Elise McMullen-Ciotti

You remind me: I am not alone in this universe.
We are all in this together, labeled continually, put in jars and decided upon.
Yet, in this subway car, we are one body, moving in the same direction—for minutes at a time.
Destinations as colorful as spectrums crisscrossing in infinitum.

— Elise McMullen-Ciotti (excerpt, Underneath)

Osiyo. . .

Before my career in publishing, I worked in food, television, and then food in television. I still cook . . . a lot, but books and research are where it’s at these days. Represented by Linda Camacho at Gallt & Zacker, I write children’s and adult fiction and nonfiction. But I’m also an essayist and poet. (continued)

About Elise

Ferdinand 12 EMC copy.jpg — **What I’m working on these days**

*Poetry, short stories, essays.*
*Books: kid lit, adult lit.*
*My mother always said, without writing I’d be VERY unhappy.*
*Good thing pens are cheap.*

Elise's Writing

I can find all the Texas summers of my childhood in one bite of a fully-ripe, soft-skinned, southern peach.
There are other winners.
Strawberry shortcake and fried chicken on my birthday.
Giant slabs of watermelon sprinkled with salt and eaten with a fork and knife, or quartered and held like edible flags, or even made all fancy-like, gutted one small sphere at a time with a melon baller.
But a peach. When I was little?
That meant summer was in full swing. That meant . . . time in the tree.
—Elise McMullen-Ciotti (The Peach Tree)

EliseMcMullenCiotti-Paris-rain+light.jpg — **Lifting Story, Lifting Voice**

There is a moment when a writer is sitting somewhere, walking down a street, looking out a window, lifting a child to their hip—a moment when an idea for a story arrives and says, “Please, put me down on paper.”
If that idea and that paper and that voice make it through one test after another—a manuscript’s hero’s journey—and finally lands on my desk, what I hear is, “Please help me sing.”

Elise's Editorial Work

Elise McMullen-Ciotti

You remind me: I am not alone in this universe.

We are all in this together, labeled continually, put in jars and decided upon.

Yet, in this subway car, we are one body, moving in the same direction—for minutes at a time.

Destinations as colorful as spectrums crisscrossing in infinitum.

Osiyo. . .

What I’m working on these days

Poetry, short stories, essays.

Books: kid lit, adult lit.

My mother always said, without writing I’d be VERY unhappy.

Good thing pens are cheap.

I can find all the Texas summers of my childhood in one bite of a fully-ripe, soft-skinned, southern peach.

There are other winners.

Strawberry shortcake and fried chicken on my birthday.

Giant slabs of watermelon sprinkled with salt and eaten with a fork and knife, or quartered and held like edible flags, or even made all fancy-like, gutted one small sphere at a time with a melon baller.

But a peach. When I was little?

That meant summer was in full swing. That meant . . . time in the tree.

Lifting Story, Lifting Voice

There is a moment when a writer is sitting somewhere, walking down a street, looking out a window, lifting a child to their hip—a moment when an idea for a story arrives and says, “Please, put me down on paper.”

If that idea and that paper and that voice make it through one test after another—a manuscript’s hero’s journey—and finally lands on my desk, what I hear is, “Please help me sing.”