THIS INTERVIEW WAS FEATURED IN OUR THIRD ISSUE: THE LAND 

IF YOU WANT TO LISTEN TO THIS INTERVIEW (WE SOUND GREAT) CHECK OUT OUT PODCAST 

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Sabine: And then my first question for you is, what do you think is unique about Welsh writing?

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Harries: Oh, that’s a good opener. I think I’m very quickly going to regret not having the questions beforehand.

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Sabine: I did offer them to you!

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Harries: You did, to be fair. And I did say, I’m usually much better off the cuff. That’s an interesting one. I think there’s something fascinating about the Welsh psyche that lends itself well to creative art. We’re often thought of as the land of song, the land of bards, the land of poetry and words.

          And, you know, we’ve got—similarly to Ireland—some very established, canonical writers like Dylan Thomas, for example, who still stands the test of time and has had global recognition for his work. But what’s inherent in Welsh writing that makes us unique? I think there’s always been an underlying current of melancholy. There’s a beautiful lyricism that tends to be inherent in a lot of classical works.

          I do think there’s something in the Welsh psyche that lends itself well to art. I’ve talked about this with a lot of writers. I grew up in Wales in the 1990s, when we were basically getting smashed at everything. We were useless at sports. There was a lot of political division about independence and whatnot.

          I grew up thinking, “We are the little brother of England.” You grow up with this chip on your shoulder, this underdog mentality—at least that was my experience, and it’s something a lot of Welsh writers I’ve spoken to share. You grow up with this melancholy, this sense of subtle, underlying rage at the world. You’re seen as less than, or mocked for your accent, or called names—it all feeds into that.

          So I think there’s this national psyche that’s embedded within a lot of our writing. Obviously not all of it—it’s a generalisation—but there’s an underlying current of “we need to prove ourselves.” There’s this melancholy, this longing, which I think is one of our national emotions.

          There’s a definitive melancholy and rage that underpins the best Welsh writing, and I think that’s what makes it stand out. That was a bit of a rambly answer, but I hope that made sense.

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Sabine: Absolutely, it makes sense. Lots of good quotes in there. Thank you very much.

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Harries: Good. That’s all right.

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Sabine: And my next question is, what do you enjoy the most about running a magazine like The Folding Rock?

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Harries: From a personal perspective—up until now, my career has been either freelance, where I get no say in commissioning at all, or in-house positions where that control was limited. It was only toward the end of my in-house career, when I was at Parthian Books in Cardigan, that I was able to commission things.

          Now that I’m running a magazine, I have significantly more editorial control. And because I’m working with short pieces, I’m able every few months to commission a multitude of fantastic writers—new, emerging, and established. Even in our first two issues, I’ve had the joy of working with authors like Sophie Mackintosh, who’s been Booker Prize–nominated, and Joe Dunthorne, whose debut novel Submarine became a globally successful film. Emma Glass, too, has published two fantastic books with Bloomsbury. These are writers I’ve read and loved for years, and never thought I’d get the chance to work with. Yet here I am, running a magazine, and I’ve been able to approach and collaborate with them already.

          And it’s not just the established writers. We accept submissions that are completely anonymised—when we read them, we don’t know the author’s name, background, or experience level. It’s purely about the quality of the work. That means when we do discover great writing, it’s often a surprise at the end to find out that a phenomenal piece came from someone who’s never been published before. That’s a unique joy as an editor.

We’re also fortunate to be a funded magazine—a rarity these days. Many excellent magazines, like Gutter in Scotland, are run by people who have to maintain second jobs. Catherine and I are lucky that the funding we received allows this to be our main work, with just a little freelance on the side.

          So, if you asked for a short answer, I’d say the best part of running a magazine is the flexibility and the joy of commissioning. Plus, because I design the magazine as well, I get to experiment visually. With magazines you can play more with aesthetic variance and layout—something you can’t really do with novels or anthologies. That creative freedom is incredibly rewarding.

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Sabine: Thank you. How do you think of your themes, and how do you think writers should approach themed calls for work?

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Harries: It’s funny you ask, because literally yesterday we had a big submission Zoom where we announced our next themes. We’ve changed things up a bit since our first two issues. Originally, we’d only announce the theme for the next issue, but now we’ve revealed the next three—issues three, four, and five—on our website, along with deadlines.

          We did this because we wanted to give writers more time to think and develop their pieces. For the first two issues, the submission window was only about four or five weeks, and although we received a lot of work, we wanted to offer more breathing room.

          As for how we choose themes—it’s a mix. From the start, we’ve been inspired by Granta, probably Britain’s preeminent literary magazine, which uses broad, interpretive themes as part of its commissioning strategy. It makes it easier for editors and offers writers a creative springboard. We prefer vague, open-ended themes that writers can interpret however they wish.

          For instance, our first issue’s theme was “Roots.” We had one writer submit a horticultural essay literally about plant roots, and another who wrote about familial roots. That breadth of interpretation is what we love.

When we started the magazine, we had to submit a business plan to the Welsh Books Council before we got funding, and part of that involved outlining our first few issues. We came up with a few early themes—Issue One was Roots, Issue Two was Communication and Language, Issue Three will be Music, Issue Four Myth and Legend, and Issue Five Food and Hunger. Again, we kept them deliberately vague so writers could explore them in different ways.

          Going forward, we’ll continue in that vein. Catherine and I both have a bank of ideas we draw from, but we’ve also noticed something interesting: sometimes we receive wonderful pieces that don’t fit any of the current themes, yet share some unifying element. Those outliers often inspire future themes. In a way, our contributors help shape the direction of the magazine.

          So there’s no strict formula—it’s instinctive. Through reading and experience, we’ve learned what makes for a juicy, thought-provoking theme that writers can really sink their teeth into.

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Sabine: And what do you hope to change or add to the fabric of the Welsh writing community?

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Harries: Ultimately, we set up Folding Rock to be Wales’s answer to Granta or The Stinging Fly. I don’t quite know why, but for some reason, Wales has lacked that kind of literary magazine — the one that writers see as the first port of call, a launchpad for greater things.

          In Ireland, you have The Stinging Fly. If you look at issues from five or six years ago, nearly every emerging writer featured there now has a book deal with Penguin or HarperCollins. Their talent-spotting is phenomenal. Scotland has Gutter and Extra Teeth, both doing fantastic work. England has Granta and once had The White Review, which was also brilliant for a time.

          But in Wales, we’ve never really had that standout, flagship magazine — the one that everyone reads, that agents and publishers pay attention to, that writers aspire to appear in. That’s what we want Folding Rock to become.

          We also felt a particular responsibility to step up after Planet: The Welsh Internationalist and New Welsh Review lost their funding from the Books Council. Those were vital platforms for Welsh writing, and their closures left a gap. We wanted to carry on their legacy, but also raise the bar — to make something that brings Welsh writing into wider conversations, nationally and internationally.

          We want Folding Rock to be read not just by Welsh people or Welsh writers, but by readers, editors, and publishers everywhere. Catherine and I both have experience working in and outside Wales — I spent a decade in London publishing, and she worked in northern England, which has a fantastic literary scene with publishers like Bluemoose. We’re bringing that experience and those contacts to Wales.

          And we’re already seeing signs that it’s working. Our first issue launch in London was fantastically attended. One of the writers we published — it was their first-ever piece in print — was approached by an agent afterward who’d read it and wanted to get in touch. That’s exactly the kind of impact we’re aiming for.

So yes, while sales and subscriptions are obviously important, what matters most to us is cultural impact — seeing our writers go on to build long, sustainable careers. That’s how we’ll measure our success and, hopefully, our legacy.

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Sabine: And then, shifting to a more advice-based question — especially given your editing experience — what do you think makes good short prose?

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Harries: There’s this misconception that short stories are easier to write than novels, but honestly, they’re just as hard — if not harder, in some ways. They’re both demanding disciplines, but short fiction requires ruthless economy. You don’t have room for excess; every line has to count.

          Most short stories are written to spec — for a competition or a magazine submission — which makes literary magazines a vital part of the ecosystem. They give writers a place to get early credits and to experiment.

For me, a good short story is a kind of vignette. It needs to give you just enough of a glimpse into a world to feel substantial, but not so much that it loses its mystery. You should finish a short story feeling satisfied — it should feel self-contained — but you should also be left wondering a little about the wider world it hints at. That’s a difficult balance to strike.

          I’ve read plenty of technically brilliant stories that still felt lacking, because they showed too much or too little. The best ones leave you intrigued, not frustrated.

          When I edit short fiction, I always ask myself — and the writer — what purpose each line serves. Does it need to be there? Does it move the story forward, reveal character, or enrich the atmosphere? You can’t afford dead weight in a short story. Every line, every word, every comma needs to earn its place. Poets, of course, take that even further — every syllable matters. But it’s the same principle.

          When I edit, I’m not a heavy-handed editor. I rarely say, “This is wrong.” Instead, I ask questions. For example: “Why did you make this choice?” Often, the author’s explanation helps me see their intention more clearly, and we can then work together to make it shine through on the page — without over-explaining to the reader. Sometimes their reasoning is so strong that I’ll say, “You’re absolutely right, let’s keep it as is.”

Editing is really about dialogue. I want to understand what the author is trying to do and help them make it as clear and effective as possible.

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Sabine: I see exactly what you mean about expanding the world just enough to make readers curious. I thought that about Joshua Jones’s piece in the first issue — the one with the male hare. I found myself wondering what happened next, but not in a frustrating way.

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Harries: Exactly. That piece could have gone wrong in less careful hands because it takes such a surreal turn at the end. I’ve known Josh for a while — I edited his collection Local Fires at Parthian — so I was already familiar with his style.

          If you’ve read Local Fires, there’s a story called “Black Country Out There,” the only surreal one in that collection, where black holes start appearing and people just carry on with their lives as if nothing’s happening.

So when editing his piece for Folding Rock, I anticipated that surreal thread. Josh has this ability to take very mundane scenes and infuse them with a subtle sense of dread — a bit like David Lynch, actually. The strangest moments in Lynch’s films often happen in the most domestic settings. Josh does something similar in prose.

That’s what makes his work stand out. It’s not surrealism for the sake of it — it’s grounded in the ordinary, which makes the weirdness even more potent. I’m glad you mentioned that story, because those kinds of risks can easily fall apart if they’re not handled with care.

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Sabine: So, question six is one that you may or may not have an answer for, and that’s fine either way — but what are some ways to join the Welsh literary community, or ways that you yourself got involved?

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Harries: I suppose there are two strands to that — one vocational, through publishing, and one as a writer. I’ll admit, I’m not a writer myself, so Catherine would probably have a much better answer to the second part.

From the vocational side, though, the publishing industry has changed a lot since I started in 2013. Some of the old problems still exist — the pay is poor, unpaid internships are common — but there’s also been real progress in accessibility and diversity.

          I got my start through an unpaid internship, which isn’t something I’d recommend now, but it was how things worked back then. I was lucky that the publisher I started with had an office just twenty minutes from my parents’ house in Swansea. I could live at home, which made it feasible. If I’d had to move to London, it would’ve been impossible.

          Sadly, those financial barriers still exist to some extent. But on the positive side, I think it’s never been easier to get involved in writing and publishing in alternative ways. When I started, blogs and WordPress sites existed, but there wasn’t really anything like Substack or Medium — platforms that let you build and share your own body of work or curate writing from others. That’s been a real game-changer.

          It’s also become easier and cheaper to self-publish small runs, design zines, or collaborate on DIY magazines. There are so many more tools available now for people who want to make and share work outside traditional structures.

          Of course, if you’re aiming to get into traditional publishing — particularly in London — the reality is that most of the big publishers are still based there. The industry remains very centralised. That’s one reason I left Wales myself; there simply weren’t many opportunities for progression within Welsh publishing at the time. The publishers that do exist here are fantastic, but they’re small and don’t have the resources or mobility that London houses do.

          So if someone wants to work in mainstream publishing, they’ll likely need to move to London, at least initially. In that environment, competition is fierce — hundreds of people go for each assistant-level role. So the best thing you can do is build up experience that shows initiative: editing or writing for a small magazine, running a blog, curating work on a Substack — anything that demonstrates engagement with the literary world. Employers respond to that.

          And as for writers’ groups — I’ll admit they’ve never been my thing, but I think they’re incredibly useful for many people. If you can find a local writers’ group, even if it’s just a small one meeting in a library once a month, that peer support can make a huge difference. Having people who will give you honest, even ruthless, feedback is invaluable.

          So yes, finding or forming a writing community — whether locally or online — is absolutely key. It might not get you a publishing job directly, but it will strengthen your craft and your network, which are just as important in the long run.

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Sabine: And then question seven, which you’ve kind of touched on already, but to make it broader — what literary magazines do you really love and admire, and what is it about them that you admire?

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Harries: I’d say my favourites are, unsurprisingly, Granta and The Stinging Fly. Granta is the benchmark — they’re able to attract the biggest names, and their production quality is always beautiful.

          But The Stinging Fly is, for me, unbeatable in terms of literary scouting. They’ve had a succession of brilliant editors — Tom Morris, Sally Rooney, Lisa McInerney — all of them outstanding writers in their own right. The magazine consistently discovers and nurtures the next generation of literary talent. Whenever I want to see who’s going to be the next big name, I pick up The Stinging Fly.

          Ireland in general has an incredible lit-mag scene — Banshee, The Tangerine, Pig’s Back, Tolka — there’s just this wealth of fantastic publications. Tolka, for example, describes itself as “formally promiscuous,” which I love. They focus on experimental nonfiction and hybrid writing, and it’s always exciting.

As I mentioned earlier, Scotland has Gutter and Extra Teeth, both excellent, and we try to stay in touch with what other regional magazines across the UK are doing. Wasafiri is another one I really admire — it does brilliant work showcasing international voices and writing in translation, exposing readers to cultures and languages they might never encounter otherwise.

          On a larger scale, I read The New Yorker when I can, though that’s more of a general cultural magazine that happens to include some excellent fiction. The Paris Review, though, is phenomenal — their interviews, particularly the Art of Fiction series, are invaluable.

          If someone forced me to choose one magazine to read for the rest of my life, it would probably be The Paris Review for those interviews alone. Honestly, if you subscribed digitally and read every Art of Fiction they’ve ever published, you’d probably get a better education in creative writing than most university courses could offer.

And of course, there are magazines that are sadly no longer with us, like The White Review. It had an excellent run and produced some really memorable issues before closing a few years ago. So yes, those are my main touchstones — the ones I keep around me and dip into whenever I need inspiration.

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Sabine: That’s a great set of recommendations — lots of hyperlinks for me to add when this goes on the website. And my very last question: what is your advice for younger or emerging writers?

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Harries: I’d say, first and foremost, find a group of peers — writers who are at a similar or slightly more advanced level than you — who will be brutally honest about your work. People who will tell you when something doesn’t land. That kind of feedback is invaluable.

          Literary magazines and publishers receive an overwhelming number of submissions, and the competition is fierce. Editors today simply don’t have the time to do the kind of deep, developmental editing that was common in, say, the mid-20th century. You hear stories about editors like Maxwell Perkins working with Thomas Wolfe for years on Look Homeward, Angel — that would never happen now.

Editors today are expected to do everything — marketing, design briefs, social media — so the manuscript or story needs to arrive as close to finished as possible. The better shape it’s in before submission, the better your chances. And that’s where peer feedback is crucial.

           Wales in particular has some great mentorship schemes — Literature Wales runs one, Hay Festival has another — and those can be brilliant stepping stones. If you’re just starting out, look at who’s gone through those programmes in the past and study their paths. It’s not about copying them, but about understanding what opportunities are available and how others have used them.

          And don’t feel like you need to do a creative writing degree to become a writer. I know that might sound ironic, given where this interview will appear, but it’s true. Some universities treat creative writing courses more like businesses than educational spaces. A good course can be fantastic — it gives you that feedback group, that discipline, that framework to learn and break rules effectively — but it’s not essential.

          Another piece of advice: don’t imitate. I read a lot of submissions — both long-form manuscripts when I worked in publishing and short stories now for Folding Rock — and you can tell immediately when someone is writing inauthentically, trying to emulate a trend or another writer’s voice. Developing your own voice is a lifelong process, but it’s one of the most important things you can do.

          Read widely — not just what’s fashionable or critically acclaimed right now, but everything. The danger with trends is that by the time a book becomes popular, editors are already looking for the next thing. I remember when My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh came out — within months, everyone was submitting versions of that style. Publishers were flooded with them. But editors were already two years ahead, looking for what came next.

          So don’t chase trends. Write what feels true to you, even if it doesn’t seem immediately commercial. If it’s honest and original, it’ll stand out. Readers can always tell when something’s written with genuine voice and conviction.

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Sabine: That’s actually a lovely place to end — “write yourself and be yourself.”

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Harries: Exactly.