Author Ed Davis

New year, updated website!

2012-01-02T11:51:00.001-08:00

Ed's blog has been moved to his website homepage at www.davised.com. Hope you like the updated look.

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A Book for Both Genders: Healing Through Writing

2011-11-17T08:13:00.000-08:00

The Moment I Knew

When it happens, you feel something crawling up your spine to stroke the back of your neck. Your mouth goes dry; electricity quivers inside arms and legs. Something clicks in the brain and you suddenly know something you didn’t only seconds ago. The veil parts and you are offered this opportunity, this gift. Forgiveness. Understanding. Love. Such moments are dramatized in a new book called The Moment I Knew: Reflections from Women on Life’s Defining Moments ($14.95 from www.sugatipublications.com), a collection of brief, compelling essays and poems by women from six countries. It’s a book men should read as well as women.

Eyes of Love

Recently my fellow Yellow Springer Cyndi Pauwels and I sat down at the Underdog Café to chat about Reflections, in which her essay, “The Powerful Eyes of Love,” appears. “When I read, I want to be enlightened, uplifted or entertained,” Cyndi told me. This collection achieves at least that; I found it so compelling I read most of it in a weekend. It also has the power to move the reader toward greater wholeness.

Cyndi’s essay appears along with twenty-nine others in the second “Reflections from Women” series, founded by editor and psychotherapist Terri Spahr Nelson, who hopes to provide writers as well as readers the chance for self-examination, expression and healing. The limit was 2,000 words, meaning the writing is tight and concise, lending credence to the adage “less is more.” Writers of greater or lesser writing experience from Granville, Ohio to Reading, England tackle topics ranging from relationships to pregnancy, family, children . . . and love.

When Cyndi began writing her essay, she figured it would be light, perhaps humorous; the finished product, however, turned out to be a clear-eyed, unflinching look at childhood trauma, a look that moved me deeply

The Past is the Present

In Cyndi’s essay, “Powerful Eyes of Love,” the present met the past on a recent icy day in Ohio following an eight-inch snowfall. “I realized I was having an inappropriate instinctual reaction to a situation,” she explains. I believe the essay is one of the most powerful in the collection, and that’s saying a lot—she’s in very good writing company.

At the wheel of her husband Geo’s new truck while he frantically works to free it from the icy driveway, Cyndi re-lives, in the span of a few minutes, the years between ages seven and seventeen when her step-father abused her for everything that went wrong in the household—just the way everything seems to be going wrong on this day. But Geo isn’t her step-father, and, in a shattering climax, Cyndi discovers she is not that abused, fearful child anymore. I won’t spoil your reading pleasure by quoting one of the most loving—yet spontaneous—speeches I’ve ever heard from a fellow man, but its utterance, accompanied by “the eyes of love,” promoted Cyndi’s long, slow healing, which continues to this day.

Why Put Yourself Through It?

During our conversation, Cyndi and I agreed that, while writing is not therapy, it can certainly be therapeutic.

“I work through it [trauma] on the page,” she says, “from my perspective as a disinterested bystander, not just what I was experiencing, because situations aren’t black/white; there are nuances. My involvement had an impact on the situation. I re-lived the experience [of abuse], but not in a negative way. My responsibility is to work through it; if my closure helps somebody, I’m glad.”

The experience of publishing such an emotionally naked piece was, she maintains, very positive, though she confesses, during the weeks following acceptance, she almost withdrew her essay for fear of what her mother might think. As it turned out, her mother’s response was “noncommittal.” However, through reading the essay, a sister from whom Cyndi had been largely estranged for a number of years re-established contact. About her abuser, Cyndi admits that compassion is something she struggles with, and she has no interest in her step-father’s reaction to her essay.

A Collaborative Experience

The process of writing and publishing the “Powerful Eyes of Love” was “a learning experience and taught me a lot about myself,” Cyndi concluded, adding, “I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t say publishing was also validation after drowning in rejection.”

Writers could look long and hard and not find as writer-friendly a venue for publication as the Reflections of Women series, designed by editor Nelson to be an extremely collaborative process. Cyndi said she never felt forced to accept Nelson’s proffered editing; some suggestions she took and some she didn’t. Also, the writers were allowed to vote on the book’s cover photo as well as which charities the book would benefit. (A “significant portion” of proceeds from the book’s sale will go to three charities that assist women. Purchasing online from Sugati guarantees a greater percentage to these worthy organizations.) Furthermore, a week before publication Cyndi participated in an on-line salon with 6-8 other Reflections authors. If the book’s sales exceed $5,000, all 30 writers will split the resulting royalties. Such a democratic process is rare in the small press publishing world.

Another feature of the book I enjoyed a lot was that the author’s bio note appeared immediately after the respective author’s piece, often with an update, briefly telling us what’s transpired between the time of the story and the present (it’s usually good news).

Writers and Shoppers Alert

From initial query to publication, the entire process took about a year, according to Cyndi, which in this business is pretty fast! Interested writers should visit the website to see topic areas for upcoming books in the series, along with deadlines. Interested readers might want to take advantage of November’s “blog roll,” during which Nelson is offering a 25% price reduction when you buy two copies of the book from the website; you can also receive free shipping (given at checkout). How about a copy for you and your significant other—or a woman friend? I don’t think you’ll be sorry.

P.S.

If you live close by, Cyndi will be appearing at the 23rd annual Lebanon (Ohio) Horse Drawn Carriage Parade and Christmas Festival on Saturday, December 3, 2011 in the Chapters Pre-Loved Books Booth from 4-6 p.m. with Tami Herzer-Absi , another Yellow Springs resident, who also has an essay in the book. Cyndi blogs in candid detail about her experience being published in The Moment I Knew on her website: http://cpatlarge.blogspot.com/2011/11/moment-i-knew.html.

Links:
To purchase the book (Sugati Publications): www.sugatipublications.com
Cyndi's blog: cpatlarge.blogspot.com
Lebanon Horse Drawn Carriage Parade: www.ohioslargestplayground.com/lebanon-antique-horse-drawn-carriage-parade/
Chapters Pre-Loved Books in Lebanon: www.chaptersprelovedbooks.com/
Underdog Café: www.emporiumwines.com/

The Emporium/Underdog Café: Lost in Time

2011-10-29T13:45:00.000-07:00

The Real Thing

Talk about creaky wooden floors and funky circa-1965 style! Consuming two formerly side-by-side shops at 233 Xenia Avenue in Yellow Springs, Ohio, the Emporium/Underdog Café is heaven for writers of every stripe (as well as artists, activists, academics and thinkers). Any time of day you can spot laptops, tablets and good old-fashioned pen and paper being wielded in quirky comfort. Other coffee shops might have better coffee, cutesier cupcakes and frou-frou sandwiches, but E/UDC has the “meat and potatoes.” Substance over style is apparent in every aspect of the place, from funky ambiance to the luscious homemade food, from soups to sandwiches to killer breakfasts.

Yellow Springs’ Living Room

For many, this place is the beating heart of The Town That Time Forgot. Though the tag of Hippie Town both amuses and irritates me, a resident of over thirty years, it is, like any stereotype, somewhat true. If you want to see the patrons of E/UDC through that lens, you can: bearded, long-haired men; women in granny dresses and beads; toddlers in tie-dye. But I see laid-back diversity. Folks of all age, origin, creed and class are as comfortable here as they are in their own living rooms. If you don’t believe it, attend a Friday night wine tasting, where mostly locals groove to some of the best (mostly) home-grown music you’ll hear anywhere. It’s joyous, raucous and safe as Sunday school. But you came to hear about the literary life, didn’t you?

The Inner Life

If, like me, you’re a fan of writing in public, E/UDC is the Rolls Royce (or ’65 Ford Mustang). If you’ve never tried it—and you want to get started—then all you gotta do is walk through the door; the subtle tinkling of that little bell on the door will rocket you back four decades. The Emporium’s wooden floor is old and scarred, the light dim, the walls packed with coffee and beer, the counter and case full of delectable food and goodies. Accompany your coffee with a homemade macaroon or decadence bar.

Stroll on in, take a left and the short ramp will land you in the Underdog, where the furniture’s a charming hodge-podge of Goodwill fare. Join me at one of the scarred, scrawled wooden tables. I love the low-slung vinyl chair, the beaded lampshade, the butt-eating couch, the paint-peeling concrete floor and the ubiquitous art on the walls of the Underdog. Drop in at 3:00 p.m. on a Thursday (as I am now) and you might find silence, quite a contrast to Friday nights or weekend mornings. On the other hand, you might overhear an interview in progress; a low, intimate conversation; or someone soapboxing big-time. One afternoon in recent memory I witnessed a meeting of a youth chess club; on another, three elementary-aged girls were singing while bent over their arts, crafts or—who knows—Marxist manifestos. I love the diversity, especially in age.

Ready...Set...Write

Mug full of House Blend, Ghirardelli dark chocolate consumed, I’m ready, aren’t you? As shadows outside lengthen, you sink deeper and deeper; the sounds of clinking mugs, rising voices, distant radio subside and you plunge into the subterranean depths of your writer’s trance...

When someone enters on the Emporium side, sending the bells a-tinkle, you look up, blinded by a burst of sudden light. Outside, framed by the storefront window, you see through your post-trance haze a picture-postcard-perfect snowfall in progress. Flakes flutter straight down, obscuring human figures across the street, customers to-and-fro-ing from Tom’s Market. You almost expect to see Dickensian frock coats and top hats, buttoned shoes and bustles, a passing carriage on a street now a whitening mass of frozen mud. Where the hell am I? You wonder.

Returning to the page or screen, you bring your sestina, screenplay or sci-fi blockbuster to a close and glance at your watch. Incredible. Two hours have passed. You’re now between worlds, missing the depths where sound was muted, walls transparent, colors unearthly. Someone has begun playing the piano: soft, tentative chords fill the space left by your retreating dream. As a violin joins in, you sit back, as tired and happy as a just-surfaced snorkeler returned to air and sun.

The Wraiths

Stoneycreek Roasters in nearby Cedarville, another of my favorite coffee shops, has a deck above a creek, but it can’t compare to E/UDC for atmosphere inside. I’ve seldom written within these walls when I didn’t sink at least several leagues beneath the endless sea of my imagination. If you can’t write well here, you can’t write in public and should probably keep to your garret. The place itself is a worthy subject. E/UDC was my model for the Bean Tree in my novel The Measure of Everything; I had a lot of fun memorializing it by setting several significant scenes within these worthy walls.

You might also consider inviting some pals to join you for a writers’ workshop. Nobody will bother you. Even if you live here, it’s possible to disappear. Let your body language announce your intent; Yellow Springers are great respecters of space. Solitude is possible even in the presence of prolific sociability. Even during the gabbiest times—Saturday or Sunday mornings—I’ll see the writing wraiths, hunkered invisibly at tables against the wall. It takes my writer’s eye to distinguish them from the paintings, quilted figures and dim drawings. I glance and look away, turn my attention back to my newspaper or essay I’m grading. I know I’ll soon be joining my brothers and sisters in writing.

Cultural Oasis

As is no doubt evident, there are plenty of reasons besides writing to visit this magical place. Many come to perform—musicians from all over love the reception they get here. (Visit the website for the full schedule of upcoming events.) But the management is open to all sorts of cultural fare. I debuted The Measure of Everything here on a Friday night back in ’05 with the help of The Fries, a fabulous Miami Valley oldies band specializing in 3-part harmonies and acoustic guitars. I knew better than to assume the wine tasters could live by words alone, and the chapter I read got a very respectful hearing before we rocked out.

And politics. Anyone who knows anything about Yellow Springs knows that we relish debating the issues of the day, with a slight leaning toward the liberal. Campaigning politicians, local and state, as well as activists from all over wanting to draw a crowd to discuss an issue show up here. One village council member conducts weekly “office hours” here. And with Antioch College’s first new class since the closing of ’08 now convened, the cultural/political scene should be livelier than ever. (Of course it never stopped.)

More Than a Coffee Shop

Those of us who live here wonder how we ever got along without this funky place. Of course people talk on the street and in the produce section at Tom’s, at the Sunrise, Winds, the Trail Tavern and Dayton Street Gulch, at Street Fair and Friday Flings. But while all those venues have their loyal constituencies, it seems that if we had to choose just one place to embody who we are, the Emporium/Underdog Café would win, hands-down. See you there?

Links/Resources:
Emporium/Underdog Café website - http://emporiumwines.com/cafe/
Stoneycreek Roasters website - http://www.stoneycreekroasters.com/
The Fries - http://www.reverbnation.com/thefriesband

Memoir 101: Demons and Angels

2011-09-23T10:25:00.000-07:00

A Place to Start

My Comp I (English 111) classes at Sinclair Community College are writing memoir essays this week. For a lot of reasons, it’s a loaded medium. I’m trying to play fair by not requiring anything of my students that I don’t require of myself. Therefore, I’m writing one, too.

Memoir, while easier in some ways than argumentative thesis-and-support essays, can be a challenge for seasoned writers, much less newbies. Writing honestly about your own life is daunting, especially when students are given a criteria sheet containing everything from organization to pacing and significance (see link to Narrative Writing link, below). Narrative writing is a great place to begin a basic writing class, requiring as it does lively and varied sentences and diction. In a class where secondary research is banned, we’ll need to tell personal stories for the rest of the quarter to support our positions.

Prewriting

We use the time-tested methods of free-writing, brainstorming and clustering (described in any basic comp text) to break writer’s block and find the real topic: the focus, the story-within-a-story, which is crucial to the essay’s success. Plucking a subject thoughtlessly out of the air usually leads to a mediocre story lacking significance. In my brainstorm, I came up with: drinking Clorox when I was a toddler, going on a spiritual retreat to the Trappist Monastery of Gethsemani, attending my first Bruce Springsteen concert and playing spring break at Fort Lauderdale with my college Christian rock band. I decided to tackle the Clorox incident, not only because the class seemed interested, but because I am interested in probing its meaning for its lasting effect on my life. Here goes...

Day of the Dragon

It must’ve been a really hot August day. According to family legend, I was a toddler, walking but not talking much. My mother and I were on the basement level of the garage apartment where we lived, and my mom was washing the uniforms of my dad, who, working third shift, was sleeping upstairs. I’ve imagined the scene hundreds of times...

It’s cool but humid in that dank, stuffy space, and I see my two-year-old self eyeballing that glass of bleach with intense interest. Maybe, by that time in my young life, I’ve tasted Seven Up, that clear, sweet drink in a green bottle; maybe I think it’s a glass of water. While my mother’s back is turned, I toddle over, making no noise, reach up, seize the glass, raise it to my lips and drink. It’s hard to imagine the rest.

I don’t think that I would’ve drunk much before it started burning and worse in my infant stomach, roaring up my esophagus like a hissing fuse. Things would’ve happened fast. Howling, I must’ve dropped the container, spilling the rest of the harsh liquid, maybe breaking the glass. When Mom turned around, she surely knew what had happened. Young, and inexperienced, newly saddled with the demands of not only taking care of a husband but now a son, she was doubtless overwhelmed, maybe paralyzed when she saw me crying. Known for her slowness, she must’ve acted fast that day.

The thing she did right, the thing that I have been grateful for all my life, was her summoning my father. Did she scream and wake him, pound a broom on the garage ceiling or leave me alone while she raced upstairs? I have only her word for what happened next.

“Your dad came and grabbed you up. You vomited all over that jacket he got from somebody who’d been in the army in Korea, the one with the dragon on it.” (I can see that jacket if I strain hard, although I may be inventing; to me, it’s Superman’s cape.) She pauses, shakes her head. “He laid you in the Pontiac beside him and took you to the hospital and had your stomach pumped.”

It was one of a handful of kind acts my father did for me, the largest being the gift of giving me life. I could’ve easily died that day—or been a sick kid for a long time. Neither happened. Superman arrived and spirited me away.

I don’t think my dad was drinking much then, therefore he wasn’t in a stupor from which he would not have roused. Within five years, however, he’d be drinking heavily, my mom and I would be living alone and waiting for him to visit, to pay the rent (or electric bill so the lights could be turned back on) and to buy groceries. The word for my dad would soon be Absence. By the time I was in fourth grade, he’d be gone for good.
But the Day of the Dragon, the young dad showed up and apparently took charge. The boy he nicknamed Butch befouled that fancy jacket festooned with its coiling monster of which he was so proud. Maybe I even defiled his car seat; surely there was hassle once he got to the emergency room. A country boy with about a third-grade education, my dad would’ve been lost in a hospital.

“Your father saved your life.” Mom always said it with the greatest pride. She never took any credit for what happened that day, though Dad would never have come running had it not been for her. The one thing my mother would be capable of doing for the following two decades until I left home to marry my first wife was asking people, often strangers, for help. It’s a gift I should not minimize, although to this day I have trouble depending on others.

When I’m tempted to vilify my father for abandoning his wife and son, and minimize his gifts—a wagon, a bicycle, some flashy six-gun sets and a Davy Crockett outfit three sizes too big—I have to recall that he gave me life. Twice.

Truth vs. “The Truth”

Writing which is this personal can be intense. As a fiction writer, I never feel I’m into deep enough water unless I’m nearly embarrassing myself with my characters, their issues, conflicts, revelations and resolutions. There are similarities but also huge differences between writing autographical fiction and writing memoir (see the link below for more information), the biggest one being strict fidelity to the literal truth. In memoir, you’ve got to name names, make people and places recognizable and tell the truth as you know it—not just “the truth,” the theme that naturally emerges from characters in conflict, but what actually happened, or as close as you can get. And you may not know the event’s significance when you begin; you have to take it on faith that you can strike gold by digging for it.

Demons and Angels

When first conceived, I thought my Clorox memoir would focus on my mother and her mental illness, which, while it would increase over time, was apparent even in my earliest years. But as I wrote, my father became the focus, a man I hardly know and about whom I have extremely mixed emotions, a man who abandoned his family, a man I cried for one whole day when he left.

That’s what memoir does: the process of writing can take you to the heart of the matter (or the matter of the heart) and place you right in front of your demons—and angels, as my dad turned out to be on one of the most important days of my life. Lightning may not immediately strike; memoir is a process, like any writing task, and it requires patience, faith and trust. I’d like my students to see this first assignment in their college writing course as an opportunity to face, or at least explore more deeply, an issue, a person or a memory that resonates for them, and maybe—but not necessarily—troubles them, like the relationship with a parent, a sibling, friend or romantic attachment.

Blowing the Top Off

While there are no easy formulas for any writing assignment, there are guidelines for narrative/memoir writing. It’s crucial to have a tight, trusting writing community in which to produce such emotional work. Such writing begs to be shared, and my students will submit their work for silent peer evaluation; we may even read a few aloud, voluntarily, of course. I remind students they must find the degree of self-disclosure that’s comfortable for them. They need to know their truths will be respected, and in my classes they always are. The comments they earn prove their efforts are appreciated and often admired. For the majority, it’s a satisfying assignment; I’ve read many that, in Emily Dickinson's words, “took the top of my head off.” I expect this latest batch will do the same, and I humbly, eagerly look forward to reading them.

Links:
Narrative Writing (PDF)
Memoir vs. Autobiographical Fiction (PDF)

Stoney Creek Roasters: Floating Writers’ Retreat

2011-08-25T16:27:00.000-07:00

My Secret “Fishing Hole”

I seriously considered not telling. But the matchmaker in me overruled my greed for peace and quiet; I love to recommend the exact right book for someone, introduce two people that wind up friends for life, or hook someone up with the exact music that he/she needs. So I’ve decided to tell you about one of the best public places I’ve ever found to write, rest, eat, drink and dream. Thirty or forty feet above a peaceful, wandering stream, Stoney Creek Roasters in Cedarville, Ohio, is one of the best places I’ve ever found to fish for words.

And the Coffee’s Delicious, Too

I’ve been a fan of coffeehouses since the first ones emerged in Dayton in the early nineties: Samuel Johnson’s on Main, and the Front Street Café, where you could get soup and salad, great coffee and baked goods, and, more importantly, hang out for as long as you want. And read and write.

Well, the two above-mentioned cafes are history (more’s the loss), but many more have arisen to take their place, thank goodness. A huge fan of Panera Bread and Barnes & Noble’s Café for the last two decades, I’ve found Stoney Creek Roasters a place of great hospitality—but a world away from the former venues' suburban vibe. The food at SC is great: excellent home-made soups and sandwiches, thick-as-Massie-Creek-mud milkshakes and fine local-roasted brew (their Mexican Chiapas is the best decaf I’ve ever tasted). But the setting is the big draw for me.

Present Meets the Past

I discovered Stoney Creek last summer while passing through Cedarville on my way to West Virginia. I even stayed in the car while my wife went in for a road trip latte. Soon she emerged. “Get out of the car,” she ordered, smiling. On the sidewalk, I gazed first into Massie Creek. Then I glimpsed the wooden structure clinging to the side of the old brick building from the 1880s: not a creek-worthy craft but a beautiful half-moon deck extending outward like the prow of a ship. I looked around: history, nature, the old and the new were co-existing organically. Rather than knocking an old building down for the new business, the owners had chosen to restore and revitalize something beautiful, something already there. It was an auspicious introduction to enchantment.

On the Path

Does Cedarville, home of Cedarville University, seem far off the beaten path to you? Well, it was to me, too. However, due to the wonderful Miami Valley Bike Trail system, my wife and I have made Stoney Creek our biking destination for the past two summers. Deciding some time ago that it’s not only safer but more pleasurable to confine our cycling to the extensive trail system, we ride first to Xenia, then on to Cedarville, about forty miles round trip from Yellow Springs: a long ride, maybe, except that we break it up by lingering on the deck for a couple of hours.

"Doing what?" you well might ask. For me, writing; for my wife, reading, dozing, journaling. And not only do the owners not mind our hanging out, they encourage it by greeting us with warm smiles, bringing food and drink out to us on the deck as if it were a fine-dining restaurant rather than a coffeeshop!

Secret Ingredient

Not a biker, writer, coffee-drinker or ice cream fan? Well, if you just want a quiet, naturally aesthetic spot to hear yourself think (or not think), then cozy up to a table at the deck rail where you can look down-creek and see lazy-flowing water within gently-jutting banks populated by ferns, native limestone and big, peeling sycamores; look up-creek and see, beneath the main drag (Route 72), a curving stone arch inviting the imagination to dream of other times and places: the Underground Railroad, Tecumseh, Kenton, Boone...

A Place of Diverse Charms

Or invite some friends to meet you there. Three friends and I had a gab-fest the other evening on the deck while a gaggle of teenagers birthday partied above us in the courtyard. I stayed until the night breeze had me a-shiver, letting me know summer’s lease is rapidly expiring.

Not to worry, though. There’s ample space inside: two large rooms upstairs, plus a cave-like space below, fine for a writing group or meeting of whatever stripe. And the ambience indoors feels just as historically inviting as out, with squeaky floors, large windows, barrels full of coffee beans...and that caffeinated fragrance: Ahhh.

But the deck is where I thrive. There’s an indefinable aura hovering over the creek, where I’ve found ample inspiration for poems, stories, blogs and conversation. But if you go just for the shakes and smoothies, the three-generation–family who run the place won’t mind.

See you there?

P.S. The photos and videos on the website will make you want to fly—not bike or drive—to Cedarville! (And check out their extremely generous hours.)

Birmingham Arts Journal Excerpts Israel Jones

2011-07-27T14:15:00.000-07:00

A Publishing Surprise

A real perk of my novel Running from Mercy: The Psalms of Israel Jones winning the 2010 Hackney Award for the Novel was having an excerpt published in Birmingham Arts Journal (beginning on page 38 of the issue, or page 39 of the online PDF). Since the Hackney organization does not offer publication, I was pleased when contest spokesperson Myra Crawford informed me that BAJ would be contacting me in order to publish an excerpt. In my post-winning euphoria, I didn’t pay much attention and at first thought the periodical was a newspaper; therefore I was a bit wary.

No Downside

Even before publication, however, I knew I liked the folks at BAJ. Editor Jim Reed e-mailed a request to be allowed to review the novel in order to choose an excerpt. I confess to a bit of paranoia about sending a stranger an electronic version of my manuscript in order to surgically remove a slice for his uses. However, it didn’t last more than a microsecond. My agent, who’s shopping the book to publishers, reassured me: “There is no downside to publishing an excerpt.” So I closed my eyes and pushed the send button.

Within a week or two, Mr. Reed responded, saying he liked my book and wisely suggesting that he publish the first few pages, including the epigraphs from Bob Dylan’s Chronicles and St. Matthew. I instantly agreed, especially liking the place where he chose to end the excerpt: “And, like that, the journey began.”

Lit-Mag With a Mission

After acceptance, I decided to peruse the online version of BAJ to see what the magazine was like. (Yes, perusing before giving permission might’ve been a good idea; but don’t forget those were heady days following the announcement of my winning the award; also, publication almost anywhere is usually a good thing, plus I liked the tone of my correspondence with Editor Reed).

The first thing I noticed was how easily navigable the journal was—you can zoom from the table of contents to the selection itself. Next, I noticed the beautiful layout and artwork, as you can see from the cover above: “Beach Buds,” a pastel by Alabama native Libby Wright. And there’s much more art inside, ranging from acrylic to oil, photography to laser cut carbon steel. Finally, this note on the back cover caught my eye: “This journal is produced without profit by dedicated volunteers who believe that exceptional works by the famous, not-so-famous, and never-to-be-famous deserve to be published side by side in a beautiful and creative setting.” That’s a mission statement I can believe in.

The Process

Another huge perk of the process was receiving an electronic copy of my work (digital galleys) to proofread; I did note a couple of problems which were corrected before publication. Occasionally I’ve been thrilled to have my work accepted by a literary magazine I admire, only to be disappointed when it appears, months later. Once a well-respected journal omitted the final 3-4 lines of my poem. (And what do you do when that happens? Forgive immediately the editors, for whom this is a labor of love, more often costing rather than making them money; like BAJ, lit-mags are usually produced by dedicated volunteers, especially those not associated with a university).

The Product

When the excerpt appeared in Volume 8, Issue 2, I experienced only joy. I had to wait merely a couple of months to see my work; it was perfectly produced; and, best of all, it was surrounded by all the other Hackney winners from the state and national competitions (totaling $5,000, not counting the novel award) in poetry and short fiction. Israel Jones appeared in the excellent company of work that is vital, accessible and thoroughly entertaining—even familiar: Vivien Shipley, editor of Connecticut Review, to which I’ve submitted, had a fine poem included: “Digging Peonies.” And almost all of the work was southern-tinged, which suited me fine.

“We Are Proud of Your Story”

I’m a happy man to have received such an unexpected blessing from this fine small-press publication. Furthermore, I’m extremely grateful to the Morris Hackney family for generously endowing the novel part of the competition. The national stature and significant monetary prize make winning quite a thrill. But it was the personal contact with good folks like Myra Crawford and Jim Reed that made winning—and publishing an excerpt—such a pleasure. It meant quite a lot when, following publication, I received an e-mail from Jim saying “We are proud of your story.”

Giving It Back

All serious writers are readers looking for their next literary fix. If, like me, you’re picky and you also want to vote for the best, you might consider voting for the unpretentious, high-quality Birmingham Arts Journal with a donation of $25 or more for an individual membership; or $100 or more for a company membership (either of which earns you the gift of four issues). Or you might at least order a single copy for $5. I assume you can read it online for free, but a donation puts a hard copy in your mailbox and supports a very fine arts organization with real vision and a great mission. (And of course if you’re a writer, you should consider entering the annual competition. See www.hackneyliteraryawards.org for the next deadline.)

Shouldn’t we support those editors and sponsors of contests who support writers?

I’m writing my check right now.

P.S.—Jim Reed not only owns and operates a rare book loft, Reed Books and Museum of Fond Memories, in Birmingham but is also the author of several books, including Dad’s Tweed Coat.

The Virtues of Small Press: Live at Antioch Writers’ Workshop 2011

2011-07-18T13:01:00.000-07:00

Dropping In

Last Wednesday, July 13, I had the good fortune of dropping in on Kevin Watson’s Editor’s Session at the 2011 Antioch Writers’ Workshop here in lovely Yellow Springs, Ohio. While it’s evolved through the years, AWW has always maintained its high-quality and insistence on great faculty-student relations. And while the study of craft is the centerpiece, there are always presentations by agents and editors. On this day, it was the editing I was interested in.

Editor in Sneakers

Having recently submitted a short story collection to Press 53, I was eager to hear its chief editor speak. After all, anyone with a first book whose title is You Can’t Meet Jesus Wearing Sneakers gets my attention. Kevin Watson was both heartening and realistic in his comments about the advantages of publishing with a small press in general and Press 53 in particular, the state of publishing and the increasing prevalence of technology in the process.

Press 53, founded in 2006, publishes poetry, literary short stories, novellas and novels, creative nonfiction and anthologies. At www.press53.com, I learned that the press has published over fifty books, such as Valerie Nieman’s Blood Clay, which I reviewed in my previous blog. That’s an impressive output for a mere five years! But why would one want to publish with a small press over a larger, commercial press such as, say St. Martins, Harper or Warner?

Family Affair

For one thing, Kevin said, the authors and editors at Press 53 are a family. Small can be better when it comes to writing, editing, publishing and promoting books. Personal connections are crucial; for example, Watson said he only accepts manuscripts that he personally likes. Big names don’t matter, though occasionally a big name, like Pinckney Benedict or John Ehle, does sign with the press just because of that personal touch.

Even with a major New York publisher, authors will have the full responsibility of promoting their books anyway; therefore, why not sign with a small press where you can have more control over the process, more fun hanging out with editors and writers that you know and respect? And less pressure. Writers who fail to earn back an advance from a big publisher are usually doomed when it comes to getting their next book deal. But smaller presses don’t need those kinds of numbers, only enough to keep the press alive and help an author gain and keep an audience.

Getting Out There

The first thing Watson does after receiving a submission is to Google the writer’s name to determine if the person is “out there,” meaning actively writing and promoting. So just as, if not more, important than fine writing is the literary activity writers are engaged in. This is similar to the New York publishers’ increasing insistence on the all-important “platform,” i.e., the writer’s “other” credentials besides good writing: expertise in a field, academic or other credentials, status as a celebrity, etc.

However, the difference is that mostly what Kevin is asking of his authors is hard work, interest in and dedication to one’s art. Having published two novels with small presses, I’m well aware that one is called upon to put together book tours, write news releases and perform a host of other activities. Hence, it’s crucial, he emphasized, to meet people and make contacts, “just like you’re doing here this week at Antioch.”

Also, he said, rather than sequestering oneself to write nothing but a novel for two or three years, one should publish articles, stories and poems in the meantime. Writers earn a reputation through awards and publications of all types.

The New Word of Mouth

To the surprise of no one in the auditorium at Antioch University Midwest, Watson said that the Internet is “the new word of mouth,” easily trumping the power of reviews. Therefore, his press and writers must take full advantage of social media to reach a global audience. He counseled us to use them appropriately, not posting a video of a reading in which the performer looks less than professional. One only has to look at the impressive Press 53 website to see that Watson and his authors practice what they preach.

Sobering Reality

By the end of the hour, I found myself liking Kevin Watson, his vision and his impressive results. But I am under no false illusion that what he and his authors do to find their audience is easy. Kevin has his feet planted firmly on the ground; he’s asking a lot of himself, his two fellow editors and those he publishes. And it’s a lot more than writing. He’s asking his authors to be marketers and publicists as well. Yes, we can be writers without doing all that. But these days we can’t be published writers without wearing a lot of other hats. Kevin makes me think, though, that this hard work could be more fun in his small press family than in a corporate publishing situation where I may feel lost.

Postscript

Why “Press 53,” someone asked Kevin during Q & A. He grinned and said, “It’s my lucky number.” Lucky, indeed, given the number of quality books he’s published as well as global relationships he maintains from his home in North Carolina.

Great Summer Reading: A Writer to Watch

2011-06-23T08:29:00.000-07:00

You’ve no doubt got all your summer reading lined up already; however, it you’re like me, there’s always room on the shelf for another great read. Valerie Nieman’s third novel, Blood Clay, is the deeply moving, elegantly-constructed story of what happens when extraordinary violence happens to ordinary people; however, the story is about much more than violence. Set in the small-town world of Saul County, North Carolina, it encompasses a great deal of history, private and public, as we come to know many of the denizens of Taberville and the surrounding region extremely well.

Tracey Gaines and Dave Fordham, twin protagonists, are single teachers at the A.O. Miller Alternative School. Living across the road is Orenna Sipes, a single African-American mother raising her two daughters. Artis Pennell, whose farm abuts Tracey’s, is, like her, a divorced newcomer; but, unlike her, he has custody of a teenage son, Jim. Through the fates of these interwoven characters, Nieman works out the timeless theme who am I and where do I belong?

An “Ordinary” Tragedy

Events are set in motion early on when Tracey witnesses a tragedy involving a child. Her involvement—what she did and didn’t do—not only disturbs her conscience but interferes with her ability to assimilate into a community worlds away from her urban Ohio and Pennsylvania. While the tragedy sets Tracey and her two neighbors on a collision course, Neiman thankfully takes her time getting there. And, despite the tragedy at its center, and its serious after-shocks, this well-wrought story contains much joy and pleasure for Dave and Tracey, hence the reader as well. Nieman never sacrifices the likely, the probable, the inevitable in favor of easy sentiment. Any grace found in this “blood clay” is hard-won. That’s never more evident than in the court scenes when Tracey gives a deposition, then takes the witness stand, nor in the shattering finale, which is satisfyingly real.

Insiders vs. Outsiders

Setting is character here. Extremely enjoyable are scenes inside Tracey’s aging farmhouse, simultaneously her albatross and salvation. We’re also taken down country roads, into tobacco fields, inside the alternative school, and in the process we’re driven deep into Carolina soil. “Blood Clay” is as apt a title as it is evocative. Blood is shockingly but never gratuitously spilled in the course of this hard story. History envelopes these characters; Tracey herself is a teacher of history, while Dave Fordham, the man she comes to know and love, is living history, his ancestors among the earliest inhabitants of the region.

It’s one of the novel’s many ironies that a man whose roots go as deep as Dave’s is almost as uncomfortable here as Ohio-bred Tracey, due to his having left North Carolina for the big city years ago. A brash, ambitious English teacher determined to save the world, Dave returned an emotional and physical cripple. While Dave translates the region’s history to the Northern outsider, Tracey, in turn, helps Dave face his own secret tragedy: what happened while he taught in Baltimore to make him forever afraid of his own students.

A Teacher’s Story

A community college teacher of over thirty years, I found Nieman’s handling of the school scenes one of the novel’s greatest strengths. Having taught graduates of schools like A.O. Miller, I can say the author nails just what it is like to face wounded students full of rage, with painfully low self-esteem—who can, as chickens do after seeing a spot of blood (an observed weakness), pick apart a teacher without sufficient armor. The climactic classroom showdown between Dave and his student Jim would’ve been payoff enough for me even without the final, inevitable scene when Artis shows up to confront Tracy and Dave. Without giving anything away, I’ll just say that Nieman can be completely trusted to surprise and satisfy the high emotional stakes she raises without resorting to cheap tricks or gratuitous violence.

Real People

In this character-driven novel, there are no stereotypes. Tracey is no mere victim of cruel, hypocritical, back-stabbing Southerners. Urban born and raised, she has some rural roots from her grandmother and is quite capable of knocking down walls inside her farmhouse or excavating a dump on her land to divine its history. Likewise, Dave may be empathetic and tender, but he can wield a shotgun and take a punch from brawling students. Furthermore, Orenna Sipes, the mother of the child at the story’s heart, is perfectly believable in her chilling responses to Tracey. Even Artis Pennell, a man under enormous pressure, remains remarkably restrained, even sympathetic, never becoming a predictable, one-dimensional stalker bent on vengeance against Tracey, his accuser. I found myself greatly touched by Artis’s motherless son Jim, who carries his father’s—as well as much of Tracey and Dave’s—pain.

Poetic Prose

Not only her nuanced plot, setting and characters but also Nieman’s poetic language brings her world to life. She paints the setting with precise, laser-cut visuals: “A flower slipped from the blanket covering the casket, and the preacher lifted it high before the congregation, and there was nothing to say or to respond.” Her metaphors are often breath-taking: “A frightening thing, how a touch, a look that goes on too long, could burn right through three, four lives. Like that soft white metal they kept in a jar in the chemistry lab, sodium, or magnesium; if taken from the fluid that damped its nature, it would flame up in the air and couldn’t be put out.”

Insights and Identity

This is the stuff of fine literary fiction, and Nieman’s journalistic background shows in her tight economy of construction. She offers a near-sociological view of this world, involves the reader deeply with several living human beings and provides true, aching insights about identity, both personal and cultural, asking whether they can finally be separated—and she does so in 196 pages. Not a word, image or event is wasted. These characters dip their arms up to their elbows in this blood clay, this rich soil that grows a plant requiring as much labor and love as tobacco—and so does the reader, who’s deeply affected by these characters’ suffering and joy. If there’s a flaw in Blood Clay, it’s that the novel is over way too soon, leaving me waiting to see what this talented author writes next.

(A version of this review was published recently in the Charleston (WV) Gazette).

Automatic Writing: Between the Keystrokes

2011-06-06T11:00:00.000-07:00

I feel cautiously optimistic about how things are developing with the new novel I’m writing—and that’s truly the right word—developing—for I’m trying to get out of the way and let the story flow right through me at this point. In ways, that seems like the opposite of what I’ve been doing, keeping a novel journal of how I think things might go, where they’re heading. But sometimes I’m way wrong; at least once the book took over and told me where it was going (an important death)—and while that might be the most dramatic example, it’s far from the only one. Seems to me that there’ve been plenty of surprises, some of which of course might need to be reconsidered. But as far as things happening, I believe they are, that it’s not a static book.

First Thought, Best Thought?

Interestingly, I’ve almost stopped journaling, instead intuiting a general direction and then waiting till I’m at the keyboard to let things come clear between the keystrokes. “Automatic writing,” one writer acquaintance called it (meaning he never revised), a process I mistrust a lot—would I let someone really read my first draft of . . . anything? How about this article? Would I be willing to post this on my blog without major rewriting? Maybe...but what point would I be making?

Well, maybe that “first thought” could be “best thought?” Natalie Goldberg, in Writing Down the Bones, believes that “beginner’s mind” is needed every time you approach the page: be a novice, take a risk, just let ‘er rip and see where you wind up. It’s worked for me in writing stories using Roberta Allen’s method in Fast Fiction: Creating Fiction in Five Minutes; that is, producing kernels that I expand into longer, more complete stories. But having that much faith in myself to believe that surrendering the censor might yield gold...that’s a real stretch for me.

Recycling or Channeling?

I do tend to believe that, even when not explicitly writing autoibiographically, I’m still using my life, broadly defined as everything I’ve ever experienced, including through reading, watching movies—all media, in fact. Though I tend to often disdain technology, I am in a way, a sophisticated computer with a seemingly magical ability to not only recall all my “digitized” experience but also to re-combine, re-envision, re-mold that experience into something hardly recognizable as related to the kernel from which it came.

But is that all there really is to the process? I confess I don’t think so, that there’s at least a bit of something outside my own mind that takes over and inhabits me mentally, spiritually, at times, it seems, even physically, for I often “see” the place where scenes happen, often much clearer than characters’ appearances—that’s much more a feeling for me, even after multiple revisions.

So what is the “it” that takes over? A mystery, of course, but it could be Jung’s archetypes, those ancients whose lives and wisdom actually exist and which our unconscious minds dip into, invited or not. Or is it God, to whom I often pray and dedicate my writing sessions? Yet I don’t think it’s either. I believe God wants me to write—I’ve given my Higher Power multiple chances to tell me otherwise. He gave me the gift—and continues to let me choose how to use it; i.e., God does not micromanage my artistic life or that of others. That doesn’t preclude Him being pleased when I make good choices, artistically and morally. I agree with Him that service to all, including oneself, is a worthy goal (I almost said “the” worthy goal) of art.

One should write fiction, said John Gardner, in The Art of Fiction, so that “no one commits suicide, no one despairs...so that people understand, sympathize, see the universality of pain, and feel strengthened, if not directly encouraged to live on.” But he absolutely did not mean to write sentimentally (with false emotion) or lie, ever. He wants me to think that writing is, first and foremost, a noble, moral mission—but he didn’t have to name names of all the modern writers who, according to him, didn’t share his moral goals, and he didn’t have to give examples of their “bad” writing in his jeremiad On Moral Fiction—that only served Gardner’s ego.

The Wine Cellar

So if not God or archetypes, who else could be in control of my “automatic” writing? Some deep, deep, even dark, place: my own unconscious (not inhabited by the “otherness” of archetypes or even God)—the place I’m mostly unaware of, which is smarter, even wiser than my “waking” mind at least 95% of the time. Bingo. I think that’s it for me, the source that keeps me writing as I do, trusting the process itself to take me to the cellar where the best wine is kept, albeit dusty, mildewed and often scary; a place of gritty, often profane, even embarrassing truths. I sense when I get there—sense it in my body, from fingertips to tightening temples around my eyes to flutters throughout my body—but can’t be too sure the journey was made till the process is over, till the storm has passed and words have finished pouring themselves onto the page.

Me and Ishmael

Everything I’ve said here seems at least somewhat speculative, even mysterious, but this, at least, is undoubtedly true: I always feel deep gratefulness, relief and pleasure to’ve gotten down deep to the best stuff, to’ve been taken to the sacred cellar and, like Melville’s Ishmael, “escaped alone to tell thee.” That journey, in a nutshell, is why I write. Revision—the endless, interesting, necessary and fascinating creative (and often wonderfully collaborative) means to communicate one’s “deep darkness” to the world—now that’s a topic for another session.

Postscript

I pretty much kept my promise to write this “automatically” without the excessive, obsessive revision I usually devote to even blog postings in my (possibly over-perfectionistic) attempt to be on guard against embarrassing myself in public. I omitted only a couple of sentences and occasionally added a word or two (or reference) just for clarity. Now I close my eyes and push “send”...

The Writer in Winter: Less is More

2011-05-21T12:25:00.000-07:00

While reading Brooke Allen’s review in The New York Time Book Review of Nicholas Delbanco’s Lastingness: the Art of Old Age, I began thinking about how my own creative process has changed as I’ve aged. At fifty-nine, I’ve pared it down to “deep essentials,” as others apparently have. But what does that mean?

Inception vs. Reception

Delbanco claims that while, in youth “it’s the reception of the piece and not its production that counts. But to the aging writer, painter or musician...it no longer seems as important that the work be sold.” That rings true for me. While I still seek markets for my finished manuscripts, I’ve lost the fervor of former years. Instead, it’s getting meaningful words on paper (or screen) that occupies my writing time much more than when I was forty. Now that I’m retired with presumably a lot more time, I find myself fascinated with the process rather than the product. And wondering what that means, exactly.

Pure Joy

It’s about joy, for one thing: having fun and feeling good about what I’m doing rather than slaving for any perceived “audience.” I mostly don’t know who’s going to read my work anyway, so I do what I believe most of us do, which is to imagine our toughest critics reading what we produce. If, after many revisions, a story still pleases me, I assume it will please some readers, too—and if not that they’ll tell me why, so I can do better next time.

Sweet Surrender

My fascination with the process means learning more and more about it. Many years ago, I thought I’d figured out the one true way for me to write. However, if I’d stayed with that model, I’d still be writing deep into the night. I’ve learned that mornings are so much better for me; whoever said to approach the writing desk as soon as you can after leaving dreams is very wise. Before major cares of the day come, I’m in a purer state. After reading some spiritual literature, say, Thomas Merton, a Psalm or two, I’m ready to surrender to my better self and attempt to leave my ego behind.

Writing, like spirituality, is mostly surrender for me nowadays. In the morning that’s more likely to happen, before ego has a chance to sink its claws back into me after the release that sleep usually brings. I’m more open, more likely not to censor and edit, to prematurely decide that every idea, phrase or word that comes easily is a cliché. I’m capable of being nicest to myself then. Nothing good comes of berating myself for every flawed word choice.

The Essential Thing

Delbanco says, “creative artists who continue to work late in life so often undergo a sea change: a distillation, a new intensity, a sloughing off of excess and ornament in favor of deep essentials.” Ah, yes. So much of my writing—I’m talking more about rewriting now, which requires a lot more of me, both time-wise and intellectually—is about cutting. So while younger writers are concerned with being more prolific and amassing an impressive list of publications, getting published by increasingly prestigious publications, and even making money, these have lost a lot of their luster for me. The essential thing is just to write, anything at all.

The Marathoner

Seeing myself as a receptacle rather than an omniscient god-like author is another change that’s come with age. And the process requires great discipline if I’m to be able to receive. Thirty years ago, I was as ego-driven as the next Hemingway or Fitzgerald wannabe, but now I’ve learned to seek the humility of a Thomas Merton or Wendell Berry, although my efforts often fall radically short.

Back when I was a long-distance runner, I trained every day, in various ways, to be ready for that long haul of a half-marathon; the same applies to long-distance writers (what else are novelists?). Writing something every day, including exercises and journaling, writing (and reading) in a variety of genres keeps me sharp and ready. So when it comes time to channel a new voice and deliver a poem, story or chapter like none I’ve ever written, I want the breath and the body to be strong enough to carry me—many miles, if necessary. Writing is a physical act, says Natalie Goldberg, in Writing Down the Bones. The most important thing is to keep the arm and pen moving across the page.

The Eternal

Channeling comes close to the way I feel about my process today: letting something—my Higher Power, Jung’s collective unconscious, the lingering souls of the departed—use my mind, body, even soul for a period and deliver something I shouldn’t be able to write, something so much better than anything I alone could conceive, something indisputably true and rich and potentially valuable, something eternal. Occasionally I’ve come close to touching the hem of God in this way—it doesn’t seem blasphemy or heresy or even egotism to try. After all I am His child and never feel it more than when I’m writing in this way, with God’s foot pressing firmly down on mine atop the gas pedal.

Grafton’s Journal

My addiction to the process also means I’m hungry to learn new tricks, new methods, techniques. Like the novelist’s journal.

While writing my latest novel as one file, I open another window, simultaneously keeping a journal that directly addresses issues and problems raised by the book. Inspired by Sue Grafton who taught this technique at Antioch Writers Workshop many years ago, it allows me to toggle between planning and fretting about the book—even rehearsing scenes—in one window, and composing paragraphs and pages that I hope to see published in the other.

Sue’s novel-journal is a real pressure-reducer, plus it’s just fun to plot, plan, rehearse, fret, laugh and curse about my project as if to a trusted friend, without fear or shame. On the novel side, I’m God’s warrior, absolutely fearless and as full of faith as I can be; on Sue’s side, however, I cultivate Goldberg’s “beginner’s mind” and try to be my own best friend.

Although I attach a date and heading to each entry (Thoughts on the Plot, Possible Endings), I don’t organize or edit beyond that. So far I’ve been able to find material when I need it (for example, to cut and paste a good idea above or in the middle of the chapter I’m writing or revising). In this way, my ideas are allowed to mature before I commit to developing them. And while many turn out to be ill-conceived, maybe even dead wrong, I honor their attempt to make sense rather than ridicule their wrong-headedness.

Joy vs. Job

So if I’m becoming less commercial and ambitious and more introspective, even as fussy as a stamp collector stewing over his lovelies, then so be it. I enjoy cutting back and paring things down, striving for less rather than more. After all, composing—not marketing or performing or selling my work—is the root of this joy I call “writing.” And I want it to remain a joy—and not an obligation, ambition and certainly not a job, even if I start getting paid for it—for the rest of my life.

An Afterword

By the way, Allen didn’t like Lastingness very much and, as alternatives, recommended two essays about the changing priorities of aging writers: “The Artist Grows Old” by Kenneth Clark and Rudolph Arnheim’s “On the Late Style,” both of which he believes tackle the issue better than Delbanco’s book does. I haven’t tried either yet, but if you do, let me know what you think.

I’d like to give Carl Jung the last word: “We cannot live the afternoon of life according to the program of life’s morning; for what was great in the morning will be little at evening, and what in the morning was true will at evening have become a lie.”

Mad Anthony Writer’s Workshop: A Well-Kept Secret

2011-04-13T09:40:00.000-07:00

Getting the Call

At the risk of giving away a writer’s secret the equivalent of divulging a really good fishing hole, I’d like to steer your boat toward a workshop you might not have heard of yet. The fish are definitely biting; I took a couple of bass and a few trout there myself.

Recommended by a friend, I attended the sixth annual Mad Anthony Writer’s Workshop on April 9, where I taught a workshop on Scene. Only a half hour’s drive from Dayton down I-75, the conference is held on the lovely Hamilton campus of Miami University. Compact as a coffeeshop, this little powerhouse had about everything I want in a conference: great people, excellent location and a friendly yet serious atmosphere. Whether you go to teach or to learn (and you certainly can do both), you should consider attending next year.

It’s a benefit!

Since I was filling in for someone who had to cancel on short notice—plus I’d never heard of the workshop—I needed an incentive. The fact that all the proceeds from tuition go to support literacy at the Boys and Girls Hamilton YMCA was what sold me. I didn’t mind that I wasn’t getting paid, nor did it apparently matter to the other ten or so teacher-writers, agents and editors who offered their expertise on a rainy April Saturday to a serious group of 75 or so student writers. The workshop has raised an impressive $25,000 for literacy during its short tenure.

The People

Co-chairs Jane Biddinger, Vickie Ryan and Kelli Johnson run a tight ship, keeping their oars in the water and rowing. With the conference only a week or so away, they took care of all my needs—and, I assume, the other faculty and participants’. Great communication, directions, design, as if they’ve been doing this as long as, say, Antioch Writers’ Workshop, which just celebrated its 25-year anniversary.

The tone is friendly with a Zen-like calm. No sooner had Vickie announced, at Saturday’s opening ceremony, that the poet Christine Lavin had had to cancel due to car trouble, than another faculty member raised her hand and said, “I’ll be glad to offer another session in her slots.” It’s a can-do, will-get atmosphere.

The Place

Hamilton, Ohio, like the conference, is a city with a very human scale, easy to find and navigate. The compact size of the Harry T. Wilks Conference Center fits the workshop perfectly. When you walk in the door, everything is right there: information desk, classrooms, restrooms, author tables, food. And the facilities are state of the art: I requested a document camera in my classroom to project examples of student writing and got it!

Our continental breakfast was sitting right in the middle of the lobby and that’s where our noon buffet was catered as well (both meals excellent, by the way!). Loved the tender turkey smothered in gravy. Desserts were yummy, too, and the coffee flowed.

The Program

I assume the meet and greet on Friday night was a lot of fun—and while it would’ve been a good opportunity to schmooze as well as maybe sell books, I declined to drive that distance twice (even though I was kindly reimbursed for mileage). Friday’s program, “Murder & Mayhem,” focused on crime writing and looked interesting and useful. I’ll have to ask whether the Friday part of the workshop is always themed every year.

Things kicked off early on Saturday morning, and the administration made every effort to stay on time. In addition to my own session, I attended six classes, including those taught by Agent Christine Witthohn, Nancy Pinard (“Getting Emotion onto the Page”), Peggy Barnes (“Writing Your Life: Memoir”), plus a panel of agents and editors. All sessions were high-quality, professional and a lot of fun, combining lecture and inter-activity—with good handouts (a must!). Agent pitches and manuscript evaluations were also going on behind the scenes.

The day was packed and fast-paced without seeming frantic: a mixture of craft and business as well as several genres (suspense, mystery, memoir, children’s, literary). The tone was upbeat but honest; sincere and substantive. And there were no big guns, excluding maybe Hallie Ephron who taught several classes and delivered the keynote during lunch; however, her sisters are much better known writers than Hallie, who, admitted that she came late to writing. Since the keynote speech didn’t occur until we were mostly finished eating, it was enjoyable and not a deterrent to the literary conversations taking place.

The Pitch

From a student’s perspective, the Mad Anthony appears to be a good deal, quite affordable and accessible, friendly and substantive. From a faculty member’s point of view, it’s a laid-back, low-key venue to share ideas with polite, receptive listeners, sell some books and help out a great cause. After all, what could be better than helping prepare future readers? Either visit the website or contact jane@writelikemad.com for further details. You won’t be sorry.

Writers Who Teach

Lots of writers need to teach to pay the mortgage, put food on the table and gas in the car. They’re equivalent callings, teaching and writing. Some of us are teachers who write and others are writers who teach; regardless of which side of the hyphen we place the most passion (if we can even choose), most of us love, even need, to share what we know. It’s a way of giving back to our craft.

Even if I hadn’t been motivated by the chance to strike a blow for literacy, I’d have worked for kudos like these, offered in my workshop presenter packet: “We thank you sincerely for giving of yourself so generously to teach and inspire our conference attendees. You may never know how you touched the life of someone in need of encouragement, but please be assured you are a hero in our book.”

All images above used with permission of Mad Anthony Writer's Conference.

Writing & Depression

2011-01-25T12:26:00.000-08:00

I’ve been delaying making this confession. Mental health is not an issue many want to discuss, whether it pertains to one’s writing life or not. However, I’m prompted to, due to a visit from an old “friend” last summer. Always an anxious, uptight guy (and maybe a tad controlling), I hadn’t been blind-sided by serious depression since 1973.

The Summer of My Discontent

By the time the academic term at the community college where I teach ended last June, I was burned out—and burned—pretty badly. I’d had a problem student who’d been about as challenging as any I’d had in my thirty-four-year career—and I was more than ready to relax, which meant avoiding what I’d done in recent years: plunging headlong into a big writing project. Like a novel.

Since I quit teaching during the summer back in the ‘90s, I’ve regularly devoted myself to writing a book during my three months off, somehow managing to sustain the project during the school year by writing at least a couple of hours two mornings a week, more during Christmas break. But it’s always been summers when I become immersed, writing all morning or even all day if I wish. Ironically, this seasonal freedom isn’t always a good thing; it can result in a lot of pressure. After the grueling teaching year I’d had, I needed to regroup and recover, take it easy. It was not to be.

Crossroad

Having placed my recently-completed novel manuscript into my agent’s hands in March, I felt I was at a crossroad. For one thing, I decided that if the new book didn’t find a publisher that didn’t require subsidy, one that would at least share the burden of marketing and distribution, then I couldn’t face beginning yet another. I can see now, as I write those words, my barely concealed anger at big publishers for rejecting me; and as everyone knows (except the person in its grip), anger is the root of depression. Also, writing energy devoted to publishing woes is almost always misplaced—but though I know that, I don’t always let myself feel it.

Struck Down

I hadn’t been on summer break a day before headaches set in—not my normal tension headaches but fiery bands and waves that moved all over my head, that had me writhing on the floor pressing an ice pack to my forehead in mostly-fruitless attempts to smother the raging conflagration inside my skull. I consulted doctors, and while I could’ve gotten pain-killers, I wanted to exhaust non-medication solutions first.

I tried homeopathy, even a headache diet. Nothing helped. What an irony: I couldn’t write now if I wanted to; and as the summer (and headaches) raged, I began to really want to. In spite of myself, a new novel was asserting itself, based on a short story of mine, “Two Kings,” that won the Dayton Daily News’ fiction contest in 2008. But writing, formerly a choice, seemed out of the question with the daily pain I was experiencing.

Shelter from the (Inner) Storm

My main relief came from two activities: working outside in the high-nineties, humid heat on a stone walkway in my front yard and riding my bicycle. The former was pleasurable hell; the latter was hellish heaven, depending on my headache pain that particular day.

I’d found a new biking destination: Cedarville. Though a pleasant ride from Yellow Springs to Xenia, then on to the home of Cedarville University, it was mostly Stoney Creek Roasters that drew me to sit, sip, read and write on the lovely curved deck above Massey Creek. Cycling through the mid-day heat to collapse, a sweaty mess, into a chair above the cool water in the shade took me out of myself, and I could transcend my headache for a while, even get in a little writing time.

I spent some good hours on that deck, doing writing exercises, journaling and even tricking myself into writing some passages that might eventually make their way into the new novel I was avoiding. It was paradise. For a while.

D-Day

I’m no stranger to situational depression, the kind resulting from an idealistic writer/teacher’s overly-high expectations of his students or of disappointment at publishers who either reject my work so fast I swear the mail could not have moved so swiftly—or never respond at all. But as the summer wore on, I was feeling something entirely different: tightness in my chest, a gaping hole in my belly. This felt like death—even deadly—and certainly deadening.

The day came, near the end of August with another school year looming, my last before retirement, when I even lost the desire to use the copious tools in my spiritual tool bag developed during the past decade and a half when I stopped relying totally on myself and reconnected with a Higher Power. Suddenly all I wanted to do was escape, to ride, to get away.

The day depression like none I’d seen in thirty-five years struck, I didn’t even tell my wife (the Big D likes secrets). I flew off toward Xenia, riding for my life. Fear rose in me like a siren, beginning as a distant whine then shrilling higher and higher. With sun blazing and birds chattering all around me, I felt increasingly hollow, empty, purposeless. For the first time all summer, the ride wasn’t making me feel better but worse, a lot worse. Since turning around and continuing seemed equally meaningless, I kept on riding till I reached the outskirts of Xenia.

Showdown at Shawnee Park

As I climbed the last hill, it hit me at last what I was going to do and it was my gut, not my head talking: write. Write on this novel. Within ten minutes I’d made it to Shawnee Park: the swans, the fountain, the fishermen, the peace. I threw down my bike and sat at a picnic bench beneath a tree; I couldn’t get my journal out fast enough. Writing non-stop for thirty, forty, fifty minutes, it was like lancing a boil. Relief, Release. And I knew, for the first time—no, I felt it—that I must write; rather than an obsession or compulsion, for me it’s salvation and grace. In the throes of a depression I hadn’t felt since I was a 23-year-old kid with his entire professional life ahead of him, I knew that I needed to write in order to live.

And live in order to write.

Audience of One

I don’t really believe I was suicidal that day, but . . . pre-suicidal? Maybe. Not an admission I easily make, but there it is. Returning home, I was not the same person. Although an MRI might not’ve been able to record how my brain was different, I knew it was. It had spoken to my soul in a language the soul understood: the language of art, of fiction. Journaling, therapeutic though it is; and blogging, teaching, letter-writing—they give me a charge, but nothing connects all my synapses and loose ends, unites all the parts of me into a fully-functioning, halfway-whole human being like the world of imagined lives. Vital as air, food and sex; as necessary as fellow humans; more pleasurable than coffee, food, movies and music—writing is not just in my blood. It is my blood. Open my veins and words spill out, an alphabet soup thicker and more nutritious than Campbell’s.

My wild ride of summer 2010: migraines to anxiety to depression to revelation. By September, I’d begun a new novel in earnest. Whether it’s published—or even read by anyone besides me—is irrelevant at this point. A truth I’d been saying with my lips now was branded into my heart: only write for yourself, always. The rest is gravy—or cold potatoes, congealed grease. I’m the audience that matters most, the only one who’ll be saved by my writing.

A Postscript

Teachers and healers seem to arise just when we need them. Not long after my experience described above, a spiritual friend recommended The Depression Book by Cheri Huber, a Zen teacher for thirty years. Simple in both appearance and style, the book has had a profound effect on me, especially its four-pronged method of coping with a phenomenon she says we should not resist but accept as an opportunity for spiritual growth. I want to hear Cheri’s voice counseling me gently but firmly the next time “opportunity” knocks.

And finally I benefited greatly from the gentle ministrations of Dr. Brenda Borst, a practitioner of non-force chiropractic adjustments, whose kind, compassionate care may have had a lot to do with my headaches retreating to their former normal, bearable state. So far, no meds.

New Anthology on "Chance"

2010-08-19T16:52:00.000-07:00

I’m very pleased to have my story “Convergence” appearing in the second volume of the MotesBooks Motif Anthology Series, “Come What May,” containing short fiction, nonfiction, poetry and song lyrics. Although the 136 contributors are from all over the world, many are southern and Appalachian, reflecting editor (and award-winning writer) Marianne Worthington’s Tennessee roots. In length 323 pages, the handsome book is arranged into intriguing sections such as “Parallel Realities,” “Happenstance” and “Strangers and Kin.”

A few writers were familiar—Larry Smith, director of Ohio’s Bottom Dog Press, along with recent Antioch Writers Workshop faculty Cathy Smith Bowers and Joyce Dyer—but most writers were new to me. And there’s something for everyone in this handsome paperback. The book can be ordered for $15 plus postage at www.motesbooks.com.

Writers, note that the editor is collecting material for the next anthology on “Work” with a deadline of November 1, 2010. For details, see: http://motesbooks.com/MOTIF-Call-For-Submissions.html

My story concerns a woman on the run from her estranged mother and her lover, from whom she’s hiding a secret. On her journey into the past, she has a ghostly encounter with an elderly couple in a mall built on farmland that was an important part of her past. Their chance meeting may provide the key to Colleen’s future.

P.S.—Hope you’ve all survived the summer’s heat with a good book and are ready for some cooler autumn reading. For those of you in this area, I found a great place to read and write—even in the heat—on the lovely deck above Massie Creek at Stoney Creek Roasters in Cedarville. Try it sometime!

Writing Groups: Literary Juggernauts

2010-06-19T10:28:00.000-07:00

Often, after a fiction-writing class I’ve taught, students will ask, “What next?” They already perceive how hard it will be to write without deadlines, a teacher and the support of other writers. And they’re right. I’ve known many fine beginning (and not-so-beginning) writers who’ve suffered this post-partum syndrome, who even quit writing when class is over.

The answer is: a writing group. I’ve written elsewhere of the value—and pitfalls—of the formal writing workshop, which is the heart and soul of almost all college creative writing classes. But what of these highly informal, often diverse and extremely effective (and free!) literary juggernauts?

One Size Does Not Fit All

Writing groups are as varied as those who offer and participate in them. From bookstore-sponsored groups consisting of whoever shows up, to selective, invitation-only groups, they thrive and can be found almost anywhere. Bookstore and community center bulletin boards are good places to look for names and numbers, but even better is an invitation from someone already in a group. You can even start your own.

I’ve been in several such groups over the past three decades and can attest that it’s given me great joy as well as pain (mostly my fault for being too thin-skinned). However, I remain convinced that, other than formal class-work, a writing group is the most efficient way to shorten the learning curve and produce well-crafted, marketable and eventually publishable fiction. (One qualification: while not all writers want to publish books for commercial consumption, most do want to find readers, not write only for personal self-expression. Furthermore, they sincerely want to reward their readers for their time; hence, the need to learn to do it better and better, an extremely worthwhile lifetime endeavor, whether one single word ever makes it “into print”). My advice: shop around.

Issues to Consider

Groups have often spun off from my classes, and I always ask if I can help beyond merely announcing and/or helping recruit. Recently, after so many of these efforts have fizzled after only one meeting, I’ve taken a larger role, even attending the first organizational meeting at which members hammer out the basic structure, considering things like:

Purpose
Will the group mainly critique members' manuscripts, socialize, support, do exercises or share publishing opportunities? The mission can include all of the above, but time should be carefully apportioned for them or the group won't get everything done and some members might become disgruntled and quit.
Location
Where the group meets is critical to success. Rotating at members' houses can be enjoyable, especially if socializing becomes very important, but it can be a hassle, too, necessitating directions, refreshments, house-cleaning and inconvenience to house-mates. Public settings can be fine, if you scout them first for availability and excessive distractions. Often community rooms at libraries and restaurants can be reserved. (Having a Plan B isn't a bad idea.) Make sure ample, safe parking is available, especially at members' houses—you don’t want the neighbors complaining.
Scheduling
Unfortunately, arranging meeting times can be the deal-breaker for busy people, especially students, who often over-commit. Be sure to find time(s) when most agree they can come and stick to the plan. Regularity helps everyone to be disciplined. How often you meet depends on the group’s needs, but I'd say a minimum of once a month at least for a while. Weekly is usually too often; twice a month could be nice if folks can commit, at least for a while to get the pattern established. Veteran groups sometimes meet on an "as-needed" basis, but newer groups might quickly fall apart without greater continuity.
Writing to Share
Will everyone be expected to bring work to share? Or only those who’ve signed up ahead of time? The latter method could be best for new groups—what a bummer if no one brings new work. But if it's expected, most will produce—nothing like a deadline to motivate! Also, should length be a consideration?—how much is too much? Too little? Fiction only—or are nonfiction and poetry allowed?
Format for Manuscripts
Will members simply read aloud from their manuscript or distribute their work ahead of time, either electronically or by mail? You’ll often get a more complete critique if hard copy is provided; however, you'll also use a lot of paper and ink, even if you single space and use a smaller font. The expense could be too restrictive for some. Decide what’s reasonable and enforce the rules.
Composition of Group
For all but beginners, the groups should be selective, according to criteria such as: writing ability, dedication, ability and willingness to critique and compatible personalities. I consider the last two the most important—why subject yourself to working with really difficult people in your precious free time while pursuing an avocation you love? And if the world’s best writer says little to help peers, resentments can fester. However, try hard to give people the benefit of the doubt and listen with an open mind. You don’t have to take anyone’s advice. Nod, smile, thank your critics and do whatever you want with your work.
Recruiting
It's good to have a process for accepting new members. For example, a present member recommends someone, the group discusses and if agreeable asks the person to submit a writing sample; if acceptable, the person is asked to visit (but not join yet), so the group can observe the person's critiquing ability and make sure personalities are amenable (make sure visitor knows this is standard procedure—nothing personal). After the visit, members can discuss and decide whether an invitation will be issued. It’s a basic process which can be tweaked to suit your group. Granted, there might be some awkwardness if the sponsoring member has to tell the prospect that she didn’t make the grade; however, someone besides the recommender might handle that task to make it less so.
Group Roles
Every group needs a time-keeper to diplomatically segue from socializing to critiquing, then keep the ball rolling and prevent bogging down over minutiae. Also, an organizer makes sure the next meeting gets scheduled. Often someone will remind the group if critiquing becomes a bit over-zealous and counter-productive (e.g., an issue becomes simply a matter of personal taste rather than a real craft problem). These and other roles can be assigned or allowed to simply evolve.
Format for Critique
What sort of structure will be used to protect writers and insure that it's not simply the loudest voice that is heard? One of the best rubrics for critiquing fiction emerged from a group I was in for several years (Fiction Evaluation Checklist). It’s best if all manuscripts are handled in the same basic way. Also, whether the writer is allowed to speak can be decided—it’s hard, especially for beginners, to avoid becoming defensive and/or making statements irrelevant to the critique. One of the best critiquing formats came from a session I attended at Cleveland State University’s “Imagination” workshop (Guidelines for Critique). I’ve been following some of its precepts in my classes ever since.

Also, it’s a good practice to state positives—what’s working, what’s memorable and satisfying—in the work first; then proceed to the suggestions for improvement. Although hurt feelings are impossible to entirely avoid, the best way to minimize them is to observe a set structure. Since there’s always going to be turn-over in membership, having a method brings new members up to speed quickly and efficiently.

All for One

Early consideration of the above could save you and your fledgling group pain later when you find yourself loving your people but not the process (or vice versa); and regretting bad habits that you’ve defaulted to, as all families will. While all writing groups spun off my classes met only a few times and fizzled, it was mostly due to people’s busy schedules; and, sometimes, the lack of a person to initiate—and persist—in getting people motivated to attend. The spark can quickly die if members don’t see at least the possibility of a strong blaze.

But there’s much good news, too. I believe I’ve gotten nearly the equivalent of an MFA in creative writing from my experiences in several high-octane, talented writing groups I’ve been privileged to attend. I know of a group, begun at the Antioch Writers’ Workshop a decade or so ago, which not only still meets but whose members are fiercely devoted to each other and to each other’s writing. Maybe that’s the key: to really like, even love, each other—even if, just like family, you don’t always get along perfectly.

Glen Helen and Me

2010-04-05T10:15:00.000-07:00

While sitting before the statue of Horace Mann, a friend of mine thought he heard a voice telling him he should go to China. A student of Chinese at Wittenberg at the time, he went, became obsessed with the culture and language, and eventually earned a Ph.D. in Chinese linguistics. I’ve sat with Horace, too; he is opinionated; thank goodness he never told me to go to China.

Glen Helen is a mystical, sacred place for many, myself included. Despite its being an intensely real place of breath-taking, soul-washing images—like blood and feathers from some hawk’s dinner party, seven leaping deer crossing the creek, the sudden burst of a heron flushed from its fishing pool, shards of sunlight piercing the Pine Forest’s canopy—the Glen has always been mystical and spiritual to me (as well as physically exhilarating). And it’s a place where my imagination runs wild, freed from the concrete and steel urban landscape where I work. Helen is my most constant muse.

Into the Wild

I enter Glen Helen with muted excitement, always. After three decades of frequenting her woods at least once a week, and in good weather a lot more often, I know her well. It was the Pine Forest that first bewitched me: a rusty-red-carpeted sanctuary where I can still sometimes almost hear the sweet strains of “Just As I Am,” the regular altar call in the Baptist Church in which I was raised, as I walk up the “aisle” at its entrance. Hawks soar above, squirrels chatter on the ground—all glazed in holy light, gentle rain or falling snow while wind taunts the pines’ upper branches. A place for prayer, contemplation, even a wedding: one fine October morning, my wife and I sang Jesse Winchester’s “Lay Down the Burden of Your Heart” right here for our friends Jeff and Jane.

But Helen can still surprise me, sometimes pleasantly, sometimes not. The elaborate hogan someone constructed in September of ’08 in the Pine Forest after Hurricane Ike made me smile like a boy who’s found a gang’s secret fort. But I’ve also been dismayed to find the remnants of parties: beer cans and bottles, charred remains of fires, and the worst: an old yellow couch sitting where the hogan had stood (perhaps in revenge for its disassembly by, I assume, glen staffers who foresaw the structure as an encouragement to camp). Now that it’s gone, I can chuckle at the memory of that sagging couch, eager to devour beer-drinkers’ butts. I was glad to find my “church’s” sanctuary empty the very next day, the wild restored.

And Wilder . . .

But not so wild, really—not even as wild as the meadow beyond the Pine Forest and across John Bryan Park Road where Horace Mann, first president of Antioch College, stands, wearing his painted-red shoes, adjacent to the monument to Hugh Taylor Birch, who donated the Glen’s land in the name of his daughter: Helen Birch Bartlett. (God bless you, Hugh and Helen. You, too, Horace.)

But the South Glen is a different story. I must’ve lived in Yellow Springs for twenty years before discovering it, despite being an avid fan of Bill Felker, whose weekly column “Poor Will’s Almanac” in The Yellow Springs News, often finds him traipsing there. We tend to find spiritual resources—-or they find us—-when we most need them. But finding the South Glen requires more effort than the North, so easily-accessed by a parking lot right across Corry Street from Antioch. Believe me, this wilderness is worth it.

Middle Earth

If the South Glen feels a lot wilder to me, it’s mostly because the lesser-known twin is a lot less populated; I almost never meet any humans there. On my first forays, though, I did meet a few roaming dogs, which can give you pause if you’ve ever been dog-bitten, as I have. Nowadays I just don’t ramble as far, usually satisfied to cleave to the path that meanders beside the Little Miami River, then circle up to the ruins of the old barn.

It’s Tolkien’s Shire all over again. On the prairie, near the South Glen’s entrance on Grinnell Road across from the Old Mill B & B, you might see buzzards bestriding low sycamore branches, wings raised like banners of surrender as they dry their night-wet wings in the sun. The prairie also supports a few small gnarly trees with protruding thorns. Then there’s the barn (before it burned down a couple of years ago), where I used to fancy that I heard the hushed whispers of hobbits warning of dark riders…

Beyond the prairie lie deep, tangled woods from which one can look across the river at a field where occasionally a person can be seen walking a dog (often the only human I see). Almost always, regardless of season, there’s nothing for company but the breeze, whirring insects and bird-call, while in the North, sounds of construction, chainsaws and traffic often reach you, even in the Pine Forest. In the silence of the South Glen, I’m free to think, dream and connect with spirits . . .

I glimpse through the underbrush a woman with a dog. Suddenly the animal is on me, paws muddy from a dip in the stream. The woman comes to stop him—too late—and I’m left dirty and dripping. Turning fierce eyes on me, she apologizes brusquely, and invites me to her place to clean up . . .

Inside the barn sit three figures. Creeping up, I look inside to find two girls staring at a fire. Between them sits a boy. He opens a bottle of wine using a Swiss army knife, hands the bottle to the blonde, the knife to the raven-haired one who takes it without looking, sticks it in the pocket of her jeans...

Just two of the short stories the South Glen dictated while I furiously wrote them down. Both of these muses, South and North, have given me at least a book’s worth of both fiction and poetry. I’ve set scenes from my novels there as well. Plus, I’ve filled many journal pages inside these forested halls.

Sacred Place of Healing

Sometimes I can hardly see the path through my tears. It was the haven I sought, driving all the way from Kettering for its comfort, as my first marriage collapsed in 1981. I stormed down paths full of self-righteous sorrow, composing angry poems until finally, exhausted, I’d hear the trees, rocks and water saying, This will pass.

Ever since that hard time, these paths have never failed to salve my teacher’s soul buffeted by student clashes until at last I learned that most of my suffering was caused by my own wounded self and started to finally heal. Occasionally I’ve even solved a few problems, the world’s as well as my own, but mainly I just walk—or sit—and let the spirit of this ground rise and enter me, change my chemical composition, rearrange my neural pathways and touch my heart before sending me back into the world a little more capable and a lot more blessed.

Your Turn: An Artful Response to Nature

Please join me, Bill Felker, Bill Vernon, Julie Karlson and other nature-seekers on May 1, when Tecumseh Land Trust sponsors an all-day working retreat that begins at the Glen Helen Building before sending participants off to seek their own muse, spirit guide or simply a place of quiet contemplation. There’ll be opportunities to take guided or solitary walks; write, sketch or photograph; then re-convene to share your experiences and art with others. See the Tecumseh Land Trust website for more details (scroll down to the May 1 event).

Helen and I hope to see you soon.

The Iambs of March

2010-03-04T07:35:00.000-08:00

Now that it’s March, a young (and old) man’s (and woman’s) fancy turns to . . . Poetry! True, Poetry Month isn’t until April, but I hope to interest lovers of language in a literary event even before then. And then one a bit later.

Davis & Meece Live at Non-Stop

On Sunday, March 28, I’ll be sharing an hour of poetry (and possibly some fiction) from 1:00-2:00 p.m. at the Nonstop Institute of Yellow Springs with my long-time friend Terrilyn Meece, a poet, actress and professional photographer from Pleasant Hill, Ohio. Her new book of poetry and photographs focuses on birth and its aftershocks: raising three girls and caring for a husband. Dazzling humor, sensitive wisdom and breathtaking drama are what you can expect from Terrilyn.

The Nonstop Institute of Yellow Springs, Ohio, a non-profit organization facilitating and presenting educational events, artistic, cultural and academic works and advancing socially conscientious public dialogue, is located at 305 N. Walnut St., Suite C, in the Millworks Office Complex. (For directions, see Map to "Campus North")

Four Poets at Cedarville Public Library

I’m also fortunate to be reading poetry again the following month. On Saturday, April 17 from 2:00-3:30 p.m., I’m joining three fine poets at the Cedarville Public Library, located at 20 S, Miller Street, just off Rte. 72. A map is available at http://www.greenelibrary.info/Branches/Cedarville-Community-Library.html. Read on and you’ll see why I’m excited and humbled to be in their company.

Julie Moore

Cedarville University Writing Center Director and Judson Jerome Poetry Fellowship winner at last summer’s Antioch Writers’ Workshop, Julie Moore will debut her new book of poetry from WordTech Editions Slipping Out of Bloom. John Drury says that Julie’s poems “are centered in her own home, in her own everyday life, but they radiate outward, taking in what’s distant, invisible, and hard to comprehend as well as what’s intimate and in close proximity. Her courageous poems face death and inexplicable illness . . . [bringing her] to a hard-earned faith . . . " Read more about Julie and her books at www.julielmoore.com.

Rita Coleman

Former newspaper reporter and university professor Rita Coleman will debut her first book of poetry, Mystic Connections. About the book Gary Pacernick says, “The clear language and evocative imagery . . . helps the reader see deeply into the nature of the universe and the self . . .” Read more about Rita’s book at Amazon.com.

Cathryn Essinger

Edison State professor Cathy Essinger’s latest book, What I Know About Innocence, is available at www.mainstreetrag.com. Neil Carpathios says about her: “Whether tapping into the secret language of dogs or mockingbirds or light . . . whether opening up her own heart to explore the nuances of love . . . [she] reminds us of the magic that exists everywhere if we just pay attention.” Cathy’s a wonderful performer of her work.

Poetry All Over

If you love the art, you’ll want to listen locally to “Conrad’s Corner on WYSO.91.3 FM: weeknights at 7:59, on Saturday afternoons at 2:00 and Sundays at 10:30 am. I was recently interviewed on Weekend WYSO and you can hear it (about 4:25 minutes into the show) at: http://www.publicbroadcasting.net/wyso/.artsmain/article/17/25/1600031/WYSO.Weekend/WYSO.Weekend.January.10.2010.

I sure hope to see you at one of the above events. If not there’ll be plenty of other chances to celebrate poetry in April.

Ed's Filing Cabinet

2010-02-23T08:28:00.000-08:00

Want a look inside the files of a guy who’s been teaching fiction writing for the last two decades? I’ve developed—and borrowed—a lot of good stuff over the years. Now, thanks to webmaster Kim Westendorf, it’s available on my website. On my home page, just click on Resources for Writers and you’ll find everything under Beginning Fiction Writing (actually some of it is quite advanced).

Here’s a list of topics you’ll find:

Memoir vs. Autobiographical Fiction
ABCs of Fictional Literary Craft
Exposition (Managing Exposition/Exposition and Scene)
Revision (Deep Revision/Revising Hints)
Point of View (What is Point of View/Ed’s Point of View “Rules”/Point of View Exercises)
Character File
Creating Sympathetic Characters in Fiction
Dialogue (Good Dialogue: People Talking Naturally/Electric Dialogue Exercise)
Advanced Dialogue (including exercise)
Cause/Effect Plotting
Novel Generator

Feedback?

I’d love to hear that a handout or exercise worked for you—or didn’t—either in your classroom or at your own writing desk. Please drop me an e-mail and let me know!

Blue Jacket Workshop 101

2010-02-23T08:04:00.000-08:00

There’s nothing better than being the right teacher for the right students at the right time. That seems to be exactly what happened on Saturday, February 20.

Loving independent bookstores, I decided last summer to do something to highlight Blue Jacket Books in Xenia, Ohio (www.bluejacketbooks.com). Inside the historic Civil-War era building on Detroit Street, I always feel right at home— squeaky floors, high ceiling, comfy chairs, a black cat named Maggie—and used literary fiction that rivals the collection at Dark Star in Yellow Springs (www.darkstarbooks.com).

Since co-owner Elizabeth Svendsen has carried my two published novels for a couple of years, I decided to re-pay her for shelf space by leading a free writers’ workshop in her store. It would also give me the chance to teach a more public mini-version of the fiction-writing class I’ve been conducting for two decades at Sinclair Community College in both beginning (English 256) and Advanced (English 258) versions. When I retire from Sinclair soon, I’m thinking about leading just such classes—in bookstores, libraries, maybe even my home, so this was testing the waters.

Blind Faith

Months ago, Elizabeth and I worked out a plan: limit the workshop to a dozen participants who’d sign up in advance; and accept brief 1,000-word manuscripts ahead of time, which I would read and critique. Both were key decisions leading to some amazing results.

I had no idea what to expect. When I picked up the submissions a few weeks before the workshop, Elizabeth told me she knew only one of the writers. Who are these people? I wondered. (And who is he, the brave writers were no doubt asking themselves? And can he be trusted with my sacred words? Will I be shamed in public? Will he use me as an example of how not to write?). It was an act of trust on everyone’s part, even—or especially—on Elizabeth’s; she must’ve wondered: will this event work in my store?

Striking Gold

Reading the manuscripts at home, I began to smile, my pulse quickened, then I dropped my jaw. I’d certainly gotten more than I’d bargained for. No rank beginners these, but obviously writers who could navigate sentences, steer paragraphs and guide grammar to good effect. Where had they been hiding? Why hadn’t I seen them in my classes at Sinclair?

I decided to delay drawing any conclusions (other than this was terrific stuff I was reading) until after I’d met them.

Marathon

We gathered in a corner of the store Elizabeth had appointed for us, with coffee, cookies and cake. It was a no-brainer that we should focus on the work that six of the participants had submitted, so after discussing my handout “ABC’s of Fictional Literary Craft,” we dug in.

I laughed to find I’d been wrong about the gender of two writers: Jamie, the writer of the Cold Mountain-esque Civil War fiction was female, as was Devon, who’d authored a fine piece about an intriguing first day of a university class exploring religion vs. science. A couple of others knew each other from a writing group, so no wonder their stories—one centered on a female criminologist vying with a male counterpart for a promotion, the other about an aristocratic young Frenchwoman with a sympathy for the lower classes—were already so polished.

Although the event had been billed as a fiction workshop, I also received some fine essays: one a loving memoir about the author’s grandfather, another about a quirky female Appalachian “decorator of graves.” I pointed out how the authors might consider transforming their work (already working fine as nonfiction) into Autobiographical Fiction.

All the work was so strong, I was limited to minor editing points, most of which I learned from Browne and King’s excellent Self-Editing for Fiction Writers (which, by the way, Elizabeth agreed to order for anyone interested). As I explained early on, I don’t “do brutal,” preferring honest yet diplomatic. My students apparently agreed, for they jumped right in, making suggestions for improvement while always stressing the positive and respecting the author’s original vision.

I never left my chair, and though breaks were offered, no one wanted to take one. We intuitively knew that to pause was to lose momentum. Plus, we were having so much fun. When we finally stopped, I was stunned to find we’d been going for nearly two and a half hours!

The Hunger

Calling these folks my “students” feels like a misnomer—I hope I gave them something of value, but they taught me plenty. For example: if you offer it, they will come—and they will be even better writers than you hoped for. Why aren’t they taking my Sinclair classes? Though I didn’t ask, I’m betting it’s because their lives are very full, and in the “spare” time they have, they’re reading and writing. They’re not studying but doing the art they clearly and dearly love. Finding such enthusiastic writers hungry for connection, support, validation—and, yes, even a bit of gentle instruction—greatly heartened me. Working at the register, Elizabeth Svendsen nodded when I told the group I’d like to do this again. Maybe this summer? Stay tuned!

Free Fiction Writing Workshop

2009-12-18T08:14:00.000-08:00

February 20, 2010 (pre-registration required)
at Blue Jacket Books
Xenia, Ohio
60 S. Detroit St.

Participants will have the opportunity to submit up to 1000 words (about 4 double-spaced typed pages) of their writing by Friday, January 29. I will read all of the work in advance of the workshop, which will be held at 2:00 p.m Saturday, February 20. The writers’ critiqued work will be returned on the workshop day, and we will also cover fiction-writing basics. My comments will be tailored to the needs of the participants. Samples of the work submitted may be discussed in the group with advance permission.

Space will be limited to the first 12 participants who register. To reserve a spot, call Blue Jacket Books at 937-376-3522 or send an e-mail to bluejacketbooks@zoomtown.com.

Anatomy of a “Reading”

2009-12-17T09:27:00.000-08:00

The sign in front of the Tipp City Public Library read: “Author’s Night: Don’t Miss It! Books Make Good Christmas Presents!” I smiled in the evening downtown glow of Christmas and street lights. Hoping for the best, I walked inside.

The downstairs meeting room was a large, bright space and Sue Hofer, Adult Activities Specialist, had tables and chairs set up for the 7:00 p.m. event. Accustomed to bookstore events where we simply read from our work, it was hard for me not to call the activities on this night, December 7, 2009, a “reading.” However, even though two of us five authors read a poem or two, the format Sue designed was unique:

Brief introductions to our published work (8-10-minutes each)
Question & Answer session (about fifteen minutes)
Book-signing (twenty minutes)

It worked well, and the well-paced event concluded around 8:45. It would’ve been much longer if we’d read more, and although I do enjoy hearing authors read from their work, it can become exhausting if there are too many performers. Also, it can be jarring if the contrast among the writers is too sharp. Sue’s innovative format was refreshing.

The Renegades

Before my table was even set up, I got my first question relating to publishing, which quickly became the evening’s theme. As we took our turns speaking to the polite audience of around twenty, I realized I’d thrown in my lot with a bunch of independent-minded literary renegades.

Scott Trostel

“I’m not their bank,” Scott repeated during our brief chat before the main event. Scott was dismissive, if not downright disdainful, of agents, distributors and amazon.com, all of whom charge often outrageous fees for the services they offer writers. With the knowledge and experience gained from writing, publishing and selling many books on mostly historical subjects, he also publishes other writers for far less than most subsidy publishers charge, allowing clients to re-sell at a much larger profit. Visit Scott’s website for more details: www.canteenbooks.com.

Marla Fair

Artist, historic interpreter and novelist, Marla prefers the term “independent” to “self-published,” implying as the latter terms does, vanity press. Like Scott, she lacks patience with traditional publishers who told her that, while her work is “lyrical,” it’s unpublishable because it’s hard to classify. So she, too, does everything herself, even employing the help of a local micro-press to help her creatively distribute her books. Since traditional publishers increasingly leave it to writers to sell their books at their own expense anyway, Marla argues, why not do it yourself and make $7 on the sale of a book rather than a quarter? Find out more about her at www.marlafair.com.

Meaghan Fisher

Meaghan founded her own company, Gypsy Publications, to publish her own as well as others’ work. Even though she received offers from two traditional publishers for her first children’s book, she chose self-publishing mostly for the control, for example in selecting cover art (Marla Fair illustrated her book). Meaghan is considering manuscripts; see www.meaghanfisher.com for more information.

Catherine Essinger & Yours Truly

Both mine and Cathy’s work exists somewhat closer to the border of traditional publishing. She published one book of poetry with a commercial publisher and two with a small press, and, like Marla, bemoaned the lack of creative control over her work with the former. She much prefers Main Street Rag Press, which published her latest book, What I Know About Innocence (which comes with a videopoem DVD).

Since Main Street just published the anthology Dots on a Map containing one of my short stories, I can also recommend this fine independent small press, which relies on subscriptions and sales rather than support from grants or academic institutions. They offer writers:
- Savvy marketing, urging authors to garner as many pre-publication sales as possible.
- Excellent editing: I got to correct proofs, and my relationship with the editor was pleasant and professional.
- Handsomely produced and reasonably-priced books.
- Printing/binding services for a fee.
- Readings: the press even set up a reading for anthology authors at their office in Charlotte, NC.
Visit the press at www.mainstreetrag.com to find out more about their magazine, contests and many publications. You’ll be impressed.

Sign Away!

Following the presentations, we writers adjourned to tables Sue had arranged at the room’s perimeter. Many members of the audience stayed to meet and greet us—and even to buy books! I was pleased to sell $60 worth but felt mainly rewarded by the library’s hospitality and a small but interested audience. Plus I learned a few things about self- or small-press-published authors:

They do it their way—it isn’t easy but the renegades convinced me it could be done.
They often have greater satisfaction through greater control and more personal relationships.
They have great passion for their art, desiring readers more than fame or fortune.
They’re smart about marketing, distributing and publishing.
They unselfishly serve other writers through sharing knowledge and even offering publication.

Postscript

Two final bits of information from Sue:

Publicity: regional libraries are banned from advertising outside their city limits, with the exception of news releases (which newspapers, radio and TV use—or more often don’t use—at their own discretion).
Audience Size: the more authors invited, the merrier. Past single-author events, she said, drew as few as 3-4 people.

Into the Night

Back outside, the sign had been removed, but the Christmas lights burned a little brighter after the warmth I’d felt inside. Sue Hofer and the Tipp City Library had proved that, with hard work, forethought and foresight, you can pull off an Authors Night successfully—even in frosty December, if the weather holds.

On Literary Readings

2009-11-21T08:39:00.000-08:00

On the opening night of the Sinclair Community College Writers’ Workshop some years ago, the famous writer had just read an hour-long short story in which not much happened. She looked at her audience, flipped her hair and asked, “Do you want me to read another story?” We were relieved when the director suggested we ask some questions instead.

It’s evident that even the pros are sometimes clueless about what makes for an entertaining literary evening. As both performer and audience member at such events, I’ve developed some convictions about what works. At present I have two poet-friends eager to jump into the fray, so this is for you, Rita and Julie, as well as anyone who plans on giving or attending readings.

Ed’s Recommendations for Dynamic Readings

Choose high entertainment-value passages or poems: funny, dramatic, poignant but maybe not too sad. :(

Set up the passage, if it’s not the beginning, by explaining any detail that’ll make it understandable (character’s names, place, etc.). But if you have to contextualize too much, consider reading something more self-contained.

Consider appropriateness to the audience. If you’re certain the event has been billed as adult, you’re within your rights to read a passage with sex, strong language or graphic violence; otherwise, keep it family-friendly.

Never, ever go too long: passages of no longer than 15-20 minutes are about right—better to leave them wanting more, quit reading and answer a few questions. And if you’re one of many speakers, stay absolutely within your time limit. Respect your hosts as well as fellow readers.

Always be yourself. You may be comfortable wearing costumes, using props, etc., but not me. I’ve found that being friendly and human is more than enough. If nervous, admit it, laugh at yourself and go on. For myself, trying to make the audience comfortable makes me comfortable.

Practice out loud, preferably in front of someone you trust to give you honest feedback. That includes timing. Speak slowly and enunciate clearly. Mark up your writing beforehand as if it’s a musical score with pre-planned pitches and pauses.

Offer the audience more than just your written words. Remember, it’s a performance—at minimum, use a non-monotone voice; at most, theatrical voices, complete with dialects, accents, gestures. (Also consider leaving something physical with them: a single poem, your business card, a postcard with a graphic of your book cover, plus phone number and/or website, contact info.)

Try your best to check out the setting beforehand. Will there be a podium ? Table? Microphone? (Always adjust and speak into it; ask audience about volume.) Refreshments? Seating adequate?

Thank your host(s) and your audience. Be humble; they’re gifting you with their precious free time; reward them as best you can.

A Revelation

If it’s not already obvious, a reading is more about the audience than it is about the reader, more about connecting than about selling lots of books. They want you to change their minds about how dull literary events can sometimes be; they want to have fun, connect with a real human being. And, despite your flyers and e-announcements, there’s nothing like a public performance to grant even those close to you permission to buy your books.

Venues: Beyond Bookstores

Writers with traditional New York publishers have major distributors to put the books into bookstores, leave them for a short time and, if they don’t sell, then remove them. What could be easier for bookstores and publishers? So no wonder store managers may consider non-traditionally-published authors nuisances, taking valuable time and shelf-space away from the traditionally-published. Also, most chain bookstores will take 30-40% of the cover price (their “discount”) of each book sold and might take many months to pay authors. Smaller, independent bookstores may take a smaller discount and appreciate you more, since they may define success on a smaller scale.

So why not think outside the bookstore box and consider readings at:

Churches: Unitarians even pay their guest speakers!

Classes: speak to high school or college students; however, young students don’t usually buy books, but non-traditional students such as senior citizens often do.

Libraries: are often writer-friendly, but they do want assurance from you that you can draw a good crowd; it’s hard to justify their effort if no one from the community comes.

Writing groups or clubs. Bookstores and alternative newspapers like Dayton City Paper often publicize them. Offer your services!

Musical venues. Be the poetry part of the evening at the coffeehouse, open mic night, etc.

Cultural festivals. Do you write about Appalachians, for instance? Try Dayton’s annual Mountain Days festival.

Writing conferences: most offer their own “bookstores,” which may sell your books for free; and if you’re a speaker at this event, especially a main speaker, you’ll probably sell books. (Thus, it may be worth your registration fee and travel expense, unless you’ll simply be lost in the crowd…)

Book fairs/festivals: speaking of being “lost in the crowd,” these events often have more writers than customers, and while you can network and socialize, you may not sell any books unless you’re very extroverted with great marketing skills!

Private homes: I’ve been invited by friends and acquaintances to share my work with a small group invited by the host. The literary equivalent of a Tupperware party!

Content organizations: if your work meshes with the mission and/or interests of any organization, you may be the perfect speaker. My book about saving farmland, The Measure of Everything, was a perfect complement to a Tecumseh Land Trust-sponsored farm walk outside Xenia. I read at the Old Town Methodist Church and sold 7 books. Your book about a high school runner might make you perfect for the joggers club.

Epilogue: Read Me a Story

Finding your audience may not be easy and takes a lot of time—that’s even true of the traditionally New York-published, who often complain their publishers and publicists aren’t doing enough to get their work before the public. That brings up the related topic of (shudder) marketing. I’ve learned something about that issue the hard way and would be willing to address it, if anyone’s interested. However, it’s not for the faint-hearted.

To end on a positive note: at a recent reading I gave at Sinclair’s library, one of my own young female students said, “It was just like being a kid again and being read to. I loved it.”

Not read to sleep, I hoped—but didn’t ask. :)

Meet the Authors Night

2009-11-18T06:23:00.000-08:00

Where: Tipp City Public Library, 11 E. Main St., Tipp City, OH

When: Monday, December 7, 7:00 P.M.

What: Join the following five published writers who will provide brief introductions to their books, followed by a Q & A session, then book-signing.

Ed Davis is the author of the novels I Was So Much Older Then and The Measure of Everything as well as four poetry chapbooks, including Healing Arts. His story “Two Kings” won first place in the Dayton Daily News annual fiction contest and he recently had two short stories appear in anthologies.

Scott Trostel is a local Ohio historian and author. His books cover such topics as the railroad and the thirteen-day National Funeral Journey for Abraham Lincoln.

Cathryn Essinger, a member of The Greenville Poets and professor of English at Edison Community College, is the author of three award-winning books of poetry, including her latest, What I Know About Innocence.

Troy resident Meaghan Fisher has just published her first book, Sadie and the Skunk, for children. The illustrator is Marla Fair, who is an author in her own right.

Marla Fair's family and her hometown of Troy share a history spanning 160 years. Her books include historical novels: Copperhead—Son of the Silver Fox, Goodnight Robinson, and My French Rebel.

Tipp City Public Library is located at 11 E. Main St., and the telephone number is 667-3826. Find the library online at http://www.tippcitylibrary.org.

My Muse is Gone

2009-11-05T16:19:00.000-08:00

Beautiful soul, wondrous healer, my cat Teaker is gone. And my grief is stronger than I’d thought—but how can you know or possibly prepare for passage . . . from having to losing a being on whom a great deal of your daily equilibrium depends? My loyal friend; my reliable muse, lounging on my lap while I wrote; my teacher; the indisputable queen of my household: Tequila Jane Church-Davis (1990-2009). Her death was beautiful: holy and simple, moving, as she portrayed her usual empathic knowingness.

Beneath the Blanket

Just before alternative veterinarian Dr. Susan Rogers arrived at our house on Tuesday evening, October 27, with her black bag and needles, my wife Viki commented how, in recent days, you could stick your hand beneath the blanket where she’d hidden and Teak no longer clutched your finger. And then she did it!—she weakly grasped the finger of the mama who’d rescued her, a screaming kitten, from the cornfield across the highway in front of our old house on Route 68 just south of Young’s Dairy.

And Teaker didn’t protest when the doctor’s husband Bob gripped her hind leg to find the vein in which to insert the needle, though she always hated for her back legs to be messed with. She knew, oh she knew, in those wise, trusting eyes why we four were gathered around her, on the floor and beside her on the couch, touching her, offering the sweetest words we had to return her great gift of kindness by helping her end her kidney-diseased life.

The Empath

As we watched the sodium pentathol take effect, I recalled how, after a few years, we became aware of Teak’s healing powers. Whenever Viki and I became excited and raised our voices as we discussed issues or people that were disturbing us, Teak would rise from whatever lap she was lying on, probably mine, and begin her circuit. We’d become gradually aware our therapist was on duty, quietly circling from my wife’s side, then to mine, beseeching us with her grave stare to relax, calm down, quit being so negative. Chill out, she seemed to say, stress the spiritual. And usually we did.

Brave Companion of the Road

As Dr. Rogers, Bob, Viki and I held and stroked her, those wide golden eyes became even more distant than they’d been the past twenty-four hours, and her tongue emerged as if to lick that last dollop of baby food (about all she would eat in her last days) off my finger. A tiny gasp or two and she was gone, my beloved, my best friend (besides my wife); my conscience, my task-master and demanding house-mate who shared with her three family members every intimacy—nothing held back from our adopted orphan, brave companion of the road for nearly two decades. I’m so grateful her end was peaceful, not traumatic; that her brother Livingston, watching from above on the back of the couch, didn’t grow alarmed as his sister relaxed, released and, as Dr. Rogers gently coaxed, looked for the white light.

God bless you forever, Teaker Jane, light of my life.

One-Minute Muse

2009-08-26T12:59:00.000-07:00

An Auspicious Meeting

Meeting John Gardner briefly in 1979 changed my life forever. The encounter was about one minute in length.

I was grading with my office door open one April afternoon my first year of teaching at Sinclair Community College, when a colleague stuck her head inside. “John Gardner’s walking around the hall,” she whispered. “Go talk to him!”

Now I remembered: he was here to co-keynote with John Jakes our annual Writers’ Workshop. I’d read about half of The Sunlight Dialogues as a grad student and found the novel baffling, sometimes even maddening. Still, meeting a cool writer sure beat grading. Stepping into the empty late-afternoon corridor, I saw a short, denim-clad man in a motorcycle jacket, pipe belching smoke, apparently studying closed doors.

“Mr. Gardner?”

He stuck out his hand and I took it, rough and leathery, his fingernails oil-blackened and dirty. I had no idea then of his persona as a motorcycle-riding, hard-drinking post-modern Medievalist. He’d probably been working on his bike before he got on the plane.

“I, uh, love your writing,” I got out. Though it wasn’t entirely true, it wasn’t a complete lie, either. I figured I would’ve liked his book, if I’d actually finished it. And I liked the author’s photo on the back cover, with his long silver hair, pipe in hand, surrounded by books and manuscripts, a modern Dante.

“Thanks,” he said, smiling. “Do you write?”

“Y-yeh, a little p-poetry.”

“Maybe you’ll show me a poem or two while I’m here.”

I didn’t think so—much too intimidated—and I was shocked he’d asked. Later I found out that, because it took him so long to get published, he was always trying to encourage fledgling writers. Looking into his wizened face, shards of hair obscuring his eyes, I needed something else to say.

“It’s always struck me as odd how much you love Chaucer, since your work is so, uh, modern, I mean, y’know, how different you are.”

“Yep,” he finally said, eye-corners crinkling kindly, “Chaucer’s a lot funnier.”

It was such a small gift, but he let me off the hook I’d put myself on, bullshitting the great writer that I knew anything about him or his work.

The Wounded Muse

I attended Gardner’s workshop, got him to sign books for me and little suspected until I began my first novel that summer that I’d met my first muse.

His shaggy visage and gentle kindness spoke to me, but I think unconsciously I also related to his deep childhood wound. When he was eleven, John watched as a 1500-pound farm machine he was pulling with the tractor he was driving, rolled over and killed his 6-year-old brother Gilbert. Biographer Barry Silesky, in the prologue to John Gardner: The Life and Death of a Literary Outlaw, states that for the rest of his life, John held himself responsible. He attempted to deal with the tragedy in his autobiographical story “Redemption,” included in The Art of Living. John’s courage to air his own wounds encouraged me to air some of mine as autobiographical fiction. My first published novel, I Was So Much Older Then, completed nearly twenty years after finishing my first (thankfully unpublished) one, is an elegy to my own childhood.

The Fabulist

In the weeks following John’s visit, I finished Sunlight Dialogues and was dumbstruck with the range, beauty and power of this modern moral fable of a murderous magician who, like a mad Old Testament prophet, has come to scourge Batavia, New York, Gardner’s hometown. I continued to read most of his 21books, many of which went out of print after his death in September of 1982 at 49, four days before his wedding to the woman who would’ve been his third wife. Others that I’ve grown fond of include:

Mickelsson’s Ghosts, the dark tale of a philosophy professor whose disintegrating life is haunted as much by Mormons, his ex-wife and daughter as by ghosts in his gloomy country house.

Nickel Mountain, a mythic-religious account of middle-aged, obese and tender-hearted diner-owner Henry Soames, who, after marrying his much-younger pregnant waitress, wrestles with inner and outer demons in order for him and his rural community to thrive.

Grendel, probably the best-known of his novels, is taught in some high schools. It’s the Beowulf legend re-told from the monster’s first-person point of view. Gardner described the book, darkly funny and philosophical, as equal parts Walt Disney and Jean Paul Sartre.

Sunlight Man

I finally managed to make it to the John Gardner Society’s annual conference in April 2007 (contact Charley Boyd at CABoyd@genesee.edu for more information). Though it’s usually held in Batavia, that year, the tenth annual celebration, it was held in Susquehanna, Pennsylvania, where John lived at the time of his death. Though the drive was arduous, I was not disappointed: the festival was as “fabulistic” as John himself. The elfin director was straight out of a Gardner novel, the town as starkly spooky as it was described in Mickelsson’s Ghosts, and the event was held at the old train station, now a restaurant, where I expected to see Harry Potter departing for Hogwart’s on the platform outside.

The festival was part conference, part fan club, ranging from the reading of scholarly papers and reminiscing to a review of the University of Rochester’s collection of the author’s papers, letters and manuscripts. At lunch we heard a rumor: Susan Thornton, the woman John was to wed four days after he died, might drop by to address us.

Sure enough, the buzz turned out to be true.

Having recently read Thornton’s memoir On Broken Glass: Loving and Losing John Gardner, I was prepared to witness the pain detailed in her harrowing account of their life together, the motorcycle crash that took his life and its aftermath. But although she seemed happy to talk about her old lover, she’d clearly moved on in her life, marrying and carving out a career outside of fiction-writing.

Therefore, the conference’s true climax belonged to a Gardner: not John but his son Joel. As cheerful, enthusiastic and kind as his father but physically resembling his mother, he regaled us with JG tales, then showed us a rough cut of the documentary film he was making about his father’s life, touchingly entitled Sunlight Man.

The movie was a good note on which to end the festival, illuminating somewhat the darkness that constituted a good portion of my first literary muse’s life and reminding me of his enduring personal as well as literary legacy. While it took the Beatles the length of their first Ed Sullivan show set, about eight minutes, to change me forever, it took John Gardner only one.

More on Writers’ Workshops

2009-08-13T11:15:00.000-07:00

The “Fix”

After reflecting, I find I do agree with Rebecca McClanahan’s comment at Antioch Writers’ Workshop (AWW) that poets should beware of letting writers’ workshops fix their poems. (I’m assuming she’d say the same about workshops that fix short stories or novels, too). However, I also believe workshops, if responsibly managed, can still help writers perform magic on their works-in-progress. How do I reconcile the two positions?

Checks & Balances

“Fixing” cedes all power to wise, all-knowing superiors who will have the final say. “Fix” assumes the poem or story is broken and will not work until superior craftsmen ply their trade. However, a better model might be borrowed from government: a strong executive with a powerful vision, aided by an excellent legislature (preferably of the writer’s own party), jointly forge a “bill” that will work. But the checks & balances model is not rule (art) by committee, where everyone has an equal vote. The executive is always the final authority.

The Spirit of Collaboration

Thus, in this model, members of the workshop are collaborators, in the same way Lennon and McCartney were: Mostly each Beatle wrote his own basic song to which the other added more or less important ingredients. For a literary model, consider the way Ezra Pound edited T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land.” Of course one must be lucky and judicious enough to find a Lennon to play to your McCartney. And you must be wise enough never to lose ownership of your work to even the most trusted collaborator; you’re the President, remember, with the line-by-line veto. Collaboration also reduces the importance of the writer’s ego, since the work itself is what should matter most—not who is writing it. To my mind, that’s getting your priorities straight.

Workshop: Pros and Cons

But can a workshop provide you with the best venue for such checks & balances and opportunities for collaboration? I know quite a few who prefer to submit their poetry and fiction to a few trusted friends to critique at their leisure by mail. However, not all writers have found such friends. Also, if the live workshop is fairly large (say, at least 6-7) and diverse, your chances will be increased of finding those “legislators” most sympathetic to and compatible with your vision; moreover, the live process provides a lot more instantaneous give and take. It’s quite possible they can penetrate to the heart of your “bill” without gutting it with their not-so-hidden agendas. The above does assume quite a bit of self-knowledge on the writer’s part; I concede that not all beginners are self-aware enough to avoid being confused, even hurt, by the most well-intentioned, articulate legislators. Experience, willingness and humility will help.

Parliamentary Procedure

The workshop, of course, depends on a mature, writer-friendly process, so be alert for toxic situations that won’t advance yours, or anyone’s, artistic goals.

Before the discussion begins, it’s good for writers to mention specific aspects of the work that they’d like to receive feedback on, to help focus the critique, at least partly. If, on the other hand, the writer-exec says everything is negotiable, then he loses the chance to guide these sometimes unruly politicos. But that can often be a good thing. Politicians sometimes wax eloquent!

Another good idea is encouraging the group to state positives first. I always insist, if I’m the facilitator, that members first discuss what is working well. The highest praise usually won’t register nearly as well if the group moves too quickly to the “suggestions for improvement” phase.

Also, I don’t do brutal--at least not intentionally--and recommend that you don’t, either. The writer asking for it is often the least likely to accept a blunt, punishing critique. I enforce a more diplomatic approach, one that doesn’t assume at the outset that things are broken and need to be fixed, which contradicts the legislative model. The way a critic makes suggestions is as important as the substance of those suggestions.

Furthermore, it’s good if exec-writers keep their mouths shut and let the legislature do its job. The authors’ job is to listen and take notes, especially those that would help them follow up with questions but not until after the suggestions have all been made. (Relax, Mr. President: you can always veto later.)

Finally, no filibusters. Keep the ball rolling or you’ll never get out this bill out of committee!

Free Handouts

The above is the barest-bones response to Ms. McClanahan’s offhand comment at AWW. Over the course of three decades I’ve built a stock of other techniques that work for me, based on my own as well as others’ teaching experience, such as evaluation sheets for short stories. Also, I regularly use the handout “Guidelines for Critique” distributed by a workshop leader at Cleveland State University’s “Imagination” conference I attended years ago. An experienced workshop leader knows that “one size does not fit all” and stands ready to amend his/her process, at a moment’s notice. So what are your ideas on this highly controversial subject? I’d love to hear them.

Antioch Writers’ Workshop 2009

2009-07-30T13:17:00.000-07:00

The Mask: Answering the Call

“If you want a man to tell the truth, give him a mask.” So said Rebecca McClanahan at this year’s Antioch Writers’ Workshop (AWW) held from July 12-17 in Yellow Springs, Ohio.

It’s true of Bob Dylan with a guitar, Jon Stewart with a microphone and most teachers with chalk or powerpoint slides. Give a creative person a role and he/she can often make magic. At AWW this year, all of us in Ms. McClanahan’s class donned the mask of poetry.

Serve the Language

Rebecca McClanahan is one of the most inspiring yet truly substantive teachers of poetry currently traveling the workshop circuit—and I’ve seen more than a few, having been a workshopper since 1978. She hit us between the eyes the first day by focusing on sound in poetry, dazzling us with an array of poets and techniques. “You’re here to serve the language,” she told us, “and not vice versa.”

It’s just like I tell my own students: self-expression is for the journal; shared poetry, public poetry, communicates and heals through kiln-fired language that has led us, hopefully, “where no man (or woman) has gone before.” If we surrender and let it. Thankfully she taught us many ways to do just that.

Blow the Mother Up

And sometimes, as McClanahan said (quoting a poet-friend of hers) we have to take our poems (and those of others, when asked) and “blow the mother ______ (s) up!” She taught me to look at my work more critically as well as more lovingly (for example, to seek joy, “the last taboo”).

Other McClanahan gems:

“Writing begets more writing.”
“We play the language.”
“The way you’d sing it is the way it looks on the page.”
“Free verse isn’t free; it costs a lot. Form is the most freeing thing possible. ”
“The deep story comes through when you tell it indirect.”
“You don’t capture anything—that sunset, moonrise you’re beholding—on paper; you capture a text.”
“We read to see a lively mind at work, so let the wild stuff in.”
“Give the reader a job, and make it emotional, never menial.”

Re-birth of a Poet

I’ve written and published poetry since the eighties; however, in recent years I’d mostly given it up in favor of writing novels. But when, months ago, AWW asked me to offer a one-day two-hour poetry workshop to beginners, I began steeping myself in exercises, first by reading Robin Behn and Chase Twichell’s excellent, meaty The Practice of Poetry: Writing Exercises from Poets who Teach in order to help me design a prompt to keep students working all week on a project.

Since my exercise needed to be road-tested, I must’ve written twenty “fast poems” to cannibalize for their best lines. At the workshop, McClanahan called poems generating more poems “seed poems,” a much gentler metaphor than mine!

Then, three days before the workshop began, the director called: would I fill in for University of Cincinnati poet John Drury, whose father had passed away, and facilitate the afternoon poetry seminar? I thought about it for five seconds—then agreed. How could I say no to the workshop which had rejuvenated my sad, sagging teaching career; where I’d found my agent/publisher; where I’d made enduring literary and personal friendships. Little did I suspect this teaching gig would lead to one of the best studenting gigs I’ve ever had.

I found myself addicted to Rebecca’s class. Busy as I was, keeping up with reading my students’ poetry—up to twenty pages each evening to be ready to critique the next day in class—and attending readings, pitch sessions and meetings, I never missed a day. It was just too much fun—and I was learning way too much.

And I was far from the only one. Attendance, always high the first day, did not decline as the week went on (it might’ve increased)—and that happened despite that participants at AWW inevitably flag from the intensity of all there is to do. A fellow fiction writer I lunched with one day e-mailed to say how high McClanahan’s course had made him and to ask which poetry course he should take at Sinclair Community College, where I teach.

I suspect there’s a lot more poetry being written in the Miami Valley than there was prior to July 13!

Back to the Mask

To don your own mask, regardless of the genre you write in—or whether you’re even a writer— check out her exercise “Your Multiple Selves” from her book Write Your Heart Out on her website at www.mcclanmuse.com.

Next: To Workshop or not . . .

The only thing I came close to disagreeing with McClanahan on was her comment that writers avoid workshops that “fix” poems. I’d like to address that—and solicit your comments—in coming days. Write on! :)

Ed Davis stories included in two new anthologies

2009-07-23T20:55:00.001-07:00

Dots on a Map

Read Ed's story "Power in the Blood" included in Dots on a Map: A Collection of Small Town Stories.

This collection focuses on stories with a small town theme. You can pre-order this book from the Main Street Rag website.

Read more...

Sweet Tea and Afternoon Tales

Read Ed's story "The Bicycle" in Sweet Tea and Afternoon Tales: More Stories from the South, edited by Philip L. Levin and Dixon Hearne, coming soon from AWOC.COM press. You can order this book from the Gulf Coast Writer's Assocation website.

From the book jacket:
"If there is one immutable feature in the social fabric of the American South, it is the telling of stories; giving a sense of place, traditions, family relationships, desires and hope. It has given rise to a unique blend of voices in American Literature, an entire school of writing, rich and diverse, with its own peculiar imagery, grace, and eloquence. It is a place where the simple and the quaint rise from mere words on a page to a level of art."

More details about this anthology—including where to purchase the book and information about readings and events—will be available soon from this website.

"Two Kings" wins 2008 Dayton Daily News Short Story Contest

2009-07-23T20:44:00.000-07:00

From "Two Kings"

"As soon as Maggie drove over the last rise in the corrugated road, she gasped. All the way down from Dayton, she hoped Estep had exaggerated when he called this morning. Two weeks ago, when she'd walked the Adams County property with the local contractor she hired to remove several trees, the limbs of which threatened the cabin, she'd felt anxious without truly knowing why..."

Continue reading at the Dayton Daily News website