Letitia Lehua Moffitt was born and raised in Hawaii. Her stories have been published in Black Warrior Review, Aux Arc Review, Jabberwock Review, Fairfield Review, The MacGuffin, SNReview and Yawp; she has also published poetry in Dos Passos Review and literary criticism in Critique. She received a BA in English from UC Berkeley, an MA in English and Creative Writing from San Francisco State University, and a PhD in English and Creative Writing from Binghamton University. She also worked for several years as a research editor for various Wall Street investment banks and survived to tell the tale. Her areas of academic interest include multicultural literature, women writers, contemporary American fiction, and narrative theory. Her non-academic interests include cooking, hiking, and traveling, as well as art and music.—dmm

1) If you were not an English professor, what would you be doing? (Fantasy professions allowed.)

I’d be a chef or a jazz pianist, or I’d write English murder mystery novels. Given that I can’t afford chef’s school, I haven’t tickled the ivories in 15 years, and I’m not English, it’s a good thing I like being a professor.

2) If you won the lottery (let’s say the pot is a whopping six million) would you still teach?

Sure. I’d teach cooking, jazz piano, and the art of writing an English murder mystery. I’d be so rich, folks would have to humor me or I’d cancel my endowment.

3) What was your worst subject in college?

It used to be my best subject, believe it or not: Math. I loved Calculus in high school, so much so that during my sophomore year in college, full of hubris, I took an engineering-level Math class. On the first exam, I think I got a Z-. They had to invent a whole new alphabet for my test scores, but somehow I passed. Then I declared English and never, ever looked back. Now I proudly proclaim the lifelong-English-major’s mantra: “I can’t even balance my checkbook!”

4) What’s your favorite punctuation mark?

The semicolon. It is mysterious; it is misunderstood; it looks like the bastard child of a comma and a colon. I love that it scares people a little; it’s the badboy punctuation mark that rides a Harley but really, deep down, is charmingly sweet and simple.

5) What do you like the most so far about Eastern and/or Charleston or Matoon?

I really love that soybean field outside my window. It’s turning all yellowy-gold right now. Oh, yeah, the people are great and all, but that soy, I tell you—just magical.

6) What radio station, CD, or tape (or 8 track) is currently playing in your car?

Radio station: I’m not sure; probably the “all-static, all the time” station. CD: Usually either Latin jazz (some of it more in the “fusion” category—ever heard Latin rhythms with bagpipes?) or contemporary Hawaiian music (one recent fave is Keali’i Reichel’s chant CD, and if you associate Hawaiian music with Elvis or Don Ho, you should hear this—it’s serious and stately, none of that “kamana wana lei u now” nonsense).

7) What is your favorite book/novel?

No matter what I say, I’ll wish I’d said something else—or several something elses. I guess I’ll wimp out and go with James Joyce’s Ulysses (that’s my answer for now, anyway). Yes, it’s a trite choice, the literary equivalent of “Citizen Kane” as favorite film, but the Nausicaa and Penelope chapters get me every time.

8) What’s your favorite holiday?

A tie between Cinco de Mayo and Bastille Day, in part because each has a somewhat misguided historical basis, as all good holidays should, and in part because both lend themselves to fabulous thematic dinner parties.

9) What is the worst present you have ever received?

I was always a runty child; year after year, adults would beam at me, “Oh, you’re SUCH a big girl now!!” because that’s what people say to little girls to boost their self-esteem, or something. Anyway, one year for a birthday that numbered well into the teens, I received a complete set of little-girl’s underwear—panties, slip and camisole, all frilly and pink with big red strawberries all over them, as though looking like a child means displaying poor sartorial taste. The gift came from an aunt who thought the rules of aging didn’t apply to me and each year bought gifts geared for an ever-younger niece. Everyone squealed, “OOOH how CUUUTE!” I guess I didn’t die of embarrassment, since I’m still here, but I came awfully close when someone suggested I try them on right away.

10) What was your worst job ever?

The rumors are true: I worked on Wall Street. I’m not proud. And I didn’t exactly have a swank corner office; the day I started as a research editor in a global investment bank, my boss led me past the posh domains of the high muckety-mucks, past all that and back into what used to be a storage room. I was to share this room with six other editors. This was the first sign of many that led me to the astonishing realization that Wall Street doesn’t value good writing—seems it’s a drag to have to revise your treatise for world domination because the modifiers got misplaced. Now you know why I walked away from a six-figure income. Say, when exactly do we get paid again?