what Tenacity might mean in such an industry. Like the figures in Rebecca Stewart’s wonderful cover, we know that it involves a whole lot of work, and the joy of creation.

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#29 Editorial

Earlier this year I received the news that an old friend of mine had passed away. He’d gone at New Years—unable to bear, I guess, the symbolic turn into yet another year, yet another cycle. I spent two months not feeling this, keeping it tight under my skin; not realising how the grief was itching at me.

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#27 Editorial

There’s a purple-flowered, climbing weed somewhere in my yard at all times. We call it the ‘alien vine’ for its powerful and persistent occupation of our space, and its otherworldly ability to wind its way through walls, under the deck, up through the roof, or into the windows of the shed.

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#25 Editorial

I don’t know about anyone else, but it’s only March and I’m already out of juice for 2022. It feels like everything that was put off, set aside, or marked as ‘too hard’ over the last two years has been concentrated into this new and promising year, and I for one am worn thin—like I’ve been strained of my pulp; squeezed out.

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#23 Editorial

Yesterday I saw my six year old niece for the first time in years. She sat on a car boot while I waved hi from the front of my house, unable to go and hold her to me tightly.

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