Jā. R. Macki

By Jasminum McMullen

Writuals explores how our city's rich literary heritage, cultural diversity, and iconic spaces inspire routines that fuel the work of local authors.

Jā. R. Macki is the author of Linus Baby (Pie Face Child Press, 2023). Her essay "He & I" was nominated for 2025 Best of Net by Torch Literary Arts. Her writing and visual art have appeared in midnight & indigo, The Spectacle, Skink Beat Review, RipRap46, Hindsight Journal, and Brown Sugar Lit. She is from Chicago and holds and MFA in writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. 

CLHOF: What question are you circling in your work right now, even if you don't yet know how to answer it? 

Jā. R. Macki: How to get to Heaven and back.

CLHOF: Where in Chicago do you feel most like yourself as a writer, even if you never write a single word there? 

Jā. R. Macki: Physical space. I think Story Studio fits my aesthetic. My mother always wanted me to live in a loft in my 20's, and though that didn't happen, I can access that vibe whenever I need a change of scenery. I love the wood-and-brick interior. It's not far from home, and parking is easy. The write-ins are an excellent opportunity to meet new people after a writing session. Virtual space. Evening Pages at Byrd's World Publishing. They are on a mission to publish 1,000 women of color. This place is close to my heart so fast. I love writing with my Sister (re)sisters. I didn't even realize an ideal writing group could be possible anywhere. I show up as myself, and I'm received. Support for my work is genuine. A lovely group of folks, I can laugh and cry without judgment. I don't have to do a whole lot of explaining or categorizing my personhood to death to fit in. I just fit because I am me. Because I showed up.  And every woman around me is brilliant and accomplished. If that sounds like Heaven, join us at the next open house. 

CLHOF: If you could have coffee with any Chicago author, past or present, who would it be and why? How has their work or legacy influenced your writing?

Jā. R. Macki: Ms. Lorraine Hansberry. She's a Taurus, so I know I have to feed her to get to her heart. She changed American theater, and her notable work A Raisin in the Sun was inspired by true events in her life. A lot of how I do art goes that way. I'd probably ask her about how she starts her plays. We have a lot of similarities. Both children who encountered some of the social challenges of having a little excess and access. We excelled at reading, and our math deficiencies made us writers. And well, we're Sapphic.  She's always been a part of my academic life, thanks to my teachers. In 2025, our relationship went to the next level when Brown Sugar Lit accepted a list I wrote inspired by Lorraine’s that Maggie Andersen told me to read, in their “Echoes” issue. I'd love to visit a Sip & Savor location with Lorraine to talk about beauty, the great experiment of artmaking, and all the ways I love her (and gently remind her that this is a date). Afterwards, I'd take her to the park and teach her how to jump double dutch. 

CLHOF: What are your "writuals," and how have they evolved?

Jā. R. Macki: Music was a big deal in our house when I was a kid. I woke up to Doug Banks and the Tom Joyner Morning Shows throughout my childhood. My mother always had a tape or a CD in the car radio. In practice, music sets the tone. It puts me at the highest point of joy, even if the song is melancholic. I drink something, room-temperature water starts my day. I stretch, make a tea, and sit down on my colorful couch. I gaze out the living room window at the park across the street and breathe. I listen to 3-5 songs to prepare to write. I use headphones for this to be as close as possible to the energy of a song's elements (e.g., verse, chorus, bridge, and adlibs) and how I experience it. Music disarms my inner critic and makes room for me to be really honest on the page. In my mind, I'm really the greatest rapper alive behind this pen. Some days, this desk is Wembley Stadium in 1988. I'm kidding, but only slightly. Sometimes music becomes a tool for evoking the emotion I want to write with, like a painter dips a paintbrush in a dab of color on her palette. This process feels most intuitive during early morning hours. At times, I write down the song sequences that got me going that morning right on the draft. I am blessed to hear rhythms in my mind even without headphones. Other times, I clear the pathway for writing with a djembe drum I picked up in the Dominican Republic or a sound bowl. I grew up in the beatbox era, and I'm a Michael Jackson fan, so I also make rhythm with my mouth. I make up songs for my pets on the spot, which is a kind of practice. It's fun to see how much language I can access while holding a melody without writing anything down. And that's for generative work. I determine revision goals the day before I sit to revise. As those revision tasks are completed, I reward myself with a song or two or three. I almost feel like I'm giving away my secret sauce, but I can't be the only one out here making PB&J's out of notes and streams. 

CLHOF: Humor or Heartbreak?

Jā. R. Macki: Heartbreak. It's honest and devastating. I learned a lot about what I'm made of, how productive I can be, what's best for me, and how long I can endure not being heard in the well of heartbreak. It fuels a drive to correct lingering narratives about the quality of my happiness during times I had to shield other people's feelings for my own survival. The benefit? Well, what I kept in storage waited for me until I stopped asking for permission to respond to my life with immediate truths. Anything buried that's not deceased never rests. And I don't have not na'an plot of land within me to bury another thing for the comfort of others. 

CLHOF: What advice would you give someone who wants to write and publish in the city? 

Jā. R. Macki: You're probably already writing. Who made you do that? You. You don't need my advice to get started; you've already begun. I can offer advice on how to continue writing. Listen to how people talk around you once you have decided that writing is your art practice. People will be impressed by your courage to write. They will tell you where you should send your work. These people are likely not writers, at least not at first. They are guides for your journey, if you listen close. I don’t know, something spiritual happens when you are in flow with your purpose. You get help in ways you did not expect and the help is always specific to your situation so you know it’s God’s hand. I sent a poem to CJ Laity at Chicagopoetry(dot)com in 2011 because a coworker saw a submission call and suggested it to me during a smoke break, since she'd heard I'd been writing poetry. Her suggestion led to my first published poem in the city. So tell people what you're doing. Document your thoughts and desires, figure out if you are more productive in the morning or evening, try a new art form, read incomplete sentences, harness the power of the fragment, make a YouTube channel or IG folder of writers you're interested in, read about their lives, read books you think are too complex to understand and make meaning, imitate, write after writers you love. Annotate the books you read; they sometimes birth new ideas or sort out fledgling ones. Writing is at its best when the writer experiments. Those of us who do it regularly expand. And when you are expansive, your art can pull up in any city. 

Jasminum McMullen is an Associate Board Director at the Chicago Literary Hall of Fame, interested in engaging writers from or living in Chicago about their writing rituals. Her writing has appeared in Black Joy Unbound, Mamas, Martyrs, and Jezebels, Past Ten, and The Elevation Review among others.