Ed Davis's Blog

Shutting Down

Hosting a website for the past decade or so has been a grand experiment—and mostly a pleasurable one. However, if my writing “career” has taught me anything, it’s that change is inevitable. Publishers close their doors, editors move on and, saddest of all, fellow writers, on whom I’ve depended for their friendship and critical acumen, pass from this world.

So the fact that I’m shutting down my website is no big deal in the scheme of things. Still, I decided to let you, my loyal readers, know. I would never have started a website without my webmaster Kim Westendorf. Without her gentle, informed guidance, I would’ve been too intimidated—and wary, believing that sustaining it, especially once I began blogging, would eat up all my valuable writing time. And I would not be shutting down the site right now if Kim weren’t getting out of the business of building and managing websites to write and blog herself. (I for one can’t wait to read what she writes!)

I certainly would never have entered the world of blogging without Kim’s encouragement. What did I have to say to busy denizens of the digital world? But I stuck mostly to what I’ve learned in my three decades of writing, editing, publishing and marketing my creative work, and you seemed to like that.

Blogging and Marketing

You might ask:  did blogging turn out to be an effective marketing tool for my work? Certainly not in terms of lots of sales—but writing has never produced significant income (hardly any writers make a living from book sales alone). Marketing, for me, means expanding my reading audience, which I did, a little. Even blogging as irregularly as I did linked me to readers (and, of course, fellow writers) I might never have gotten to know otherwise.  Like many of you reading this. 

My dear friend Nancy Pinard recently passed away. She was the best writing teacher I ever had. I still “hear” one of the best pieces of advice she wrote on a piece of my fiction many years ago:   “Shh.”

And she was exactly right. When my characters feel tension, too often I crank up what they are feeling viscerally to such a fever pitch that the writing can become over-wrought to the point of unintended comedy. I did it just the other day and heard Nancy’s gentle hiss in my ear. I listened and pruned the purple prose, thereby increasing emotion.

When I tell people that being in a writing group with Nancy was the equivalent of earning an MFA, I mean it; she was a super-tough critic and I was the beneficiary of her excellent eye and ear. Although I was already an alumnus of what I’d thought was a tough writing group when I joined hers, Nancy was tougher—and she taught me the delicate art of being honest without being brutal. As a fiction workshop facilitator, I desperately need this skill; and while it’s questionable whether I ever mastered it, I definitely aspire to be as effective as Nancy was at giving “suggestions for improvement.”

Not only was she a great teacher but a great writer, too. I regret that Nancy never published that breakaway novel of women’s hardcover fiction she worked so hard to achieve. In her final decade, she wrote novels about Darwin and Einstein—from their wives’ point of view, I believe—and the excerpts I heard or read blew me away. It hurts me that they were never published in her lifetime. That the novels were worthy is, to me, a given. She was a consummate craftsman, tireless researcher and perfectionist. But from my own experience I know how hard it is to get the attention of ever-younger agents, editors and publishers. Is it total fantasy on my part to hope that her books might still be published, as when Helen Pancake fought hard to get her deceased son Breece D’J Pancakes stories successfully published back in the 1980s, adding significantly to Appalachian literature? I can dream, can’t I?

Nancy’s legacy is secure, though, even without those publications. She did publish two novels:  Shadow Dancing and Butterfly Soup, which I highly recommend. The former is the autobiographical novel Nancy was working on when she showed up in my fiction writing class at Sinclair Community College in the early 1990s. It quickly became evident she knew as much about fiction writing as I did; it would take a little longer, and the acquisition of some humility on my part, to admit she knew more than I did about writing. She must’ve known it herself. But that didn’t prevent her from continuing to take my class, generously sharing her editing skills with younger students struggling to learn our demanding art.

Eventually, she taught her own fiction writing classes at Sinclair, Antioch Writers’ Workshop, Mad Anthony Writers’ Workshops and the University of Dayton. We, her students, are fortunate indeed to have experienced her enthusiasm and expertise. But I got more, a lot more from Nancy Pinard. We shared a long literary friendship, hovering over what she called our “heart books”:  our heavily autobiographical first novels about family, identity and passion: hers for ballet, mine for rock and roll. She cried in my presence after firing the agent (and friend) who’d also published our two heart books. Nancy committed deeply to friendships and did not surrender them easily.

I should know. Though we no longer met regularly toward the end of her life, we were always glad to see each other when we crossed paths. And while I could work up some guilt about that if I let myself, the truth is our friendship was based on mutual literary neediness. Maybe her greatest lesson to me is how I can’t do this writing thing alone. She taught me how to find and give trust, to always “responsibly report,” as she’d say when delivering less than good news about my latest story. I love her for that; I wish I were still receiving those reports—and yet, as long as I hear that whispered “shh,” I am.

P.S.

Speaking of passion, I’ve had a so-far forty-year love affair with Glen Helen, Antioch College’s thousand-acre nature preserve in Yellow Springs. Recently the Mad River Review published my essay, “Beyond Imagining,” conflating several days’ worth of rambling in my most sacred of places. I hope you might check it out and let me know what you think.  

P.P. S.

And don’t forget the sixth annual Solstice Poetry Reading this coming Friday, December 8, 7-9:00 p.m. in the Vernet Ecological Building, 400 Corry Street, Yellow Springs, Ohio, right across the street from Antioch College. Fourteen scheduled poets will read, followed by a wine and cheese reception and open mic. Hope to see you there for another stellar evening!

New Library: Sacred Space

If you’ve already visited the newly rebuilt Dayton/Montgomery County Library, forgive me, but I’ve got to gush a little. As you can tell from the above photo, taken by writer/blogger Fred Marion, it’s a magical place. And, I believe, a sacred one, too, for, though vast, it contains numerous nooks and crannies where you can get off to yourself to read, write, even converse—since its caretakers do, indeed, desire engagement on the part of users.

The poetry workshop I led there last Tuesday evening was great fun! I applaud and appreciate the 25-30 hardy souls who turned out to discuss how poetry differs from prose (line breaks as well as hyper-attention to word choice, organization and “music”). The spacious, comfy community room the library provided on the second floor was more than adequate as folks kept coming. Staff also cheerfully provided handouts.

And I wouldn’t be surprised if the library contest’s grand prize winner of this year’s adult category (deadline: 9/30) isn’t one of the poems shared in the second half of the workshop. Mark your calendars for Sunday, November 5; that’s when winners are announced at a celebration featuring open mic readings and free refreshments—another great excuse, in case you need one, to visit this creative, enriching and enlightening downtown treasure. (Also, this year’s contest winner will be published in Dayton’s literary magazine Mock Turtle, another Gem City treasure!)

As I surveyed my surroundings, both inside and outside, from the library’s third floor, I marveled at Dayton’s commitment and vision to devote so many millions of dollars to this one-stop shopping center for ideas, media, computers, food and drink (a restaurant will soon open within its walls). But it’s about people, too, and I was honored to interact with not only writers but friendly, helpful librarians like Julie Buchanon, who arranged my workshop; and Gwen Owen, who attended (and also helped, at a moment’s notice). I think you’ll be as knocked out as I was to experience this brand-new jewel in Dayton’s crown. Check it out as soon as possible!

Breaking the Silence About Immigration: 4 Films

Another great source of community pride is Dayton’s welcoming attitude toward immigrants. My former Sinclair colleague Kay Berg informs me that two short films highlighting the immigrant & refugee Crisis will Be shown at four public screenings in Dayton the week of October 2-6, 2017.

Peace Literacy-Dayton Film Forum, a local collaborative project of the 21st Century Peace Literacy Foundation, Presbyterian Disaster Assistance, and Westminster Presbyterian Church, will host four special screenings of two award-winning short documentaries, “Locked in a Box” and “To Breathe Free,” to call attention to the challenges and issues facing immigrants and refugees today.

To Breathe Free tells the story of a Syrian refugee family fleeing the war and their journey to a new life in the US. Locked in a Box traces the lives of individuals who fled their homelands in search of safety and freedom only to end up in US prisons.

The screenings of these two compelling films, free and open to the public, will be held:

Monday, Oct. 2, 7 PM at Goodwill/Easter Seals, 660 S. Main St., Dayton, hosted by Westminster Presbyterian Church

Tuesday, Oct. 3, 7 PM at Fazl-i-Umar Mosque, hosted by the Ahmadiyya Muslim Community at 637 Randolph St. Dayton.

Wednesday, Oct. 4, 5:30 PM hosted at Sinclair Community College Bldg. 7, Room 7-006. (includes refreshments prior to screening & panel discussion afterward.)

Friday, Oct. 6 – 7 PM hosted at Westminster Presbyterian Church, 125 N. Wilkinson St., Dayton (includes a “Meet the Filmmaker” event, panel discussion and conversation).

Along with the screenings, filmmaker David Barnhart and the Presbyterian Disaster Assistance Catalyst for Immigration and Refugees, Susan Krehbiel, will attend the events on October 4 and October 6 to participate in panel discussions and meet with the public.

For more information about the Peace Literacy-Dayton Film Forum project, contact Sally Dyer at sbdyer@gmail.com or 937-623-7953 or www.facebook.com/PeaceLiteracyDaytonFilmForum.

Trailers for the films can be viewed at:

To Breathe Free Trailer – https://vimeo.com/220709899

Locked in a Box Trailer – https://vimeo.com/145351153

For more information, contact: Sally Dyer, 937-623-7953, sbdyer@gmail.com

One Last Treasure

And, finally, if you’re interested in the arts and/or reading the blog of a quirky thinker with an original voice, you owe it to yourself to subscribe to Fred Marion’s email newsletter. It’s a warehouse of artistic goings-on in our area as well as a forum for Fred’s insights about the human experience. Try it at http://fredrickmarion.com/email-newsletter/.

Native Daytonian Lawrence Hussman’s new memoir contains fascinating revelations about Wright State University in particular and the state of higher education in general. It’s actually three books in one. Along with his critique of higher ed, Hussman includes his own academic coming of age story as well as a travelogue of his post-retirement teaching career in Poland and Portugal. These personal stories, omitted from the version of this review recently published in the Dayton Daily News, nicely humanize his indictment of academe. One of Wright State’s founders in 1967, Hussman has plenty to say about dreams gone awry, from the university’s idealistic beginning up to the scandal-ridden present.

Literary Coming of Age

 Hussman’s dissection of academia is the book’s main strand, but the author also highlights his own education, including sexual. Of even more interest to this reader, though, is his literary coming of age story:  while pursuing his doctorate at the University of Michigan, he purchased for fifteen cents a paperback copy of Theodore Dreiser’s Sister Carrie, changing his life forever. He was instantly converted to the literary movement known as Naturalism, a school of thought so gloomy he eventually included a suicide hotline number on his syllabus.

Also, the memoir’s travelogue portions will appeal to those who wonder what it would be like to have visited Poland, recently-non-Communist, and Portugal in the 1990s, much less taught in their universities, as Hussman did between 1993-2007. The book’s an international romp moving effortlessly and entertainingly through the peripatetic prof’s early years to his retirement, and, at seventy-five, move to the Oregon coast.

What’s Wrong (and Right) with Wright State

Among the numerous shortcomings of higher education, Hussman considers corporate-style top-down management the cardinal sin. Time and again, autocratic administrators and boards composed mostly of businessmen ignore faculty who, to his mind, always know better how to best serve students and taxpayers. Hussman details administrators’ (and their boards’) obsessive focus on athletics over academics and favoritism toward technical and scientific fields over the humanities. The pursuit of truth, not jobs and careers, should be the real mission of universities, the author maintains, and such was the hope of fledgling Wright State in the beginning.

Daytonians will share Hussman’s pain when they learn how the “experiment in excellence” could’ve failed so often to live up to the ideals of its originators. He lays a lot of blame on the missteps of some of the six presidents, referred to only by the number of their succession; One and Three were awful, he says, Two and Five very good. Four died too soon to fully evaluate. Six, coming in the scandal-ridden period from 2007 to the present, gets special (and scathing) attention. Hussman asserts that promoting from within almost always produces better top administrators than recruiting from without.

Lest such a litany of sins be too depressing, Hussman gives hope when he can, citing exceptions at some colleges—even at Wright State when called for. Also, the author apparently loved his vocation and rejoices in recounting his students’ impressive accomplishments at home and abroad, such as Chitra Bannerjee Divakaruni, New York Times best-selling novelist and probably the best-known English Department graduate, whom Hussman mentored through a master’s degree. His Polish students typically wrote brilliant essays, often outperforming their American counterparts.

Sex & Guilt

 Hussman’s self-deprecating humor helps the reader handle his serious personal revelations. A graduate of Chaminade High School and the University of Dayton, the author was forever affected by the Catholic guilt he imbibed at such institutions. The result was an unsuccessful marriage that nonetheless lasted twenty years and resulted in the adoption of two children. Sex, Hussman confides with candor, was an issue not only with his marriage but also in his relentless pursuit of the “impossible she,” as his literary hero Dreiser called the elusive perfect woman.

Hussman confesses that, in sexual matters, “surely no man in Middle America had more experience taking NO! for an answer than I had.” By that time, we’ve seen ample evidence to support his contention. Fortunately, we’ve also seen the close friendships that often resulted from his pursuit of the opposite sex, for example, the touching one between him and Marguerite Tjader, one of Dreiser’s mistresses, and the literary collaboration with Felicia Lewis, with whom he ghost-wrote soldier of fortune Sam’s Hall’s memoir Counterterrorist.

Poland and Portugal:  Grit & Sunshine

As for the European teaching jaunts, I greatly preferred, as did the author, the “grit” of post-Communist Poland to the “perpetual sunshine” of Portugal. In the former, culture was readily available, as he could enjoy excellent classical concerts for free or the equivalent of a few American dollars. He thoroughly debunks the “dumb Polack” stereotype by reporting on this “extremely bright, highly educated people” whose dark history prepared them well to enjoy pessimistic Naturalistic writers. However, all good things must end, and in 2007, at age seventy-five, Hussman came back to America and retired to the Oregon coast.

Wright State:  The End of an Era

2007 also heralded Wright State’s fortieth anniversary, with the school at its zenith after the inauguration of President Number Six. Under Number Five, the school had experienced a faster enrollment increase than at any other in the Ohio system, with a parallel increase in research monies. Enrollment was at nineteen thousand and The Princeton Review ranked the university among the best colleges in the Midwest. Sadly (but accurately), the golden era did not last.

Acanemia’s last thirty pages detail the scandals and administrative mistakes that frittered away millions of dollars, reputation and goodwill during Six’s tenure, such as the Great Debate of 2016 fiasco and the H-1 immigration law violations that, two years later, are still under investigation. Thus, at a time when WSU should be celebrating its fiftieth anniversary with pride, there is much cause for mourning and outrage.

By this time in the book, Hussman has convincingly discussed the causes, beginning with top-down governance, making the solution obvious:  reverse corporatization and privatization of our public colleges and involve faculty to a much higher degree. One sign of hope, he suggests, was the birth, in 1998, of a faculty union with meaningful membership and affiliation with the American Association of University Professors. Hopefully, the faculty now has the voice they’ve lacked for so long.

Lucky Seven?

Despite all the truth telling, I didn’t find the book a downer at all. If you read it with an open mind, I believe you’ll come to believe, as I did, that the author loved—and still loves—the institution to which he devoted nearly three decades of his life and which all of us in the Miami Valley and beyond have a stake in preserving.

Things at Wright State seem to be finally on the upswing if we take at face value the words of new president Cheryl B. Schrader in a Dayton Daily News article of August 9, 2017 (“In 2016, WSU saved more than expected”):  “We cannot and will not overspend the FY 18 budget . . . The trials of the last few years really is a stark wake-up call to the institution [sic].”

However, Hussman emailed me to point out that, days later in a subsequent DDN article,  Schrader said that she was going to apply best “business” measures to her reign and, worse yet, referred to the higher education “industry.” “Far from promising,” Hussman wrote, and I’d have to agree, even though I’m trying to remain optimistic.

Dayton Metro Library

I’m leading a Poetry Workshop at the newly rebuilt Dayton Metro Library, 215 E. Third Street, Dayton, OH on Tuesday, September 19, 6:30-8:00 p.m. in the Community Room on the second floor.  (Take the elevator up to 2, take a left and the Community Room will be right there.) Below is the workshop description from the library’s website:

Ed Davis, author of five books of poetry, will offer a poetry refresher on the critical differences between poetry and prose. Following an exercise writing a brand-new poem, participants will have the opportunity to share their work in light of new (or refreshed) knowledge. 

As for parking, I suppose there’s still some parking on the street, but I plan to use the new underground parking garage – no parking pass needed at this time, according to librarian Julie Buchanan. You enter (and exit) off of St. Clair, and can take stairs or elevator up to the Atrium. 

I’m really looking forward to seeing the new facilities and connecting with everyone who shows up. I’m not aiming the workshop at complete beginners; I believe that everyone who shows up, regardless of poetry-writing experience, will pick up some tips. And at the very least participants will write a new poem. I’ve begun new stories or poems during workshops that bore fruit later on!

Blue Jacket Books

Here’s another poetry event coming up this Saturday and guaranteed to be both entertaining and enlightening. If you’ve never been to Tables of Contents, you owe it to yourself to enjoy gourmet cuisine among 50,000 books while supporting some of the best poets in the Miami Valley.

SATURDAY: Poetry x 4. August 26, 2017 @ 2:00 pm – 4:00 pm. Blue Jacket Books, 30 S. Detroit St, Xenia, OH 45385. Poetry readings by Myrna Stone, James Siegel, Cathryn Essinger, and Mary Jo White. Come early for lunch and dessert at Blue Jacket’s Tables of Contents Cafe.

Fred’s Blog

If you’re not subscribing to Fred Marion’s blog, you’re missing something very special. In addition to his list of arts events in the Miami Valley (many of which I would’ve missed without him), he writes with both wide-eyed innocence and wisdom beyond his young years on topics like family and the writing life. Plus, he takes great photos, for instance, great shots recently of the “new” Dayton Metro Library! Check him out at fredrickmarion.com.

Hope to see you around for some poetry this fall!

 In the middle of the journey of our life

I found myself in a dark wood,

For I had lost the right path.

–Dante’s The Divine Comedy

Depression is a malady to which artists and writers, particularly poets, are quite prone. I’ve developed greater familiarity with it lately, having suffered several bad episodes this year. Today I feel qualified by experience to broach an issue I’ve mostly considered taboo. I now believe that it’s crucial to—as recovering folks say—tell on the disease in order to live beyond the “despair beyond despair.”

A Memoir of Madness

That last quote is William Styron’s, from his brave book Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness. A huge fan of Styron’s fiction, especially Sophie’s Choice, I bought his memoir when it came out in 1990, devoured it and then gave it to a friend and long-time depression sufferer whom I felt would benefit from it more than I, a confirmed anxiety man. I found out recently, though, that it was really I who needed it. Like my literary hero, I’m telling on the disease in the hope that we sufferers find more successful “treatment” than depressed writers who committed suicide, such as Woolf, Plath, Sexton, London, Berryman, Hemingway, to name but a few.

Field Trip for the Soul

I’ve had two crushing bouts of Black Dreads this year, first, while hiking in Hocking Hills, Ohio, from Cedar Falls to Old Man’s Cave last March; the second in June, on a “normal” day at home.  For whatever reason—Styron maintains the causes of depression are too complex and various to easily diagnose—I found myself sinking into a headachy malaise of dark thoughts and relentless dread. While I mutely weathered my mental tsunami that day in Hocking Hills as it unfolded, on the more recent June day I told my wife what was going on. Our solution: get out of the house.

As soon as I entered Joseph Beth, my favorite Cincinnati bookstore, I was overwhelmed by the sight of all those covers, spines and shelf talkers I’d have to try to read. Yet I persisted, for I had a hunch I’d find the exact right book to help me through this latest crisis. Sure enough, after an hour, I found Styron’s slim volume of less than 100 pages in the Psychology section.

Plopping into an overstuffed chair, I read how the author came within inches of taking his life on a December night in 1985, and what he did instead, setting him on the path to recovery. And while he did not gift us with another Sophie’s Choice before his death in 2006, at 81, he did make it the mission of his last fifteen years to help others deal with the disease that almost killed him. Darkness, while harrowing, is extremely rewarding reading; I’m going to barely suggest its riches (which I’m currently integrating into a longer essay) below.

Seclusion and Time

A lot of Styron’s information about antidepressants (which didn’t work for him and, in fact, exacerbated his problem) is clearly dated. Also, he admits that his story—and eventual healing—is only one man’s story. But the memoir is full of hope based on experience, knowledge and wisdom. It was neither drugs nor talk therapy but a seven-week stay in the hospital that healed him. All that he learned while there—what worked and what didn’t—is described clearly and movingly. I had admired William Styron as a distant literary god, but that day at Jo Beth, I loved him as a friend and fellow writer whose gentle, intimate voice assured me that this serious and sometimes fatal illness is treatable, even “conquerable.”

The “Shining World”

Referring to the poet Dante, with whom I began this essay, Styron concludes: “For those who have dwelt in depression’s dark wood, and known its inexplicable agony, their return from the abyss is not unlike the ascent of the poet, trudging upward and upward out of hell’s black depths and at last emerging into what he saw as ‘the shining world.’ There, whoever has been restored to health has almost always been restored to the capacity for serenity and joy, and this may be indemnity enough for having endured the despair beyond despair.”

I benefited greatly from rediscovering this valuable resource just at the moment when I needed it most. And while I haven’t received a visit from the Dark One lately, I’m not fooling myself that I’ve seen the last of him. I know there’s much more for me to learn—and, alas, probably experience—but, inspired by a courageous writer, I’ve told on my own disease and that feels right.

“So I’ll continue to continue to pretend

My life will never end

And flowers never bend

With the rainfall.”

—Paul Simon

Diagnosed with brain cancer, my childhood pal Steve found himself unable to pretend, as so many of us boomers do, that our lives will never end. His ended May 13, 2017, at 64 years of age, and I’m left to assess what the passing of my friend of 52 years means.

Celebration

The funeral was a lovely-sad affair, our grief somewhat muted by the long farewell and the miracle of his finding love with a wonderful caretaker during his final three years. His funeral seemed to me more celebratory than mournful. The poem I wrote for him, “To a Picker,” seemed to be well received, his friend Mark’s thoughtful eulogy was deeply moving, and his son Zack’s bluegrass band played not once but twice afterward.

The first tune they played, Simon and Garfunkel’s “Flowers Never Bend With the Rainfall,” recalibrated to bluegrass and sung in three-part harmony, was a ballad I hadn’t heard in decades. It returned me to the 1960s when Steve and I, seventh graders besotted by the Beatles, picked up, first, electric then acoustic guitars and somehow taught ourselves to play rock, then folk. We had no idea that, as important as college degrees, marriage and teaching careers would be, music more than anything would define our lives.

For me, playing music was a gateway to writing fiction and poetry; for Steve, it remained a life-long passion as he mastered fiddle, banjo and eventually his signature instrument, the mandolin. Several testified during and after the funeral about Steve’s expertise as an elementary school teacher, counselor and advisor to his friends.  He taught several to play mandolin. All spoke of his legendary patience, to which I’ll also attest. I owe “The Weight,” “These Days,” “Sweet Baby James” and many more in my repertoire to Steve’s musical mentoring.

Beneath the Mask

Oh, the stories I could tell. But the one I’ve been struggling to tell myself in the week since his passing is what it means to lose the friend who taught me my first chords and pursued my soul relentlessly until I was baptized in the First Baptist Church of Princeton, West Virginia. Now I believe I’m finally seeing beneath soundtrack to subtext. Steve was my conscience, simple as that.

During our long friendship, we sometimes hurt each other deeply. I was part of a group that scapegoated him in the summer between seventh and eighth grades, the greatest mistake of my youth and one for which I’ll continue to make living amends for the rest of my life. Following my divorce in the early ‘80s, he told me hard truths about myself, stripping away my masks and impugning my very identity. (Not hard to do, since I hadn’t the slightest clue who I was, other than a victim.) Devastated at the time, I eventually benefited a lot from his scathing critique.

Homecoming

After the 80s, we parted until late August, 1993, when, returning to Ohio from a vacation in Maine, I stopped by on a whim to see him at his home in Morgantown. To my surprise and great pleasure, he welcomed me like the best friend I’d once been.

“Play something,” he said, handing me a guitar, grinning beneath his mustache.

I panicked a little. He was the real picker, not me.

“But . . . what?” I stalled.

“Anything,” he said, clutching his mando close, already in his hunch.

Shakily, I played the Crosby, Stills and Nash classic “Helplessly Hoping,” while Steve tore in behind me like it was The Hallelujah Chorus, “A Hard Day’s Night” and “Soldier’s Joy” all in one. While the sun lay down, we played and drank and we played some more till stars soared like silver notes in the West Virginia night sky. By the time I left the next day, we’d forgotten—or it no longer mattered—what each of us needed to forgive the other one for.

Rest well, my soul’s companion, my conscience, my friend.

P.S.:  A Call for Poems:  Generosity

Once again Barbara Rohrer is putting out a call for poems to be considered for publication in The Sycamore, the handsome publication she edits for Christ Church Cathedral in Cincinnati. This time she needs poems related in some loose way to the theme of generosity. Deadline:  July 31, 2017. Submit at editor@readthesycamore.com.

Post image “Mandolin 5” by Pete Consadine, used under Creative Commons license https://creativecommons.org/licenses/...

(*Plus Rita Coleman’s new poetry book!)

 I was never quite comfortable with the idea of presenting a workshop on how to publish fiction. So when the workshop that my friend Joe Downing and I were scheduled to present last February was canceled due to lack of enrollment, I was more glad than not. Since then, I’ve thought of several reasons why not to “teach” folks how to publish fiction.

Writing itself is so much more important, and time spent thinking about publishing can so distract from the pleasure of the real task.
The path to publication is so individual, it can’t really be “methodized.”
Should you publish? Many if not most writers haven’t asked themselves this most basic question, much less what their goals are beyond the dubious ones of fame and fortune.
Publishing is so genre-centered that a general discussion—or one focused outside your genre—can actually do harm. What’s true of the literary fiction I write is not necessarily true of mysteries, romances or fantasy.
Such a conversation can get very technical very fast: query letter, synopsis, outline, platform. Any one of these issues could fill hours.
Publishing is a business—and in the case of commercial fiction—big. But the vast majority of writers will never make much money. Thus, do we really want to spend precious workshop time talking about business instead of the craft (and pleasures) of writing?
Publishing information is widely available online for free. The hard part isn’t finding it but applying it to the writer’s very specific needs and requirements. Writers Digest annually ranks the best websites on writing/publishing. I really like Jane Friedman’s blog.
The digital revolution has made it nearly impossible not to publish, if you’re willing to expend time and money. Potentially, it could take plenty of each.
Publishing is fairly meaningless without marketing, an extremely difficult, time-consuming, possibly costly and often unpleasant activity many writers find distasteful if not loathsome. Publishing is the beginning rather than the end of connecting your words to readers.
Finally, I don’t know how to get a novel published, only the way mine were published: I Was So Much Older Then by a NY agent who, disgruntled by books being published by traditional publishers, founded her own small press; The Measure of Everything by a Texas feminist’s small activist press; and The Psalms of Israel Jones by the fiction imprint of a university press. If I described my path to publication, you’d probably find it not very useful: conferences, friends in the biz and being in the right place at the right time. Almost assuredly, my path will not be yours.

Almost The Last Word

There’s my Publishing Workshop—for free. I hope you don’t find it depressing but simply realistic.  Every day I feel the enormous satisfaction of finally realizing publication is not the main reason I write (it took me decades). I write mainly to explore myself for myself in the hope of discovering something of possible use to you as well. Maybe writing for myself is not just the best reason; maybe it’s the only reason to write.

Should the above discourage you from writing what you need and want to write? Absolutely not. Should it make you think twice about trying to publish a book for which you hope to find more than a handful of readers? I hope so. Life is short and art is long; these days I spend a lot more time making art than selling it.

P.S.–More Publishing & Marketing

Speaking of publishing, my good friend Rita Coleman has her second book of poetry And Yet forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. Having read and admired her first book Mystic Connections, I know Rita’s work to be breathtaking, often mystical, substantive, humorous and grounded in the concrete world. You can pre-order her book for $14.95 plus $2 shipping at https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/and-yet-by-rita-coleman/. Here’s a mini-review:

Rita Coleman senses “the wild rumble of sky/ and earth before it rattles the bones of the living.” She sees human beings as “tribes of stars . . . in the blue knowing.” She challenges the mythical Narcissus to find “mirrored passion . . . rather than the shallow reflection of his face in a pond.”  Her spare and surprising lines bring sunshine into the depth of our existence.

–David Lee Garrison, Author of Playing Bach in the DC Metro

I just got my head knocked off by reading Eyes Glowing at the Edge of the Woods, a new anthology of fiction and poetry from West Virginia. I am so pleased to have a story among this distinguished group of honored veterans and up-and-comers. I believe all writers with publication-ready work should consider submitting to anthologies. Among the many gifts of being included in a collection like the one above are:

The honor of having your work chosen by excellent editors, usually well-published authors and teachers themselves.
Distribution: In addition to Vandalia’s Press’s marketing efforts, Glowing includes 63 writers. If every writer distributes just five copies, that means at least 315 new potential readers! (*Most will buy and share many more copies.) Your work will surely turn up in some interesting places.
Gift giving: such a book makes a great present, and almost every press will offer the book to authors at a steep discount.
Course inclusion: non-famous writers are much more likely to wind up on lit course syllabi in an anthology than on their own. There’s no greater compliment than having your work taught.
Fame and fortune. Just kidding. Any royalties are going to be shared with multiple authors, not to mention with the press, making significant financial gain unlikely. As for fame, it’s hard to stand out in a crowd of such worthies!

Do Your Homework

The above perks are, of course, predicated on the assumption that the anthology has been chosen by experienced editors seeking the highest quality. (Think how letdown you’d be if your work were, by far, the best piece in the collection. You should’ve aimed higher.)

No problem with Glowing. This very well-published group includes a former poet laureate, Guggenheim and NEA winners, directors of prestigious writing programs and some of my home state’s most celebrated writers. I’m delighted to have my story alongside one by Denise Giardina, my favorite living writer from the Mountain State, who wrote Storming Heaven, in my opinion the Great Appalachian Novel (ostensibly about the coal mining wars of the 1920s but really about all things West Virginian).

So if you don’t already know well the editors or press to whom you’re submitting, do your homework by researching them on- and off-line, plus asking questions of them, which, if they’re reputable, they won’t mind answering (*do the same for contests). It’s pretty standard for this process, from soliciting manuscripts to publishing, to take one or more years. But it’s usually well worth the wait.

The First Shall Be Last

 I’ve saved the best reason for being in an anthology for last:  reading your fellow authors. I guarantee that, if you chose well in submitting, you’re going to have your brain rearranged by some, if not most, of the selections. I read every story and poem in Glowing, liked every piece and was astonished by a few, such as Jessie van Eerden’s poetic story “Edna.” After I finished it, I immediately wanted to find and read more of her work.

Writing, while often a pleasure, is still damned hard work. So what a great unexpected reward it is to find myself included in such esteemed company. If you’re a writer, I wish this experience for you as well; meanwhile, don’t miss the joy of reading Eyes Glowing at the Edge of the Woods from Vandalia Press of West Virginia University.

 

I used to enjoy it when my well-traveled comp students would tackle a cultural comparison essay as one of their assignments. Therefore, I’m really excited when a writing colleague as accomplished as Deborah Clearman takes on a country as fascinating as Guatemala and topics as significant as baby brokering and sexual politics in all its tragicomic permutations.

Clearman’s novel Todos Santos (Black Lawrence, 2010) introduced us to the titular rural Guatemalan town; her new story collection, Concepcion and the Baby Brokers (Rain Mountain Press, 2017) takes us even deeper into a culture the author understands, loves and has resided in, off and on, since 1978; plus, she has the gift of making readers appreciate it and love it, too. Her themes are rich and fascinating, dramatized by an array of colorful, tragic, funny and always interesting characters.

Baby Brokering:  A Sad Practice

At the forefront of the collection, Clearman ambitiously examines the sad practice of Americans adopting babies obtained illegally by Guatemalan dealers in the novella “A Cup of Tears.” The story is well researched and constructed, highlighting an important, timely issue all Americans should be educated about. The plot eventually focuses on an American woman whose wrenching decision brings the story to a stunning finale. However, compelling as “Cup” is, I found myself preferring the other stories:  varied yet overlapping and quite a literary feast.

Race, Class . . .

 I especially enjoyed the cultural comparisons between Guatemala and the U.S. Despite important differences, the two cultures are uncomfortably similar in ways. For example, race and class issues. Most of the principal characters are Mayan, oppressed beneath the lash of mixed-race Ladinos who have occupied the upper echelons of society for 500 years. Sound familiar? In “Fathers and Sons,” Amilcar’s father moves into town so his eight-year-old son can attend school. Sadly, his peers mock his clothing and his Ladino teacher slaps him for speaking Mam, the only language he knows, rather than Spanish. I experienced some of the same prejudice in the small West Virginia town in which I came of age in the 1960s.

. . . and Sex

But, as important as racial and class issues are, I found myself enjoying most the myriad cultural complexities surrounding sex, especially sexual infidelity. “The Flor” is a wonderful exploration of cuckoldry, Guatemalan style. Dona Clara Luz’ pastor-pharmacist husband has been cheating on her with Hilda Florencia for some time; when young Felix wrecks his bus, Dona Clara appoints herself his “physical therapist” and (hilariously) his bible teacher. As his and his siblings’ caretaker, Dona Clara uses the young man’s recovery as an opportunity to restore his health and her marriage in a creative act involving her own infidelity. Tragedy is averted; humor, forgiveness and acceptance reign.

Mayans, Big Macs and Becky Sue

 My favorite take on Clearman’s sexual theme, however, occurs in “English Lessons,” which begins with the wonderful sentence, “I hate English.” The speaker is George, a transplanted Guatemalan living in Washington, DC, married to Roxie, an academic.  As in the former stories, there’s plenty of humor; as George says, “I have the hooked nose, wide cheeks and Asiatic eyes of a Mayan, and the big round belly that comes from eating lots of Big Macs.”

The main conflict concerns whether the childless young couple should go into debt for a fertility specialist or whether George should buy the truck he needs for his gardening business. (An irony, when babies are so abundant in Guatemala.) The story takes on the machismo stereotype, but with complex variations when George finds himself attracted to Becky Sue, his enigmatic English teacher. In Clearman’s capable hands, the relationship is not your typical illicit romance with definite winners and losers. (One of her major skills as a writer is her great endings.)

A New Life Forever

 “Saints and Sinners” provides a symphonic closure to this substantive collection. Many major characters return for a multigenerational climax involving once again the sexual theme. Don Roberto, about to retire as principal at the local school, has apparently impregnated his adoring student Magdalena, an event that at first seems destined to ruin both their lives and cause great scandal. However, the gods—as well as a saintly American mentor Noah—intervene for a surprising and satisfying outcome.

There is great redemption in the final scene, depicting modernization in Todos Santos, but, more importantly, new life:  “Flor had fallen asleep at [Magdalena’s] breast; the satisfying tug on her nipple had released into a gentle pressure, a reassurance that this life belonged to her forever.”  As grandmother Rosalinda looks on, the orderly continuity of generations (after much upheaval in this and the other stories) is intact.

Portraits in Courage

 Readers are under no illusions by the time they reach the last page; Clearman has truthfully shown that life is extremely hard in Guatemala’s countryside as well as in its cities, with grinding poverty, unemployment, drugs and gang violence, plus the heartbreaking outflow of young people to the U.S.; however, she balances those problems (which, let’s face it, exist in the U.S., too) with moving, convincing portraits of courage, compassion, faith and, above all, humor. Laughter; sensuous, sacred love; and family seem to be the holy trinity to these hardy, enduring people I come to admire. Lively, rich, meaningful and beautiful:  Clearman’s collection is highly recommended.