Writing is shaping the energy of our experiences
Nikki Kallio & BrightFlame discuss witchcraft, short stories & dystopia vs. utopia
Nikki talks about her literary short story collection, Finding the Bones, which weaves together science fiction, gothic storytelling, and paranormality. BrightFlame discusses The Working, a fantasy novel about witches trying to protect their coven from a gas pipeline.
BrightFlame: My first thought on reading Finding the Bones and contemplating our discussion is that your book reaches deep into the feeling of losing all the preciousness, the beauty, and the natural world of Earth. Mine seeks a way to avert such a dystopian outcome.
You grabbed me right away with “Geography Lesson”, the story where a child who was born on a generation ship after a meteor hit Earth is learning about the planet she’ll never experience. She reduces a learning to “a river is skinny water and an ocean is wide water.” Her father is left figuring out how to convey the micro and macro natural world—the beauty, the wonder, the visceral experience. I wondered reading this and other of your stories in the collection if you wrote from within climate despair or climate grief. And whether or not such feelings hold you more often than not. Or, whether you wanted to instill in the reader the horror of losing the natural world so that we all do something about it. Or all of the above.
Nikki Kallio: That’s a great observation. I certainly think I draw from a sense of climate despair/grief in my writing, though those feelings held me more deeply when I first began to write, which was in college in the 1990s. That’s when I really began to learn about and understand the potential impacts of climate change. Honestly, that caused me to search out my own deeper connections to nature, including through an internship at a wildlife center. I think you’re correct about instilling a sense of horror, though I know that impacts people in different ways—it can be a motivator or it can create resignation. Writing became a way for me to process and imagine life in these possible futures and to discover how people might still desire and seek out their own connection to the natural world and recognize its preciousness.
Even though many of the potential impacts I learned about in college are, in fact, happening now, I do feel more hope—for one, the science of climate change is almost universally accepted (even if policy hasn’t always followed) whereas in the 1990s it was still highly polarized. And I see many more artists and writers like you who are creating stories that focus on averting disaster, working together, and believing in the possibility of a brighter future. I really loved how in The Working your characters were so distinctive, with diverse lives and story arcs, yet they had this common desire, interest and motivation to work together. Your writing seems to come from a place of hope and positivity, at least ultimately—and I know in your own life you’ve taken positive action, including writing solarpunk and co-founding the Center for Sustainable Futures at Columbia University, which helps bring people together with a common vision. How does your own experience lend to your outlook and translate into your writing?
BF: Well, I can’t say that’s a constant outlook! Likely no one is always hopeful about the future. The things you mentioned—writing and bringing people together—are my paths to find hope. Connecting with other solarpunks, hearing about their work, and reading optimistic futures keep my compass pointing towards hope. In fact, feeling part of the solarpunk movement lifts me. It’s a term that fits how I walk through life.
For instance, I’ve always been a web-weaver: I enjoy connecting people and collaborating—aspects of solarpunk—which inspires me. I begin my bio with the statement: I write, teach, and make magic for just, sustainable futures—a statement that makes me smile and also brings me back to hope.
My global, non-hierarchical, ecofeminist Witchcraft tradition—Reclaiming—aligns with solarpunk. We strive for so many of solarpunk’s aspirations and qualities: antiracist, anticolonial, anti-transphobic, anti-ableist, collaborating, lifting communities, acting for all forms of justice.
In 2016, I co-offered a workshop, “Stories for the Future,” with author, Witch, and activist Starhawk. As part of the workshop, Starhawk led an immersive journey (a visualization) to visit those futures. I could practically taste the future I desired, which led to my incorporating such futures and such curriculum in my work. Keeping my eye on that future is an act of hope and keeps me going.
[SPOILER AHEAD] While I chose an optimistic lens for The Working, your stories use a dystopic lens. Your last page of the last story, “The Fledgling,” really brought that home. I was hopeful that your character Elena would leave the artificial, insular world she’d sunken into and choose what her mother offered: a place in nature, outside the bleak city, a place where others might be making a go of it. But she doesn’t. Would you talk about your decision to end not only the story, but the book that way?
NK: I wanted Elena to leave the city too. And I think maybe in the imagined continuation of her story, she eventually does. But I think as humans we’re flawed and we can get damaged by what’s happening in our own lives and in the greater world, and I think she’d fallen into that space. I have compassion for the way we humans end up spinning our wheels sometimes—we don’t always make the right decisions or have enough energy or resilience left to do the right thing for ourselves. And it was a kind of reversal of roles for her and her mother, who was beginning to heal, and I think in Gin’s healing we can retain some hope for Elena, and for the future. But I also finished this story during the pandemic, and maybe that influenced my own headspace somewhat. I didn’t plan to end the book on a dark note for any special reason, but since many of my stories end that way or in an ambiguous way, I suppose it was natural. And admittedly sometimes I like fiction that makes me go “What? Nooooo…”
I love hearing about your workshop with Starhawk and the power of envisioning/visiting your future. It sounds transformational. Also, I really liked the way you incorporated ritual/practice throughout The Working, both as a window into this world, and for the ways it helped your characters evolve and grow, maybe most notably Betsy. Can you talk about the role of ritual for both your characters and yourself and how it helps keep or develop a focus on nature?
BF: One of the reasons I wrote The Working is to incorporate actual magic and ritual so those seeking such things can learn. I knew the story would be about a coven. As I got to know the members of the coven—and thank you for noticing how distinct each was, something I tried to assure—I had a sense of how each would sense energy and what they would bring to a ritual. I open the story from Betsy’s point of view as she’s the newest to the coven and totally insecure at the beginning. That allowed me to demonstrate actual ritual for those who’ve never experienced it. So the ritual in the first chapter is an on-ramp for Betsy and the reader.
Magic for me, is all about sensing and shaping energy. Some define it as changing our consciousness at will. While I incorporate formal ritual in the story—actions that take place in a cast circle—much of the coven’s activity is less formal and just as impactful and important. They sense and connect with the energy of the natural world both in physical reality and on the astral. They learn to feel connections with their energy field wide.
This is actual Witch practice and how I alter my consciousness and connect. I tried to lift the human-Nature connections throughout The Working, offering as visceral an experience as I could write. To do this, I opened my energy to the land and wrote from a light trance state.
Some of Sail’s writing that I embed in the novel—her environmental columns—are a great example. I wrote these as if I were leading an immersive journey in a workshop or ritual. (See the end of this interview for an extract of one of the columns!)
My partner and I tend the land we’re on as a native plant sanctuary. This land feels magical to me. But really what that means is that I’ve fostered relationships with Earth kin and the land. I acknowledge them and offer gratitude. And, truly, all land, all of Nature, feels magical to me! (A note here that we humans are part of, not separate from, Nature.) Where I live is the inspiration for where Sail lives in The Working.
My short solarpunk stories take this further—the future I imagine—the one I first glimpsed in my workshop with Starhawk—includes trees and fungi as characters. While connection, interrelationships, and the Web of Life are central to The Working, my futurist stories explore these notions much more deeply.
You and I share a deep connection with Nature. I sense from your stories you have similar ways of relating with the land. And you mentioned earlier your stint with a wildlife center. Would you share more about your relationship with the land and your process for incorporating visceral details in your stories to conjure sensations in readers? I’m thinking, for instance, of the small details of Nature expressed by your main character in “Geography Lesson,” but take us wherever you would like.
NK: You made it easy to visualize how your characters connected with the energy of the physical and astral worlds in The Working. And I like what you say about magic being about sensing and shaping energy. Maybe that’s what happens in the writing process when we get into the ‘flow,’ or the ‘zone’ — are we shaping the energy of our experiences?
I so appreciate what you said about our mutual connection with the natural world. My experience at the wildlife center was a powerful introduction into the direct impact of human activity on nature. Around the same time, I enrolled in a three-week ‘winterim’ course in Costa Rica on tropical ecology, so I got a greater global picture—many of the bird species from the Midwest wintered in the areas we visited. And I wrote my first newspaper article about that trip, which led eventually to a role as a journalist covering environmental issues. I learned a lot about air and water quality, regulation, citizen activism and social justice. The experience has stayed with me and sometimes translates into my fiction. Now, I stay connected with nature through frequent hikes or kayak trips. It’s a benefit of living in a rural area—plenty of options nearby.
I like your question about the visceral details — for me, noticing the striations in a leaf or the pattern in a bug’s wings more closely help me feel more connected and help keep a sense of wonder about the natural world. My father raised monarchs one year—talk about a sense of magic. The multiple transformations alone are amazing to witness, but there are also details like the delicate gold edging on the chrysalides. And to know their migration journeys are completed through generations—how?
And details act as signals—if we pay attention, we know we’re seeing fewer monarchs. So that’s telling us that something or multiple things are going wrong and needs repair.
In writing, I try to draw on details that build authentic fictional worlds, whether it’s the memory of light on ripples of water in “Geography Lesson” or peeling wallpaper in “Spirit Box.” I try to find something that helps create atmosphere without overloading the reader—their minds will fill in the blanks, and hopefully the details will be enough to create some emotion and sense of connection.
You mentioned creating characters from the natural world in your solarpunk—like trees and fungi—I’d like to hear more about these and how your futurist stories draw on these characters to emphasize the importance of interconnection.
BF: So far I’ve written about a dozen stories that take place in the solarpunk communities I call the Threads. A human communicates with an elder tree amidst the storm-ravaged, climate-changed coastline in the far Northeast of Turtle Island. Together, they attract like-minded humans who join with Forest to create the Threads. The mycorrhizal network aids in communication. The trees act as translators for other nonhumans. And the trees are part of the Thread’s decision-making Council alongside human representatives.
One of the Thread stories, “Myco Macro,” is an excellent example of how I use Fungi points of view. A human senses through mycelium points of view and becomes the first Fungi communicator in the Threads. In “When the Web Went Down” (in Bioluminescent), I’m not referring to the internet!
“Maybe We Are All Witches” explores other ways of knowing and how human and trees communicate. (Links to this story and other of my writing on my site, some of them available to read at no cost online.)
The Thread stories are in anthologies and magazines, and I’m seeking a publisher for these stories collected into a mosaic novel. I’m very excited about that project since the Threads are the delicious future I saw when first taking the journey with Starhawk that I mentioned. As we say, you need to be able to imagine what is possible in order to create these futures.
We need more creators writing the near-term trajectories—what can we do now to create those better futures? The Working does this. Perhaps my Ancestors who told me to get that story out to the world knew of solarpunk before I did! They likely didn’t call it solarpunk, but I felt them nudging: “the world needs this now.” So, thank you, Ancestors!
In addition to the Threads mosaic novel, I’m writing a nonfiction book on Solarpunk Witchcraft modeled around workshops I created.
This has been a delightful conversation—I’m glad to get to know you and your work more. Thank you for your offerings. I shared what I’m up to, and I’d love to hear what you are working on.
NK: Thanks, BrightFlame! I’ve loved this conversation too—it’s so lovely to get to know you and your writing as well. I’m excited to read your Thread stories.
I have a number of projects underway, including finishing a draft of a new sci-fi saga that centers on a half-human, half-alien protagonist whose ability to leave her body has been exploited. And I’m working on a memoir called This is Going to End Badly that centers on the convergence of my cancer diagnosis, a family member’s sudden death, and the onset of COVID-19. It’s an expansion of an essay I wrote for an anthology on women’s experiences during the pandemic.
And lastly, I’m reworking a cli-fi novel that has been with me for a long while—my book-in-a-drawer. When I started it, I really didn’t have the skills or experience or perspective it needed, but the core elements are there. I like to call it a collaboration with my younger self.
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Find out more about Finding the Bones and The Working, or read an extract below.
BrightFlame (she/they) writes, teaches, and makes magic towards a just, regenerative world. Her debut novel The Working is available now, and her short climate fiction is featured in Solarpunk Creatures, Bioluminescent, and Solarpunk Magazine. Her globally acclaimed workshops for magical and mainstream audiences foster interconnection and resilience, and help us expand our notion of what is possible. She co-founded the Center for Sustainable Futures at Columbia University that features her workshops and nonfiction. In addition to being a member of the Climate Fiction Writers League, she’s part of Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association, Brooklyn Speculative Fiction Writers, and Broad Universe. She lives on Lenape territory (Turtle Island/US) with a human, a forest, a labyrinth, bees, turtles, fungi, rocks, and many other nonhumans. Doodles, writing, workshops and more at https://brightflame.com, @brightflame.2 on Insta, and @BrightFlame on Bluesky.
Nikki Kallio (she/her) works in both fiction and nonfiction, earning an MFA from Goddard College, where she wrote a post-apocalyptic novel as her creative thesis. Her creative work has appeared in Minerva Rising, Midwestern Gothic and elsewhere, and her short fiction collection Finding the Bones was published by Cornerstone Press in 2023. Her essay “Cold Front,” appeared in the anthology (Her)oics: Women’s Lived Experiences During the Coronavirus Pandemic” Pact Press, 2021. She worked as a journalist on both coasts before coming home to Wisconsin, where she is now a freelance writer and editor. She’s a member of the Climate Fiction Writers League, Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association, Wisconsin Writers Association, and has led writing workshops for various organizations. Read more at nikkikallio.com.
An excerpt from The Working by BrightFlame of Sail’s environmental column.
The land screams at my doorstep, pushing me to share a most personal story. I tend ten acres of forest at the edge of a multi-acre lake and contiguous with more than a hundred acres of state-owned forest, mostly used for hunting. Here are hundred-year-old hickory, oak, poplar, maple, walnut standing nearly as tall as their age, with girth that would hide a doe nursing its fawn. The first generation of sassafras lies decomposing while the second generation approach the tallest hardwoods. First generation cedars stand skeletal like sculpted Arizona cacti. Hemlocks that succumbed to the adelgid parasite more than a decade past are snags that host myriad winged and crawling life and vines that give them false green.
Rocks, boulders, root balls dot the forest, three-dimensional murals painted by lichens of every shade. Velvety moss-covered nurse logs host hundreds of crawling, growing species and feed the network of living trees and plants. Piquant scents arise from the springy ground as mammals run and jump on the layers of composted, rich humus. Nothing goes to waste here.
Entering the forest is stepping into a soothing, healing land that reaches out to connect with us, if only we could hear. And we can hear. Our primate brains, our subconscious, our DNA recognize Forest like recognizing Mother. We breathe the chemicals emitted by trees, by plants, by moss, by fungi and we know we belong here. Our heartbeats and respiration relax and settle into the forest network. Our minds calm and listen and wait. Inspiration enters, an exchange occurs just below our awareness.
But today the trees scream. A fracked gas pipeline is coming through and already, ahead of permits, ahead of court decisions, giant diesel-spewing, land-scraping machines claw through the understory, push over the giants, and begin their assault on this forest.
I ran to the forest’s aid, and stood before the machines until the police came. Today it was just me, and I yielded—my arrest won’t stop the destruction. I’m at a loss for what to do. Writing is my livelihood and so I share. This is not just my story. So many similar scenarios are unfolding as I write. Likely there is one near you. What will you do?