There are certain pieces that stay with you long after you’ve finished reading them. Not because they were perfect, or neatly resolved, or technically flawless, but because they shifted something—quietly, almost imperceptibly—in the way you see yourself or the world around you. They don’t announce themselves as important. They don’t insist on their meaning. They simply linger.
That’s the kind of work that moves us.
At Not Quite Right, we are not searching for answers as much as we are searching for presence—for writing that is engaged with something real, something unresolved, something still in motion. We are drawn to work that feels like it is thinking on the page, that allows for contradiction and uncertainty, that resists the urge to wrap everything up too cleanly. We don’t believe that a piece needs to arrive at a conclusion to be meaningful. In many cases, the opposite is true. Some of the most powerful work comes from the act of asking a question and being willing to sit inside it.
Poetry
In poetry, we are often moved by what isn’t fully said. The poems that stay with us tend to circle something rather than define it outright, approaching a feeling from multiple angles without reducing it to a single, fixed meaning. We are drawn to language that feels attentive and intentional, but not overly controlled—poems that allow space for ambiguity, that trust the reader to participate in the experience rather than simply receive it. This might look like an image that reframes something familiar, a line that lands with unexpected weight, or a poem that leaves you with a sense of recognition you can’t quite articulate. We are less interested in poems that aim to deliver a clear message and more interested in those that create a feeling, a tension, or a question that continues to unfold after the poem ends.
Short Fiction
In short fiction—whether it’s a longer short story or a piece of flash or micro fiction—we are drawn to emotional truth over narrative neatness. We don’t need every thread tied off or every question answered. In fact, we often find ourselves more compelled by stories that reflect the complexity of real life, where people are contradictory, where motivations are not always fully understood, and where outcomes don’t necessarily provide closure. The stories that move us tend to create a sense of immersion, even in a short space, and to reveal something meaningful without over-explaining it. A single moment, rendered with care and precision, can be more powerful than an entire arc that feels overly constructed. We are interested in stories that trust their own restraint, that allow space for interpretation, and that leave the reader with something to sit with rather than something to simply consume and move past.
Creative Nonfiction
In creative nonfiction, what moves us is the sense that the writer is genuinely engaged with their subject—not presenting a polished version of understanding, but working through something in real time. The essays and reflections we are drawn to often begin with a question, a tension, or a moment of curiosity, and allow that starting point to evolve rather than forcing it into a predetermined conclusion. We value specificity, vulnerability, and honesty over authority. There is something deeply compelling about writing that admits uncertainty, that acknowledges complexity, and that resists simplifying lived experience into something easily explained. We are especially interested in work that explores identity, relationships, memory, and meaning in ways that feel nuanced and personal, while still opening outward—inviting the reader to see themselves somewhere within it.
At the heart of all of this is a shared belief: we don’t need to have everything figured out in order to create something meaningful. In fact, some of the most impactful work comes from the edge of understanding—from the moment where you are still trying to make sense of something, still asking what it means, still sitting with the tension of not knowing. That space is not a weakness in the work; it is often where the work becomes most alive.
If you are writing from a place of curiosity, if you are willing to stay with a question longer than is comfortable, if you are exploring something that doesn’t yet have a clear shape or answer, then you are already closer to what moves us than you might think. We are not looking for certainty. We are looking for work that reflects what it actually feels like to be human—complicated, searching, unfinished, and still becoming.