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A Book for Both Genders: Healing Through Writing

The Moment I Knew

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

Eyes of Love

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

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

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

The Past is the Present

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

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

Why Put Yourself Through It?

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

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

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

A Collaborative Experience

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

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

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

Writers and Shoppers Alert

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

P.S.

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

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

The Emporium/Underdog Café: Lost in Time

 The Real Thing

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

Yellow Springs’ Living Room

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

The Inner Life

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

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

Ready...Set...Write

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

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

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

The Wraiths

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

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

Cultural Oasis

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

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

More Than a Coffee Shop

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

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

Memoir 101: Demons and Angels

A Place to Start

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

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

Prewriting

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

Day of the Dragon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Truth vs. “The Truth”

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

Demons and Angels

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

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

Blowing the Top Off

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

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

Stoney Creek Roasters: Floating Writers’ Retreat

My Secret “Fishing Hole”

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

And the Coffee’s Delicious, Too

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

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

Present Meets the Past

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


On the Path

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

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

Secret Ingredient

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

A Place of Diverse Charms

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

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

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

See you there?

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

Birmingham Arts Journal Excerpts Israel Jones

A Publishing Surprise

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

No Downside

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

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

Lit-Mag With a Mission

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

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

The Process

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

The Product

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

“We Are Proud of Your Story”

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

Giving It Back

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

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

I’m writing my check right now.

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

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

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.