Los Angeles Review of Books PubLab | We are the official annual journal of the LA Review of Books Publishing Workshop, an immersive, collaborative summer program designed for students and innovators interested in publishing.

We are the official annual publication of the LA Review of Books Publishing Workshop, an immersive, collaborative summer program designed for students and innovators interested in publishing.

A small concrete dam in a wooded area overgrown with moss and graffiti, with water cascading down its face and a cartoonish green face painted beneath the flow.

Disoriented with Time: Ruins in the Switchbacks

Artist Statement In this photography series, I highlight the architectural remnants in the Switchbacks located near Spokane, Washington. Reclaimed by graffiti artists and moss, these decaying foundations and dams now burst with vibrant color, life, and arcane...

Abstract drawings with transition, shadow, light, resilience

Como La Luna

For my dear queer friend from Lima, Perú, Alejandra Watanabe Farro.¡Con amor y respeto por aquellas pláticas de corazón a corazón! I am like the moon,Soy como la luna,I am like the god Kútsï, the P’urhepecha deity that illuminates the night:I have multiple faces.I am...

Two hands gently hold a large weathered horse skull. The photo is in black and white.

Winter Blues

Maybe it was just the Winter, seeping through my bones into my heart, the grasp of its icy hands against my bare neck. But then I woke up in June, sunlight bathing me in...

A crowd of onlookers watch the flames consume the structure.

The Execution

The Execution “The Burning of the Mansion House, Queen Square” (1831-32), William James Müller. Courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was the twenty-fourth of December and my firm had given us the day off. I thought I would spend the day at home,...

A close-up black and white photo of a person’s face with a double exposure effect. The eyes and mouth appear layered and slightly misaligned.

Dried-Up Stars (Lightning Bugs in My Stomach)

“Have you cried yet? I’ve only cried once.” My sister Thea’s speech is precise, like she’s not been wandering her mind across the sky. She’s poised against the brittle trunk of the only tree in the graveyard. She holds the end of a chewed lollipop stick with one hand...

The deconstruction bodies are sitting together in a garden.

mama sārah and me

facing my mother in her lavish living room, i blow a red balloon. my younger sister, mellow with hash, tosses a yellow one onto the carpet while my older sister fretfully adds cheese sambūsa, warag ʿanab, and sticky toffee pudding to the menu. a sign boasting the ages...

An old man laughs giddily on a rope swing. His feet are bare.

Aging Like Fine Wine

SINDHU AAJI ALWAYS opened the door with a smile and a list of questions. No matter how often this happened, I never felt prepared.I was unaccustomed to it—to questions about my life, about my work, about me—even when they came from my husband’s octogenarian...

A heeled black leather shoe on a white pedestal.

The Women Historical Fiction Forgets

SOME WOMEN’S STORIES demand patience. I have learned this over the years through my research on food history and pouring over women’s letters, draft manuscripts, and clipped recipes. And not all of their stories are equally accessible. The papers of the most prominent...