Tornado

When award-winning author Mary Anne Mohanraj learned she had breast cancer, she immediately began recording the details in her blog. Tornado is her honest, day-by-day account of diagnosis, chemo, surgery, radiation, and reconstruction, over a three-year period.

One out of eight women gets breast cancer. You know someone who has it, or work with someone, or may have been diagnosed yourself. This is a book for all of us, but especially for anyone facing a breast cancer diagnosis for yourself, or for someone you love.

Featured Books

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A little fresh pittu, a little egg, tea, and a banana.

March 29, 2025

A little fresh pittu, a little egg, tea, and a banana. Mmm… Pittu made with atta flour, which I’m still learning about; it’s a whole wheat flour, but much finer than American style. Makes a very tender pittu! • It’s made from whole wheat, including the bran, germ, and endosperm, which contributes to its higher nutritional value compared to refined wheat flour. • Atta is known for its fine, powdery texture, achieved through stone grinding

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Elder Cooking & College Tour

March 26, 2025

[elder cooking / college tour] So, Kavi and I are spending spring break at my parents’ house. My mother, you may remember, has advanced dementia and is in a memory care facility; we’ll be visiting her tomorrow, but she’s unlikely to recognize us. She knows a friendly face, though, and we’re very lucky that she has loving sisters nearby who visit her close to daily, bringing her lunches of familiar Sri Lankan food. We’re also

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I had the privilege of interviewing Andy Duncan

March 24, 2025

I had the privilege of interviewing Andy Duncan at ICFA this past weekend; we talked for almost two hours about voice and historical research and folklore and journalism and a working class Southern background, and much more. It’ll take us about a month to get the full interview edited and up, along with our Deep Dive charted lesson, with study guide questions and creative writing exercises; it’ll be included in the podcast too. I could

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My time at ICFA

March 23, 2025

I spent most of ICFA talking to old friends, making new friends, reading by the pool, and trying to relax. I think I managed to crank my ambient stress down a notch or two. I was mostly not watching the news, but I did end up talking a fair bit with other academics impacted by Trump’s /Elon’s policies, or worried they will be. Feeling grateful that I’m based in Illinois, where we’re somewhat insulated by

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Leaving ICFA

March 23, 2025

Waiting to board my flight — leaving ICFA to spend spring break with my dad in New Britain, CT. Kavi and her friend Tess are at my sister’s in New York through tomorrow afternoon, then Tess will meet up with her family, and Kavi will take the train to Berlin, and I’ll pick her up tomorrow night. Today, I get a rental car around noon and drive to my dad’s, where apparently I’ll be interrupting

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The story of

Mary Anne Mohanraj

Mary Anne Mohanraj is author of A Feast of Serendib, Bodies in Motion, The Stars Change, and twelve other titles. Other recent publications include stories for George R.R. Martin’s Wild Cards series, Perennial: A Garden Romance (Tincture), stories at Clarkesworld, Asimov’s, and Lightspeed, and an essay in Roxane Gay’s Unruly Bodies.

Mohanraj founded Hugo-nominated and World Fantasy Award-winning speculative literature magazine Strange Horizons, and serves as Executive Director of both DesiLit (desilit.org) and the Speculative Literature Foundation (speclit.org). She is Clinical Associate Professor of fiction and literature at the University of Illinois at Chicago. www.maryannemohanraj.com

Books Published

Current Books Progress

Vegan Serendib 99%

Jump Space 95%

Cancer Log 50%

“Aarti danced, joyfully and spectacularly, bounding higher than she ever could have under the rules of her homeworld’s gravity. She danced under the Earthlight, the Moon’s landscaped bathed in a dim bluish-white twilight. Brighter than the light of a full moon, but still night-like. Aarti didn’t understand how she could be here, on what was clearly the Moon, in the shadow of her beloved Mons Argaeus, how she could breathe – though did she actually breathe? Aarti felt no breath leaving her body, or entering it again. Yet that didn’t seem to matter. Her body was her own again, restored to what it had been before the virus hit. Although not exactly the same – better.”

“The streets were more empty than usual—everyone who had someone was probably at home, cuddling them up, waiting for the bombs to fall or the shooting to start or the diseases to spread or just for the chips in their heads to catch viruses, melt, and drip out of their brains.”

“Devan wasn’t sure why he was doing this—just because she looked lost, and he wanted to see what her face would look like if it were smiling, as it was meant to. He ducked into the back room, where the last of the Christmas décor lingered, and clipped off a sprig of holly. A few twists of floral tape, a pin, and now he had a little holly pin. He brought it back into the main room, and handed it to the woman, who looked bemused. / “Holly—it’s still green in the darkest part of the year; it’s a traditional symbol of hope, protection, and victory.” / She smiled then, and carefully pinned it to her scarf. “That’s exactly what I need—thank you.”

“Amara ran. She had started out walking, her steps slow but steady. Walking away from the exploded ship that had been her marriage. It hadn’t been spaceworthy in a long time, leaking air, on the verge of decompression. But she had held on, slapping patches up as fast as she could, holding the ship together with wire and prayers and dogged determination -- no one could ever accuse her of lacking willpower. She had committed to this marriage, and she had been determined to see it through. Until Rajiv had come home stinking of another woman, and blown a hole right through the heart of it.”

“The rain has been coming down hard for weeks, working its way through her not quite sealed roof, sending quiet trickles down the walls of hardened clay. There are days in the monsoon season when lentils and rice are no longer enough, when the insistence of memory overwhelms her. Those days, she stands on a teetering stool to reach the highest shelf; she pulls out her hoard of spices, from dust-brown fenugreek to crimson saffron threads. The rain stopped for a few hours this morning, but now it starts coming down again. She walks through it to the village center, her white sari plastered to her slight frame. There she trades smoked fish for rich coconut milk, ghee, fresh vegetables. The other women look at each other, and then tell their daughters: ‘Mangai Aunty is cooking. Go. Watch.’”