An Invitation

Would you join me on Thursday, March 8 at 7:30 p.m. at the Troy-Hayner Cultural Center in Troy, Ohio for an evening of poetry? I know you’re very busy—and I know poetry’s a tough sell. Maybe you’re sometimes disappointed when you read modern poetry—surreal, allusive and just plain weird as it can often be. Me, too; and maybe my poetry will strike you the same way. I hope not. True, I write it mostly for myself, but when it comes time to choose a few for pubic delivery, I promise to keep you, my audience, firmly in mind: to try to make you laugh or cry a little, to make you feel the amazing grace as well as confusing lunacy of being human—and to aspire to the music of language.

I promise not to read for more than an hour; with poetry (fiction, too), less is often more. Weather and health permitting, I’d love to see you there. Refreshments will be served afterward and there’ll be time to chat.

The Challenge

Being asked to read your own original poetry in public is a great gift—but it is also a responsibility I do not take lightly. Especially deciding what to read.

Revisiting my first chapbook, Appalachian Day, published by Samisdat in 1985, I was pleasantly surprised to find those old poems not nearly as awful as I’d expected (I wrote one of them as a college junior—that would’ve been 1973!). Most, though, were written in the eighties, and even though I had to read a couple of them with one eye closed, I discovered at least one poem in the small collection still excites me enough to consider for the Hayner reading.

Then I visited Haskell (Seven Buffaloes, 1987): West Virginia dialect poems, the first of which I “wrote” around 1986, when I was in my mid-thirties. After coming home from a long, stressful day of teaching one afternoon, I put pen to paper and suddenly here was this ninety-three-year-old man speaking—he sounded a lot like my Grand-dad, who’d been dead less than five years then. So I just let him talk through me for a chapbook’s-worth of poems. While I confess to having some of the same dialect-squeamishness as Paul Laurence Dunbar (whose early successes were with his black dialect poems), I confess there’s still a place in my heart for this old guy; his dramatic monologues have sometimes pleased a poetry audience, so I’m not ruling out reading a Haskell or two.

Poet, Heal Thyself

As soon as I accepted the Hayner gig last fall, I knew that I’d read from my latest chapbook, Healing Arts (Pudding House, 2005). The book’s concept of including both performing arts (music, dance, drama) as well as medical arts (both “folk” and formal) still appeals to me, and I’ve gotten a kick out of reading some of them aloud to gatherings. Surely I can glean three or four from the book’s thirty-two pages. “Flummoxed and Fretful, the Blind Poet is Bludgeoned Gumptionless, Stumbles, Awakens, is Blessed, Walks On” seems a likely candidate.

The Uncollected

But I admit to being more excited about sharing brand-new work, the result of my ten-month-long poetry experiment. Sifting through the nearly 250 poems has been interesting. Plenty humbling, for one thing. There are many clunkers, to be sure, but the real kicker was finding poems I’d completely forgotten writing, some that I question whether I actually did write—yet there they are in the little moleskine journal my father-in-law gave me.

I’ll conclude with a new one that I read during my interview with Conrad Balliet on WYSO a couple of Sundays ago:

BOOTS

Like a lover, I squeeze
inside their safe spaces
until they just feel right.
Unlike others, these fit tight
as second skin the first time
I set my size elevens into them.
Hugging ankles, they point me
firmly in the right direction.

We’ve crossed a lot of water,
plunged down banks, strode straight
down drought-dusty July roads.
Their soles have gripped stone
spiriting me up to bluffs
where they kept me grounded,
though my arms wanted to fly.

Waiting patiently in the back-
seat floor while I drive,
their silence suits my own;
we ask each other no questions,
seek neither kindness nor mercy.
The love that leather engenders
is better without expectations.

Look: there they sit in sunlight,
sweat and creek water drying,
seam stitched back after bursting,
leaking only a little now,
letting me know that, like me,
they’re not going to last forever,
but they’re plenty good enough
for right now.

More Information:

• Troy Hayner Cultural Center: http://www.troyhayner.org/ or http://visitmiamicounty.org/attraction/1
• Map to Troy Hayner Cultural Center: http://maps.google.com/maps/place?q=Troy-Hayner+Cultural+Center++301+West+Main+Street+Troy+Ohio,+45373&hl=en&cid=6230196550830991645

When my father-in-law gifted me with a slightly-larger moleskine journal than the pocket-sized one I’d been carrying around for several years, I wondered what I’d do with it. Little did I know it would be the catalyst for me to write over two hundred poems in just ten months.

The Gift That Keeps Giving

My father-in-law is salt-of-the-earth Appalachian. A deer hunter (with a bow), prize-winning marksman, pool shark and reader of adventure tales, he’s always kept me on my toes. On my infrequent visits to West Virginia, he always asks me what I’m writing, and listens when I tell him. So maybe I wasn’t all that surprised to tear off the Christmas paper and find that moleskine.

The inscription inside got me emotional: “May the words you write or put in this little book bring you great joy and richness. $$$.” It was signed, “Love, from Papa Ben.” I haven’t had a real father in my life since I was ten, though I’ve had many wonderful surrogates who’ve left their marks on my character. So Ben’s gift felt like the closest thing I’d ever have to a father encouraging me to follow my greatest passion. I decided his “little book” would have a special purpose; I just didn’t know what it was yet. But I soon would.

The Quest: A Poem a Day

In March I retired after 35 years of full-time college teaching: an auspicious moment to start something new. Pondering how I’d really be able to churn the novels out now, I noticed Dad’s moleskine, picked it up, opened it, and thought how the pages were the perfect size for poems! Then I was walloped with a voice asking me: What if you wrote a poem every day?

The author of a book on writing I’d read said she’d written a haiku every day for a while. I’ve never written haiku; but I did write and publish poetry actively for ten years. When I began writing novels, though, I found it hard to serve more than one muse (even my folk-singing “career” began to wind down). However, I never completely quit writing poetry; I still managed to compose two or three poems a year—without many keepers among them. Maybe, I thought, this experiment will produce more keepers or at least teach me something: about poetry, the writing process, about myself.

Poetic Jazz

“Rules” developed. First, I wasn’t going to wait for inspiration—these poems would be spontaneous and quickly composed. I’d write at least one every single day, maybe more. And not look back at what I’d written until the book was full.

Also, I’d strive for automatic writing: get a first line, a theme and improvise, like the jazz-men I admire so much. And hope for the occasional jewel to emerge—but I wouldn’t care very much if it didn’t. I’d leave the poem alone after I wrote it: no obsessive-compulsive editing. (In recent years a “keeper” usually went through 15 or 20 drafts before being deemed audience-friendly or abandoned.)

What Really Happened

Now that the experiment’s nearly over, with only fourteen pages to go, I can tell you it didn’t go exactly as planned. In some ways it went better.

I’m not writing a poem every day, but most days, until quite recently. Now it’s more like one every three days—but that’s still a lot of poems. I learned that it’s hard to lower my standards enough and take the time to write a poem when not in the least inspired. I found I do usually need inspiration to write a poem, even with the lowest expectations. Sometimes I was able to whip out the little book while walking or wrapping up things before bedtime and let ‘er rip—with something like good results. But mostly I found myself thinking up a subject first.

As for not editing—or looking back at poems until the book was full—both were laughable dreams. I flip back and forth all the time, astonished at what emerges when I dip into the unconscious at moments when I least feel like writing a poem. And when, upon re-reading, I think of a better word and see lines and stanzas needing to be cut…I can’t stop myself. What writer can?

Harvest

What have I learned or gained from this little experiment or exercise, you ask? Well, because I did look back at the poems as they filled my pages, I decided to pluck out potential keepers and submit them to my tedious o.c.d. revision process. I’ve already got twelve keepers, and I’m sure I’ll be able to cull a dozen more before I’m through. (One of them, “Uncle Frank and the Boy,” has already won me free tuition to this year’s Antioch Writers’ Workshop and was published in the Mock Turtle Zine!)

Was it worth writing to produce a dozen keepers? Absolutely. But I’m convinced the activity would’ve been a worthy exercise even without bearing fruit. Such prolific production encouraged me to take risks, experiment and stretch myself. It’s easy, after achieving any sort of success in writing (publication, for example), to become way too conservative—not good if you want to grow.

Naked

Furthermore, it got me in touch with a neglected part of my writing self, convincing me it would be a loss, were I ever to abandon poetry altogether. (Why would I ever think it necessary to do so? Should I also re-think my folk-singing career?) Maybe it restored poetry writing as an essential discipline, an art I should practice for the rest of my life; time will tell.

I wrote a few hard poems, touching subjects that cut into the dermis, maybe even sheared into bone. Did I really say this about that? Did I mean it? Is there more to say? This is your life, says the Little Book. (That doesn’t mean all my poems are autobiographical—believe me, I wrote about everything!—but a few of them did strip me naked.)

The experiment may have affected my fiction—all writing is fuel for other arts, even other genres. In a couple of instances, I used the same idea for a poem that I’d already used in fiction, which is rare for me.

Luring the Muse

And these are just benefits I’m conscious of. I’m humbled, reading through these pages, by how badly I can write when I truly let go—but also by how little in control I really am of my creative process. And I like that; it’s even okay to find that I’m really just “channeling” other writers sometimes. Maybe the bottom line is that, the more you show up to write, the higher the odds that you’ll be there when the lightning bolt arrives: your “Wasteland,” “Howl,” or “Leaves of Grass.”

Reading poetry is necessary, vital to my life, but writing poetry is life. When my little book is full, maybe I’ll begin another. Dedicated to you, Papa Ben, just like this one.

Photograph by Alexandre Dulaunoy

My favorite column in Poets & Writers is “Why We Write.” Although I used to read the premier writers’ magazine mainly for publishing news and markets, I’m much more likely to read it nowadays to find the faith and inspiration to continue to write fiction for a world that increasingly doesn’t seem to want or need it.

The Great Silence

A poet friend and I were recently e-mailing each other new poems to read and critique, and she mentioned how her work usually meets with silence. Yesterday, a fiction writer correspondent said pretty much the same thing, only in reference to marketing: people request a free reviewer’s copy and then. . . nothing.

Writers of course must make peace as early as possible with the reality that no one’s asking us to do this. Our friends and family, above all, must be excused from forced reading and even more from forced critiquing. And those blessed souls who do buy our books must never be asked whether they actually read or what they thought of our work (but we can hope they’ll volunteer something!).

Admittedly I learned this the hard way. Now it’s quite enough when, totally out of the blue, someone e-mails or calls me—as the daughter of my former professor did a couple of years ago, when she saw I’d mentioned her dad in the Acknowledgements to my novel I Was So Much Older Then. Maybe we should simply see publication as sending a message in a bottle, to perhaps be found years and miles away—or maybe not at all.

Strangers and Bad Guys

So if we’re not mainly writing for friends or family, then who? Well, strangers, we hope: the “huge” book-buying public for whom are written all those books filling our favorite bookstore to the rafters. It’s hard to walk into those stores if you’re a published small-press writer as I am, and not want your work to be there among your literary heroes. But if no one’s heard of you, you probably won’t be asked (or allowed); and if you are allowed, your work will most likely languish in the Great Silence of the Shelves. (But not for long; books by non-best-selling authors have the shelf life of a magazine.)

At first, I wanted my books there, anyway, simply to “be available.” But when not a single copy sold in the weeks following a reading I gave at my local Barnes & Noble, I changed my mind. While bookstores sell (to me) a precious commodity, it’s a business like dry-cleaning or anything else—it exists to make money. Except in the minds of some local independents, bookstores are for “best-selling” authors. Just as you don’t need an agent if your work isn’t commercial, your work doesn’t require a bookstore if it’s not going to sell a lot of copies.

Since I made my peace with that, I’ve sought to connect with my audience through other venues—readings at colleges and universities, workshops, book clubs, blogging. I’m not mad at Barnes & Noble anymore; instead, the store’s become my library-café as well as provider of the few new, deeply-discounted books I purchase.

The Shrinking Audience

Conceding that one is probably not writing for the great book-buying public certainly narrows one’s audience. I’ve written here before that an Audience of One is really enough; that it’s a great way to keep depression and anxiety at bay and even achieve spiritual progress. The satisfaction, even joy, that comes through the discipline of writing is considerable—and highly recommended. For me, it’s more than even discipline; it’s a spiritual practice, like meditation, yoga, prayer.

But in my heart of hearts, I know that writing for myself isn’t enough; I truly do want to share with an audience. Want = desire. And as all good Buddhists know, desire is what gets you in trouble in this life. Making peace with that desire for a large audience has created tension and stress in my life—and maybe in yours, if you’re a writer. It isn’t easy, and it has to be dealt with, sooner or later if it’s not to consume you.

The Messenger

For months I’ve carried around an article I copied from Jeff Herman’s Guide to Book Publishers, Editors, & Literary Agents 2009, entitled “The Writer’s Journey: The Path of the Spiritual Messenger.” Written by Deborah Levine Herman, the essay provides reassurance, wisdom and practical advice to writers who find their spirituality at odds with the business of publishing. Herman writes: “If we have people listening to what we have to say, we can believe that we are the message and forget that we are merely the messenger . . . We are all here to improve the lives of each other.” I appreciated hearing that—and inside a book on the business of writing!

Ego vs. Spirit

Ms. Herman’s words touched a deep nerve. In recent years, the major conflict of my writing life is not what and how to write but whether my desire for publication contradicts my desire for greater humility and service. I wonder whether I should persevere in what sometimes seems an ego-feeding rather than a spirit-centered proposition. At the heart of the conflict is whether my writing is of value to anyone but myself; and, if the latter, whether I should surrender my craving to share it with the world. Any advice, such as Ms. Herman’s, that takes me down a notch or five—and helps me see the value of what I do as possibly serving others in addition to myself—gives me hope that I’m on the right path.

If we have people listening to what we say . . . That’s a pretty big if, given the Great Silence I spoke of earlier. However, if we are able to attract and hold readers, I believe we must view writing as a responsibility as well as a joy. Once we get people listening, what will we say? Will we help or harm? Is it foolish of us to imagine that our writing matters enough to do either?

The Mission

In The Art of Fiction, John Gardner exhorts us to write “ . . . 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.” In other words, to write responsibly.

If I have any credo, the above quote is pretty much it. Thus, it’s my responsibility as messenger to not only deliver the news through my writing—that things aren’t nearly as shitty as they often seem; that redemption, while improbable, is still possible—but try to publish as well. However, Publication Highway is full of potholes like burnout and bitterness, even financial ruin, if a writer’s willing to quit her day job and put everything on the line for it. (My advice: Don’t do it.) I’m choosing to slow down these days, maybe even park, get out and walk, appreciate the scenery and talk to people, see what’s on their minds.

Hearts and Minds

The insight I receive from reading Herman and Gardner—that I’m only the messenger, not the great, famous author I set out to be three decades ago—joyously bursts the bubble of my grandiose self-inflation and brings me down to a planet where, though my books are not currently on Barnes & Noble’s shelves, they are in the hearts and minds of a few. Audience of one or of thousands? Maybe it doesn’t ultimately matter. We are all here to improve the lives of each other. One reader at a time.

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 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

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)

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.)

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.

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.

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).