Author’s note: This piece is part truth and part fiction based on a summer my parents sent me to a Christian summer camp; it wasn't my type of Christian (every meal we had to pray, and the bedtime prayer had to be observed by staff. Lights out at eight o'clock, and the entire place was dark. I had never seen the ocean. When the Camp Director came looking for me, I was outside staring at the vast expanse of water and mesmerized by the waves. She allowed me to stand and stare and then gently led me back to the cabin. My story is based on this moment.

***

I was fourteen the first time I saw the ocean. I was at a summer camp, and I knew no one, but my parents were busy fighting about money and beer and sluts. I didn’t know what that last word meant, but I saw my mother cry and heard my father swear and I easily figured out that a slut wasn’t something nice.

They sent me to a Christian camp, and I didn’t know how to pray, and my tennis shoes were too small because my parents chose not to spend money on something I would simply outgrow. The campers laughed at me, and the camp counselors frowned at me. Even the cook turned away.

Instead of going to dinner, I slipped out of the campground and heard the roar of waves against the rocky cliffs. I took a path that led to the sandy beach. I slipped out of my too-small tennis shoes and felt the grit of sand between my toes.

The sun was slowly sinking into the rim of the west, and the sky above shifted from blue to a kind of pale orange, and the birds quit chirping. I could still see the reflection of a full moon skipping over the tops of the waves, and at the far end of the cove a light flashed intermittently.

I followed the flashes, first carefully stepping, then hopping and finally laughing with each flash of the beacon. The door at the bottom of the spire was open, so I climbed the winding stairs until I reached a door at the top. I tried to open it, but the lock wouldn’t let me. I sat on the top step and cried.

“What are you doing here?” a male voice shouted through the door. The door opened, and the voice became gentle. The question became almost a whisper. “What are you doing here? Are you lost?”

I nodded yes.

“Do you want to go home?”

I screamed and shook my head. “No! No! No!”

The old man took me into the single room just under the flashing beacon, He settled me onto the only chair in the room and said, “Please don’t cry. Everything is going to be okay.” He fixed me tea and opened a package of Oreo cookies.

As the sky darkened, he stood me in front of the window under the beacon and after the flashes of light passed, I could see a sky filled with stars. “See the moon,” he whispered. “It’s smiling.”

I nodded and found myself smiling.

“All those stars and smiles are in front of you,” he said, “Like angels guarding your way. Even when you return to camp, the moon and stars will be waiting for you every night. Maybe there will be clouds and rain or snow, but beyond them waits the wonders of the rest of your life. Do you understand?”

I wanted to shrug and shake my head no, but he turned me to see the whole of the ocean’s sparkling waves and the moon’s half-smile. I found myself nodding.

“What did I just say?” he asked.

“That good things can be there; I just need to look for them.”

I was surprised to see tears flowing down his wrinkled cheeks and into his beard. “It took me a long time to learn that,” he whispered.

“Do I have to go back to camp?”

“Yes, but I will come with you. And I will talk to the camp supervisor. You are not the first seeker to come my way.”

“Seeker?”

“Someone who is looking for a better life. Someone who sees the beacon and follows the light to its source.”

“Will I have to go home?”

“Maybe. But even if you do have to go home, it won’t be forever.”

“I can remember the stars,” I whispered. “I can remember the moon, and I will remember you.”

He helped me down the stairs and walked with me along the path back to the campground. I waited outside the camp supervisor’s door while he shouted and swore. After he left, the supervisor hugged me in her arms and whispered that everything would be better.

I will always be grateful for the stars and smiling moon and mostly for the beacon that led me to the old man who saved me from my past.

***

Over the years, Sue Pace’s poetry, prose and personal essays have been published in Australia, the UK and the USA. Most recently she has had her work published in “Prole - Poetry and Prose” and an anthology in “Raven’s Chronicles”. She has work forthcoming in the UK and in the USA. Her collection of related short stories, “Driving Sharon Crazy,” is available on Amazon. She is always grateful for the effort that Sheila Bender puts into keeping writers and writing alive and well.

Wanda and I decide to install laminate flooring throughout the first floor of our house. This means ripping up the old hardwood in the kitchen and pantry, along with the carpet in the dining and living rooms, both bedrooms, and every closet. Once we schedule a date with Home Depot’s contractor, all we have to do is empty the space for the installers.

After eight decades of experience, I know the words ‘all you have to do’ mean that sometime before the task is complete, an unexpected curveball will head my way.

‘All we have to do’ is pick up all the things we live with and haul them into the garage. A sofa and heavy glass-topped coffee table, a dining table and chairs. Bed, lamps, tables, plants, chairs, pedestals, and every decorative object. Clothes, shoes, and shelving units from the closets.

The real ass-kicker is my office. Everything must move: a desk, an ottoman and two chairs, plus two brimming four-drawer file cabinets and five floor-to-ceiling bookcases which won’t budge until I strip their shelves of a few thousand books and pack them into boxes.

Then ‘all we have to do’ is maneuver everything through the office doorway, around a corner into the hallway, a left turn through the living room, another left into the laundry room, and finally down two wooden steps into the garage.

Hours later, halfway along the hallway, hugging to my chest the fourteenth bulky box of books, that curve ball zips by me with this uncomfortable question:

What the fuck, Bill? Why keep so many books?

Didn’t I learn anything in 2015 while walking the Camino across Spain to Santiago when I had to carry everything I needed on my back? Up and down mountains, through villages and cities, my pack was my daily burden. To prepare for that trek, I pared down to essentials (I thought). But after a single week I shed more weight: a Spanish phrase book, a shoulder bag, extra toilet paper, a fleece cap, pants with no cargo pockets and a notebook. Left them on my bunk in an albergue at Los Arcos.

Now, grunting down the hallway with this unwieldy carton of books, I confront the same shit again: too much stuff!

The lessons keep coming.

Lessons the Camino taught me: You don’t go to learn what Santiago is. You go so Santiago can teach you.

I thought my Camino destination would be a city with a golden cathedral and cheering crowds, but when I turned the corner at what I thought was the end, I saw my road still stretching on for the rest of my days where I can walk and let myself see what walking does to me.

It’s the same with reading. The books on my shelves stand as milestones along the transformative path of my reading. I can read to the end of my days and still see what reading does to me.

Ever since I grew up as an only child near Pittsburgh, books have been my steady companions. As a boy, I lay in my upstairs bedroom and traveled the world with Richard Halliburton’s adventures and roamed imaginary lands of Treasure Island, Gulliver’s Travels, and Ivanhoe.

My parents encouraged me to read, surrounded me with books, then pushed me toward college where I entered a rocky relationship with higher education and felt enormous shame after flunking out of Northwestern in 1958 and then from Ohio Wesleyan in 1959. Looking back sixty years, I’m not sure what was going on with me at the time. Maybe undiagnosed ADD. Or just too immature, unready for college.

I returned home in the summer of 1959, feeling stupid and feckless, to the quiet despair of my parents. I hid in my upstairs bedroom, my nose stuck into Tolstoy, Dickens and Conrad — losing myself in fictional worlds, shying away from the demanding, confusing, overwhelming world beyond my dormer window

Eventually, I stumbled through an English B.A. at Pitt in 1963, then, with dreams of becoming a university professor, pursued an M.A. at the University of Arizona. But that dream withered during my master’s oral exam when a professor said, “You have to hold your nose and read more source material.” He thought I wasn’t ready; I thought I wasn’t good enough.

After that, I never sat in another university classroom but set out on my own road as a passionate autodidact following the nourishing currents I found flowing through books.

A direction. A willingness. Setting out toward the horizon I chose. My Santiago is not a place on a map, not a destination, but a route when I commit my feet to the road of reading.

Truth be told, I gathered books as emblems of my intelligence. Dust-jacket photos of authors posed before walls of books always impress me. They must be really smart!

To this day, the presence of rows of colorful spines carefully arranged on my shelves comforts me. I don’t completely understand how I carry the books I’ve read inside me. But I do. They aren’t fixed in my recollection as complete texts. Rather, they’re held between the words left by the writer on the page and the reader, me, who reinvents them through my own experience. They’re living in my bones.

The more I read, the more I change.

The more varied my reading, the more I’m able to perceive the world from many perspectives. I’m inhabited by the voices of others, some of them long dead. They speak in shouts and whispers and in the music of their prose and poetry. Reading is creative listening that alters me.

These rows of books offer mute voices held in bundles of typescript on paper inked with marginal notes, signposts strung along the years that mark where my soul lit up.

But why hold on to so many? Why lug them from house to house? What if I sold them, or gave them all away? If I emptied my shelves, would I still be me?

After dealing with the contents of my father’s house, I considered my tendency to hoard books. But instead of doing anything about it, I wrote this:

Sons, Don’t Laugh at My Library

When you sift through my office after I die

you’ll confront a wall of books.

I hope you won’t snicker like I did

when I dismantled my boyhood home

and found forty pairs of black socks

in a dresser drawer. Why so many, Dad?

If you wonder that about my books,

just know I couldn’t part with these steady companions

who soothed my heart with honeyed hives

of language stored between their covers.

Before you dump them at Goodwill,

riffle through them, glance at my underlines.

There’s where my soul snagged,

where shards of reflected majesty

sang their fierce clarity

through lines of inert ink.

So, for pity’s sake, don’t scoff too harshly.

With each passing year and each passionate purchase

this library uttered bright truths

I could hold close to my heart.

To hang on to these books, or let them go? That’s the question for an old man grunting his way down a long hallway, arms straining to carry a leaden box of books.

During my recent visit to a bookmobile parked in a shopping center near my home, a title jumps off the shelf at me: The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning. I take it home and read that Margareta Magnusson— “aged between 80 and 100” (her words)—urges me to clear out unnecessary belongings before my sons must do it for me. She poses this question that’s become my mantra: Will anyone be happier if I save this?

Will I?

On Margareta’s advice, I begin a shelf purge, fill two shopping bags with books, then haul them to a local bookseller.

Only a trickle, more bags to come.

Or I should say . . . to go.

The Spanish have a saying: A Santiago, nunca se llega, solo se va. (You never reach Santiago, you only set out for it.)

Yet the question remains: why surround myself with books? Why part with so few?

Because books comfort me. And change me.

If I were to winnow down my collection to a few core books, could they sustain me? Without such an extensive collection, who would I be?

I spent decades keeping cornflakes in the cupboard and paying bills by sweating on construction sites, or selling air conditioners, or burying myself in the cubicle labyrinth of a corporation.

A wage slave during the day, at night I retreated into my study stuffed with books.

I drew them around me like an exoskeleton of identity, a hermit crab’s shell for my tender self.

When I look at their titles on their spines arrayed on my shelves, I recall how their pages hold memories of encounters with new ideas and moments of inspiration. Points that illuminated my way along the path I’ve taken to arrive where I am today.

If I couldn’t see them anymore, if they were no longer within my reach, then what?

I fear that letting go of my books would feel like extinguishing, one by one, the lights on my mental marquee. I wouldn’t be able to re-read lines of poetry or sections of prose I admire. Internet searches will never replace my hundreds of well-thumbed paperback and hardback copies filled with marginal notes, highlights, and underlines I made over the past 65 years.

So, after the laminate floor was installed, I hauled all my books down the hallway and placed them onto my shelves in careful order.

I carry them . . . and they carry me.

Bill Mawhinney is the author of two poetry collections: Songs in My Begging Bowl and Cairns Along the Road. His work has appeared in Heron Dance, Windfall, Oasis Journal. Minotaur, IS Magazine, and Rainshadow Journal.

He has performed poetry in local retirement homes through an Arts to Elders program. In 2011, the Port Townsend Arts Commission named him Angel of the Arts. For 13 years, he curated and hosted the popular Northwind Reading Series.

His retirement years are captured in the words of Cicero: “If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.”

Hi Writers,

Do you have an essay, story, or poem about being inspired? The current subscriber writing call is out for them. What has compelled you or your character to act because something was inspiring? A person’s words or actions? A pet’s? A newspaper or magazine article? A speech? Someone else’s writing? An object you own or came across? A play, music, or visual art? A poem? What was your response to the moment of inspiration? How do you carry that inspiration with you, and how has that altered your life? Send your essay or poem or flash piece to me! Check out the essays posted so far on the Writing It Real Substack.

Bonnie Zima Dowd’s essay, “Walking with Spirit,” posted last week, and this week, “A Hallway Epiphany " by Bill Mawhinney is up. You can scroll down for more good reading from over the past weeks.

Class Reminders

Meg Files, Jack Heffron, and I are reuniting to teach together again in Tucson, AZ, January 14-17. If you haven’t asked for information about the workshop and lodging, please email megfiles@earthlink.net. She will send you information and also directions for contacting me about making payment. We start on Thursday evening the 15th and fill our workshop days through the 17th with craft lectures, hands-on writing exercise sessions, and writing workshops. We are excited to do this together again after years of hiatus. Please find out about joining us by emailing Meg.

In the meantime, consider enrolling here for one, two, or all three of my next series of two-hour sessions of Prompt(s) & Response on Friday, October 16; Friday, November 20; and Friday, December 18 from 10 AM to 12 AM Pacific Time. The class is designed to help you find surprising topics and keep on writing. The new dates are up on the Il Chiostro website for information and to enroll.

This Week’s Resource Links

Do You Need the Oxford Comma

Ellen Bass’ Living Room Craft Talks, the 7th Series

Flash Nonfiction: The Craft of Tiny Truths

What is Free Indirect Discourse? Writing the “Intimate 3rd Person”

Last Week’s Resource Links are from the Associated Writing Programs magazine, The Writer’s Chronicle, August edition.

Articles you will be interested in:

Behind the Scenes of Small Press Publishing

Diane Goettel of Black Lawrence Press, Abigail Beckel of Rose Metal Press, EJ Colen of Tupelo Press, and Maya Marshall of Haymarket Books discuss the mission, logistics, and enduring appeal of the small press.

My Antagonist

Maria Hummel investigates what makes a three-dimensional villain.

Want to Improve Your Writing? Try Pictures!

Emil Wilson shows—through a graphic essay!—how visuals can aid writers and readers alike.

The Boundary Between Self and Page

Cultivating Voice in Kidlit and Beyond

Meg Eden Kuyatt examines what goes into an authentic, memorable voice.

An Unreal World That Might Be

Douglas Bauer explains how to breathe life into historical fiction and avoid what he calls literary taxidermy.

Returning to the Overlook with an Assist from Stephen King

Caroline Bicks reveals what she learned from unprecedented access to Stephen King’s personal archives and the author himself.

America Has a Stereotype Problem, and It’s Not What You Think It Is

Willie Edward Taylor Carver Jr. confronts harmful depictions of Appalachia and why the truth of the region is rarely straightforward.

You, Me, Us

Essaying Toward Friendship

Sean Ironman shares strategies for writing nonfiction with curiosity, not judgment.

Subscriber Publishing Successes: Send info about yours to me!

Sandra Hurtes’ personal essay “Crown Heights (1955 – 1960): Through the eyes of a daughter of Holocaust survivors” appears in |The Jewish Writing Project.

Nancy Levinson’s poem “How to Embrace an Aura of Charm” appears in Silver Birch Press. “Dreams of Yesteryears,” appears in The Hemlock Journal’s Issue Ten. Print and digital versions are available. “Dog Meets Drag Queen” is forthcoming in Rat’s Ass Review,

Sandra Hurtes’ essay “Woman’s Best Friend?” is up on True Stories Well Told.

Mona Anderson’s poem, “We Don’t Say What We Mean,” appears in Touchstone,” Vol. 68.1, and her poem “After” has been published in the New Hampshire ACLU’s Poetry Protest Project.

Marlene Samuels’ “I Remember the Wallet” is up now on True Stories Well Told.

Carol Blatter’s essay, “My Right Thumb,” will be on True Stories Well Told at the end of July. Link coming soon.

Rose Ann Woolpert’s novel, Mrs. R. Pacheco, the story of Mary McIntire, a Kentucky girl who wanted to become a playwright and ended up achieving her dreams and also becoming First Lady of California, is out from Historium Press.

Beckie Miller’s book about her son’s murder, Losing Brian - Finding A New Me (Surviving a Child’s Murder), will be available starting July 21st on Amazon, at Barnes and Noble Book Stores, on the Atmosphere Press Website, and other venues in both hardcover and paperback versions.

David D. Horowitz’s poem, “Strings Attached,” recently appeared online in The Asses of Parnassus.

Barbara Simmons’ poem, “Diffusing Peace,” has been accepted for publication in SweetSmell Journal Issue Five. She also heard from Scotia Road Books about another poem, “Hopefully Before Our Expiration Date,” to be published in their anthology, When We Gather to Eat: An Anthology of Hunger, Heritage, & Healing.

Linda Petrucelli’s memoir Mother Tongue was reviewed in the June 1st Kirkus Reviews Magazine (page 151).

Mona Anderson’s poems, “Look Up” and “Ablaze in Red,” are now published in the Northern New England Review, Volume 46.

Gloria Sinibaldi’s memoir, The Cottage and the Chicken Coop: Reflections on Memory, Meaning, and the Quiet Miracles That Shaped Me. Told in lyrical fragments rather than a linear path, The Cottage and the Chicken Coop reveals how meaning often lives in what we overlook. It invites readers to pause, reflect, and recognize the quiet miracles that shape who we become.

Danna Walker’s “The Drive to Natchitoches” appears in Wildgreens (scroll down a bit to see it).

Sue Pace has learned that Raven’s Chronicles will soon publish her very short prose piece about transitions. We’ll have the link soon and put it in the newsletter.

Sandra Hurtes published a two-part essay, “On Writing Prompts,” about how they helped her find a story she wanted to write. You’ll find them both on True Stories Well Told.

Lynda Monk’s new book, The Adoptee’s Guide to Healing, Wholeness & Growth, has just been released by Books that Save Lives.

Author Quote

“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken." —Oscar Wilde

Walking with Spirit by Bonnie Zima Dowd

It all started with a subtle and strange feeling stirring in my gut; a knowing; something I couldn’t put my finger on. Ironically, I was experiencing writer’s block at the same time. I was frustrated, staring at a blank computer screen, waiting for a spark of creativity to show up. I tried to ignore the odd nudge I felt in my belly. But the nudge kept getting stronger until I found the courage to sit quietly. Something I’ll call Spirit got my attention. Spirit wasn’t a who or a what, not a dream or a vision. It was a deep and weird feeling inside my body, like my soul was reaching out to get my attention. I wasn’t scared.

Never in all my life have I had a spiritual experience. What was I to do? I hesitated at first. Why me? Why now? I have free will. I could choose differently. Finally, I threw my arms up in the air, surrendered, and silenced my mind. I didn’t smell anything different in the air, but when I let my mind connect with Spirit, a deep sense of calm flowed through me and then something started to shift inside. I felt lighter. More joy, more peace, more love. It’s hard to explain.

Then, Spirit gently guided me, telepathically, to change my writing from fiction to non-fiction. Ask life’s big questions. Who am I? What do I want from life? How do I live? Why am I here? What’s my story? What’s important for me to learn? Search for the answers and write about it. A simple, but profound message. I didn’t speak. Next, Spirit whispered, have patience, my dear; trust the process. In a matter of seconds, Spirit was gone and a comforting feeling, like the first bite into a warm grilled cheese sandwich, lingered in the air. Everything was over.

No question about it. I was on a special mission. I packed up my writing from the past four years and moved everything into a closet. I waited for my writer’s block to break. I sat and sat some more, always in silence, resting my thoughts, like a mother bird patiently waiting for her chicks to hatch. Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. By the third month, I felt inspired to write again. When I sat at my writing desk, an old Hitchcock maple dining room table, I was guided to open myself to a full life review. I was to carefully examine each of my seven decades, and write about the good, bad, and ugly. And don’t leave emotions out.

Once I got into a rhythm, I wrote something every day. Little by little, the way a turtle crosses the road, I pieced 70 years together. Sometimes, I imagined myself as a famous archeologist digging for buried treasure in Egypt, or searching for a lost city in the Amazon. Except, the one thing I was looking for wasn’t a tangible thing to display in a museum. I was seeking something much more valuable, precious nuggets of wisdom from my inner self. And the only expert who could uncover them was me.

After a month, my homework was done. I studied my notes against the questions Spirit had asked. Reviewed my adventures over hills and valleys. The endless paths that led to dead ends or waves of change. Remembered more than a few difficult experiences and skipped over the boring ones. Added new notes to my life review and focused on key observations, like the times I fell and the times I bloomed; the times I felt pain and the times I surrendered, knowing every experience would help me find the answers I was seeking.

Two days passed. Nothing. I replayed Spirit’s initial visit. Recalled how I was to trust the process. Grew impatient. I should know something by now.

Suddenly I couldn’t breathe or move. My heart was pounding. Tears washed down my face. I can’t explain it, but in that moment, I was awakened to my soul’s spiritual growth. And when I saw the unseen, I was beyond grateful for the wisdom I gained and the hard work put in. I watched myself learning to let go over and over again. The endless moments I practiced living in the moment. Learning to love myself was tough, but I finally got there. Finding compassion for others as well as compassion for myself was equally important for growth. The endless times I learned the importance of self-care and forgiveness of self and of others. I changed slowly, one step at a time; found joy and discovered Spirit in me. Then life shifted. I found meaning.

Now I had the answers about who I am; how I want to live; what I want from life; why I’m here and what’s important for me to understand before I die. Today, I live authentically and write from a place of truth. I am a part of the group of souls who live in a human body. This is a new and exciting way of being. I’m on a sacred journey to authentic self; the light of higher consciousness, that which grows from unconditional love when shared and given.

While the light of the setting sun streamed through the dining room windows, I started writing my essay. I know the last thing Spirit wanted was for me to keep this experience to myself.

Bonnie Zima Dowd is a retired fundraising professional for non-profits. She likes to keep busy by writing, exploring the creative arts, and walking with Spirit. She lives in Massachusetts.

Hi Writers,

Do you have an essay, story, or poem about being inspired? The current subscriber writing call is out for them. What has compelled you or your character to act because something was inspiring? A person’s words or actions? A pet’s? A newspaper or magazine article? A speech? Someone else’s writing? An object you own or came across? A play, music, or visual art? A poem? What was your response to the moment of inspiration? How do you carry that inspiration with you, and how has that altered your life? Send your essay or poem or flash piece to me! Check out the essays posted so far on the Writing It Real Substack. David Horowitz’s essay, Angels Are in the Details, Too is the latest one posted. Scroll down for more good reading.

And I hope you’ll find some time to watch Philip Kenney and me in conversation about his many books in many genres and his secret to writing a lot.

Three Class Reminders

1. Enroll here for one, two, or all three of the next series of two-hour sessions of Prompt(s) & Response on Friday, October 16; Friday, November 20; and Friday, December 18 from 10 AM to 12 AM Pacific Time. The class is designed to help you find surprising topics and keep on writing. The new dates will be up soon on the Il Chiostro website for information and to enroll shortly.

2. I’ll be teaching in person in Tucson, AZ, January 14-17 at Lodge on the Desert. Contact Meg Files at megfiles@earthlink.net for a full description (and to enroll) for the event I am doing with her and our colleague Jack Heffron. Not only will our workshop get you going and continuing to write well, the Lodge is amazing: an historic hacienda-style boutique hotel in Midtown Tucson set on five lush acres against the Santa Catalina Mountains, featuring southwest decor, an outdoor heated pool, and the on-site Cielos Restaurant.

3. Also, there are a couple of spots left for the Lake Garda workshop from September 26 to October 3. It is hot in Europe right now, but luckily, September will bring cooler temperatures and beautiful cold water in the lake.

   If you are considering joining us (and maybe going on to visit other European sites when the weather is cooler), now is the time to register for a last-minute spot. I am happy to talk with you about the workshop, although this website does a good job of presenting it.

This Week’s Resource Links are from the Associated Writing Programs magazine, The Writer’s Chronicle, August edition .

Articles you will be interested in:

Behind the Scenes of Small Press Publishing

Diane Goettel of Black Lawrence Press, Abigail Beckel of Rose Metal Press, EJ Colen of Tupelo Press, and Maya Marshall of Haymarket Books discuss the mission, logistics, and enduring appeal of the small press.

My Antagonist

Maria Hummel investigates what makes a three-dimensional villain.

Want to Improve Your Writing? Try Pictures!

Emil Wilson shows—through a graphic essay!—how visuals can aid writers and readers alike.

The Boundary Between Self and Page

Cultivating Voice in Kidlit and Beyond

Meg Eden Kuyatt examines what goes into an authentic, memorable voice.

An Unreal World That Might Be

Douglas Bauer explains how to breathe life into historical fiction and avoid what he calls literary taxidermy.

Returning to the Overlook with an Assist from Stephen King

Caroline Bicks reveals what she learned from unprecedented access to Stephen King’s personal archives and the author himself.

America Has a Stereotype Problem, and It’s Not What You Think It Is

Willie Edward Taylor Carver Jr. confronts harmful depictions of Appalachia and why the truth of the region is rarely straightforward.

You, Me, Us

Essaying Toward Friendship

Sean Ironman shares strategies for writing nonfiction with curiosity, not judgment.

Last Week’s Resource Links

35 magazines accepting book reviews

From Writers’ Hour Magazine, 5 prompts for August

Strange Pilgrims Free Writing Challenge: Micro of the Month

The Time is Now, From Poets & Writers, lots of prompts: for poetry, fiction, and nonfiction

Subscriber Publishing Successes: Send info about yours to me!

Nancy Levinson’s poem “How to Embrace an Aura of Charm” appears in Silver Birch Press. “Dreams of Yesteryears,” appears in The Hemlock Journal’s Issue Ten. Print and digital versions are available. “Dog Meets Drag Queen” is forthcoming in Rat’s Ass Review,

Sandra Hurtes’ essay “Woman’s Best Friend?” is up on True Stories Well Told.

Mona Anderson’s poem, “We Don’t Say What We Mean,” appears in Touchstone,” Vol. 68.1, and her poem “After” has been published in the New Hampshire ACLU’s Poetry Protest Project.

Marlene Samuels’ “I Remember the Wallet” is up now on True Stories Well Told.

Carol Blatter’s essay, “My Right Thumb,” will be on True Stories Well Told at the end of July. Link coming soon.

Rose Ann Woolpert’s novel, Mrs. R. Pacheco, the story of Mary McIntire, a Kentucky girl who wanted to become a playwright and ended up achieving her dreams and also becoming First Lady of California, is out from Historium Press.

Beckie Miller’s book about her son’s murder, Losing Brian - Finding A New Me (Surviving a Child’s Murder), will be available starting July 21st on Amazon, at Barnes and Noble Book Stores, on the Atmosphere Press Website, and other venues in both hardcover and paperback versions.

David D. Horowitz’s poem, “Strings Attached,” recently appeared online in The Asses of Parnassus.

Barbara Simmons’ poem, “Diffusing Peace,” has been accepted for publication in SweetSmell Journal Issue Five. She also heard from Scotia Road Books about another poem, “Hopefully Before Our Expiration Date,” to be published in their anthology, When We Gather to Eat: An Anthology of Hunger, Heritage, & Healing.

Linda Petrucelli’s memoir Mother Tongue was reviewed in the June 1st Kirkus Reviews Magazine (page 151).

Mona Anderson’s poems, “Look Up” and “Ablaze in Red,” are now published in the Northern New England Review, Volume 46.

Gloria Sinibaldi’s memoir, The Cottage and the Chicken Coop: Reflections on Memory, Meaning, and the Quiet Miracles That Shaped Me. Told in lyrical fragments rather than a linear path, The Cottage and the Chicken Coop reveals how meaning often lives in what we overlook. It invites readers to pause, reflect, and recognize the quiet miracles that shape who we become.

Danna Walker’s “The Drive to Natchitoches” appears in Wildgreens (scroll down a bit to see it).

Sue Pace has learned that Raven’s Chronicles will soon publish her very short prose piece about transitions. We’ll have the link soon and put it in the newsletter.

Sandra Hurtes published a two-part essay, “On Writing Prompts,” about how they helped her find a story she wanted to write. You’ll find them both on True Stories Well Told.

Lynda Monk’s new book, The Adoptee’s Guide to Healing, Wholeness & Growth, has just been released by Books that Save Lives.

John Delaney’s collection, Morocco: Poems and Photographs, is out now from Finishing Line Press.

Author Quote

“And then a man of forty or so, with a French accent, asked, "How do you achieve the presence of mind to initiate the writing of a poem?" And something cracked open in me, and I finally stopped hoarding and told them my most useful secret. The only secret that has helped me consistently over all the years that I've written. I said, "Well, I'll tell you how. I ask a simple question. I ask myself: What was the very best moment of your day??" The wonder of it was, I told them that this one question could lift out from my life exactly what I will want to write a poem about. Something I hadn't known was important will leap out and hover there in front of me, saying I am— I am the best moment of the day. I noticed two people were writing down what I was saying. Often, I went on, it's a moment when you're waiting for someone, or you're driving somewhere, or maybe you're just walking across a parking lot and admiring the oil stains and the dribbled tar patterns. One time it was when I was driving past a certain house that was screaming with sunlitness on its white clapboards, and then I plunged through tree shadows that splashed and splayed across the windshield. I thought, Ah, of course— I'd forgotten. You, windshield shadows, you are the best moment of the day. "And that's my secret, such as it is," I said.”
― Nicholson Baker, The Anthologist

Just tonight, I was reading I Is for Innocent by the late Sue Grafton, and I lingered over the following passage describing the area around a house in an affluent neighborhood of “Santa Teresa,” a fictional California city similar to Santa Barbara:

“I crossed the Spanish tiled entertainment terrace, complete with custom-built,
black-bottom swimming pool, lava rock waterfall, spa, wading pool, and koi
pond surrounded by short, perfectly trimmed hedges of lantana and yew. I descended a flight of stairs and followed a flagstone path to a wooden bungalow tucked up against the hillside.”

The scene described in this paragraph, among many in Grafton’s novel, radiates authenticity. Grafton selects precise physical details to convey a mood as well as a scene. Indeed, the peaceful scene serves as a façade, for the house and its surrounding neighborhood are central to a private detective’s murder investigation. Ultimately, Grafton illustrates how human beings, prosperous and poor alike, remain dangerous, to themselves as well as others.

I emphasize the skill and value of Sue Grafton’s descriptive ability, because during my years as an English graduate student in the mid-eighties, many critical theorists tended to dismiss “reality” as an arrogant presumption. Literature, to such theorists, was not “about life” but self-reflexive language of inescapably indeterminate meaning. The greatest talents didn’t have to worry terribly much about plot, imagery, characterization, and research for factual accuracy. Oh, those elements had their place, but the real subject of literature was language itself.

French theorist Jacques Derrida, a champion of the radical linguistic skeptics, famously said, “There is nothing outside the text.” While Derrida did not mean nothing exists outside the text, he does mean nothing can be definitively known about the world beyond words, as words’ meanings are always filtered through layers of subjectivity, prejudice, and imprecision. Okay, but does that mean writers need no longer respect and represent physical imagery, characters’ distinctive speech patterns, and credible plot twists? Need that mean that ethical judgment should be suspended—nay, paralyzed—because of an element of epistemological indeterminacy? Where do we go with this? The Holocaust didn’t really happen? Slavery might have been all right and even helped the poor slaves? Convicted murderers should be declared innocent and released from prison because prosecuting attorneys’ words and evidence do not necessarily correspond to a world beyond the self? Police can shoot anyone they please because who’s to say whether they did or not? Relativism that emphasizes complexity helps us learn tolerance. Relativism that worships indeterminacy opens the door to complete abandonment of ethical standards, and nothing delights a demagogue more than creating ruses that defy accountability. In that world, Donald Trump won the 2020 election, and George Santos was a volleyball star at Baruch College.

While literature can entail self-reflexivity, then, it can also reflect what we call “life.” Literature can deepen our empathy, as well as educate us about history, politics, and human relationships. It can console us when we are depressed and distressed, and it can unlock doors of repression and oppression. Literature can help us understand we’re not alone. Characters in a novel or play—and corresponding people in real life—might suffer hardships similar to our own, and knowing this can deepen compassion and connection. Precise description and empathetic evaluation do more for genuine tolerance than do preachments about indeterminacy.

Credible plot, characters, scene-setting, and physical description are not merely concerns of lesser talents seeking best-seller status, but essential elements of compelling writing—and fiction especially. Given that, evaluation of many a fictional work depends partly on verisimilitude: do a novel’s characters, voices, and milieus convince us they could really exist? Does the author’s depiction reflect, say, authentic police or courtroom procedures? Those procedures do exist, and a skillful writer of fiction aspires to credibly depict them.

Writers of murder mysteries have long valued verisimilitude. Facts matter, even in much fiction. Sure, speculative and fantasy fiction can create new and unique worlds, and I’m fine with that. However, meticulous research still merits respect, and murder mystery writers in addition to Sue Grafton, continue to inspire me with their concern for accuracy. Think of Michael Connelly, J. A. Jance, Patricia Cornwell, Kathy Reichs, and Robert B. Parker, among many others. These writers aim to get their essential facts right, at least in the sense that they create believable scenes and dialogue in which each character sounds distinct. The writers might stretch some details a bit far and overdo the violence so that it seems sensationalistic, but then they’re open to criticism if it feels overdone. Wanting to entertain doesn’t necessarily mean a novel should become the equivalent of a three-hundred-page car chase. Reflection and romance can also entertain readers.

Facts matter, then, even for fiction writers. It’s one thing to create an alternate fictional reality. It’s another to dismiss the concept of reality as an arrogant conceit. I continue to be inspired by the skill and descriptive integrity of writers who take their research and our ethics seriously.

David D. Horowitz founded and manages Rose Alley Press. His latest poetry collection, from Rose Alley Press, is Slow Clouds over Rush Hour. He recently edited Purr and Yowl, a cat-themed poetry anthology published by World Enough Writers. His poems have been published in many journals and anthologies, including The Lyric, Raven Chronicles, Terrain.org, Coffee Poems, and Sparks of Calliope, and his essays regularly appear in Exterminating Angel.

I am sending this letter again because I intended to include the information about my January 14-17 workshop in Tucson with Meg Files and Jack Heffron. Note Meg’s email address at the bottom left of this announcement—she is the one to contact for information and to register. Also, I have added a link for Carol Blatter’s essay “My Right Thumb” in the publishing successes list.

Well, summer is flying by! I hope August inspires you to write—I see August as sitting right between the excitement of July’s summer events and the anticipation of September’s back-to-school momentum. My father was one to have us buy our school supplies in early August when they hit the stores: blue cloth-covered three-ring binders, stiff yellow paper subject dividers for inside of it, a flat plastic pouch for pencils, erasers and pens, even a small ruler. It wouldn’t be long before our mother was taking us shopping for new school clothes, as we were never the same size for the coming start of school than we had been the year before.

What do you remember through your senses of August that in-between time? I can smell the soil exposed by dry grasses, see the smoldering tips of cattails we used to light like torches, taste the sweet juiciness of tender blackberries warmed by the sun and available with just the slightest touch of our fingers. I feel the sweat dripping down my neck after jump rope in the heat, and I hear the sound of grownups talking softly on front steps in the evening dark.

Those sensory images will lead me to August places—the cool, dark, spiderweb-filled cellars under our garden apartment buildings where I went alone, afraid but determined to experience the cooler temperature down there. Now, I might write about the places I have gone alone but determined—outer and inner—and sink into the experience of what I found.

Where do images of August take you?

We have a third subscriber essay in the new series “writing from inspiration,” Sue Pace’s short story inspired by true events, “You Can Do It, Suzy.” You can read all the previous subscriber essays in our themed series (and leave comments for them) by scrolling down the posts.

Do you have an essay, story, or poem about being inspired? This new subscriber writing call is out for them. What has compelled you or your character to act because it something was inspiring? A person’s words or actions? A pet’s? A newspaper or magazine article? A speech? Someone else’s writing? An object you own or came across? A play, music, or visual art? A poem? What was your response to the moment of inspiration? How do you carry that inspiration with you, and how has that altered your life? Send your essay or poem or flash piece to me!

Two Class Reminders

Enroll here for the remaining two-hour session of Prompt(s) & Response on August 12, 9 AM to 11 AM Pacific Time. The class is designed to help you find surprising topics and keep on writing.

There are a couple of rooms left at the hotel for our Lake Garda workshop from September 26 to October 3. It is hot in Europe right now, but luckily, September will bring cooler temperatures and beautiful cold water in the lake.

If you are considering joining us (and maybe going on to visit other European sites when the weather is cooler), now is the time to register for a last-minute spot. I am happy to talk with you about the workshop, although this website does a good job of presenting it.

This Week’s Resource Links

35 magazines accepting book reviews

From Writers’ Hour Magazine, 5 prompts for August

Strange Pilgrims Free Writing Challenge: Micro of the Month

The Time is Now, From Poets & Writers, lots of prompts: for poetry, fiction, and nonfiction

Last Week’s Resource Links

There are in-person and online programs offered on Toni Morrison’s work through February 18, 2027. Subscriber Mark Levine shares this information from the current issue of Poets & Writers magazine. Visit ohiocelebratestonimorrison.org to read a two-page article about the programs.

From Writers.com:

• Passager Journal — Submission Window: July 15 – September 15, or until they reach their submission cap (400). Passager Journal publishes fiction, nonfiction, and poetry by authors who are 50 and older. In this instance, writers must be 50 or older by February 1st, 2027, to submit. WIR subscriber Mark Levine tells us you may also submit via hard copy: Mail to:
  Passager
  7401 Park Heights Ave.
  Baltimore, MD 21208
  Please include your name and contact information on every page.
  No previously published work.
  Notify Passager immediately if your work is accepted elsewhere!
  Website: www.passagerbooks.com.
  Questions to: editors@passagerbooks.com

• Literary Mama — Rolling Submissions. Literary Mama seeks submissions “by anyone who identifies as a mother, or with the journey of motherhood, or the act of mothering in its many forms.” Their interests include writers from non-normative experiences of motherhood and writers who act as caretakers for parents. (Our instructor Rudri Patel is a senior editor here!)

• Poetry Wales — Submission Window: July 27 – August 10, or until they reach their submission cap (550). Their theme is On the Body, with interest in work that questions assumptions about bodies and invites us to discover new ways of thinking through the body.

Subscriber Mark Levine writes that Ohio is celebrating Toni Morrison’s work with special programs through February 18, 2027. He emailed, “I learned of this in the current issue of Poets & Writers. There are online and in-person programs. People can get information by going to the website, which is: ohiocelebratestonimorrison.org. They can also get details by reading the two-page article in the July/August issue of Poets & Writers.”

More opportunities reported by Writers.com:

• Vashon Artist Residency — Application Deadline: August 19, 2026. Located on Vashon Island, in the heart of the Salish Sea, Vashon Artist Residency offers a peaceful waterfront retreat with comfortable, thoughtfully designed living and working spaces for visual, literary, performing, media and interdisciplinary artists. Applicants must be at least 21 years old and not enrolled in a full-time, matriculated degree program.

• The Poetry Project’s Emerge—Surface—Be Fellowship for Emerging Poets — Application Deadline: August 3, 2026. Mentors CAConrad, JJJJJerome Ellis, m.s. RedCherries, Christopher Rey Pérez, and Kim Rosenfield will each select an emerging poet to work with. Over the course of nine months, Fellows will be given the opportunity to work one-on-one with their Mentor to develop their craft; explore publication and performance opportunities; and reflect on the professional and community-based dimensions of a writing life. Meetings between Fellows and Mentors can take place both in-person and virtually.

Subscriber Publishing Successes: Send info about yours to me!

Nancy Levinson’s poem, “Dreams of Yesteryears,” appears in The Hemlock Journal’s Issue Ten. Print and digital versions are available. Two other poems are forthcoming: “Dog Meets Drag Queen” in Rat’s Ass Review, and “An Aura of Charm” in Silver Birch Press.

Sandra Hurtes’ essay “Woman’s Best Friend?” is up on True Stories Well Told.

Mona Anderson’s poem, “We Don’t Say What We Mean,” appears in Touchstone,” Vol. 68.1, and her poem “After” has been published in the New Hampshire ACLU’s Poetry Protest Project.

Marlene Samuels’ “I Remember the Wallet” is up now on True Stories Well Told.

Carol Blatter’s essay, “My Right Thumb,” will be on True Stories Well Told at the end of July. Link coming soon.

Rose Ann Woolpert’s novel, Mrs. R. Pacheco, the story of Mary McIntire, a Kentucky girl who wanted to become a playwright and ended up achieving her dreams and also becoming First Lady of California, is out from Historium Press.

Beckie Miller’s book about her son’s murder, Losing Brian - Finding A New Me (Surviving a Child’s Murder), will be available starting July 21st on Amazon, at Barnes and Noble Book Stores, on the Atmosphere Press Website, and other venues in both hardcover and paperback versions.

David D. Horowitz’s poem, “Strings Attached,” recently appeared online in The Asses of Parnassus.

Barbara Simmons’ poem, “Diffusing Peace,” has been accepted for publication in SweetSmell Journal Issue Five. She also heard from Scotia Road Books about another poem, “Hopefully Before Our Expiration Date,” to be published in their anthology, When We Gather to Eat: An Anthology of Hunger, Heritage, & Healing.

Linda Petrucelli’s memoir Mother Tongue was reviewed in the June 1st Kirkus Reviews Magazine (page 151).

Mona Anderson’s poems, “Look Up” and “Ablaze in Red,” are now published in the Northern New England Review, Volume 46.

Gloria Sinibaldi’s memoir, The Cottage and the Chicken Coop: Reflections on Memory, Meaning, and the Quiet Miracles That Shaped Me. Told in lyrical fragments rather than a linear path, The Cottage and the Chicken Coop reveals how meaning often lives in what we overlook. It invites readers to pause, reflect, and recognize the quiet miracles that shape who we become.

Danna Walker’s “The Drive to Natchitoches” appears in Wildgreens (scroll down a bit to see it).

Sue Pace has learned that Raven’s Chronicles will soon publish her very short prose piece about transitions. We’ll have the link soon and put it in the newsletter.

Sandra Hurtes published a two-part essay, “On Writing Prompts,” about how they helped her find a story she wanted to write. You’ll find them both on True Stories Well Told.

Lynda Monk’s new book, The Adoptee’s Guide to Healing, Wholeness & Growth, has just been released by Books that Save Lives.

John Delaney’s collection, Morocco: Poems and Photographs, is out now from Finishing Line Press.

Marianne Vincent’s essay “BorderLess” appears on People Potential’s blog.

Author Quote

Sylvia Plath: August rain: the best of summer gone, and the new fall not yet born, the odd uneven time.

My father had a summer job as a Campground guard along the Skagit River. My father fought forest fires and shot pillaging bears. Fourteen miles away, there was a library between the grocery store and the town tavern. Saturday afternoons, my father would drink beer in the local tavern while Mother went grocery shopping. I spent all afternoon in the library.

One day, the librarian grabbed my arms because I was looking at books in the adult section. ‘You like smut?’ he sneered. ‘I can teach you about smut.’

When I asked my mother what smut meant, she frowned and told me to set the table for dinner. At bedtime, I asked my father.

‘What does the word smut mean?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Mr. Jayson, the librarian, told me he could teach me about smut, but he was hurting my arms so I ran away.’

My father rose from his chair and pushed back the sleeves of my nightgown. Bruises in the shape of fingers circled both my arms like bracelets. He kissed me on the forehead and said, ‘Sweet dreams.’ Then he got in the car and drove away.

The next morning, I saw the broken library door and a front window covered in cardboard. A few days later, the town newspaper’s front page had a picture of the new librarian, who looked like everyone’s grandmother.

That year, my homeroom teacher said I should probably skip fourth grade and go straight into high school because I was a fast learner, but I wasn’t ever going to get very far in life since I never raised my hand in class. When I told my father, he said, ‘You’re smart, Suzy.’ His grip on my shoulder was firm. ‘You can do anything you choose.’

The last memory I have of my father, before my mother left him, was at the picnic grounds that bordered the river. It was supposed to be an end-of-summer gathering with other families who worked for the Forest Service. The sky was blue, the trees were green (except for the vine maples which had just started to switch to gold), and the laughter got louder and louder as the afternoon went on.

I was twelve and playing tag with the other children when, suddenly, my father showed up and asked, ‘Where’s your brother?’

I shrugged. ‘With Mom, I think.’ We both looked across the picnic grounds and saw my mother smoking a cigarette while smiling at the Head Forest Ranger. That’s when we heard a high-pitched shriek from the swinging bridge that spanned the river. We ran across the lawn, towards the foaming water, racing through waist-high fern. A screaming teenage girl was there on the bridge with her boyfriend. They were both staring at the spot where the Skagit River paused before dropping twenty feet. My little brother was in the middle of the swirling water, crying and clinging to a stick that had wedged between the rocks that lined the twenty-foot drop.

My father started to scramble across the stretch of jagged rocks and gravel that formed the bank, but he fell hard and began to moan because he couldn’t even sit up with what turned out to be a broken back and crushed elbow. ‘Robbie!’ he shouted. ‘Robbie!’

The teenagers ran to get help, but my brother was barely four years old, and the water was liquid ice. My father’s face twisted in pain but those brown eyes stared into my blue ones. ‘You can do it, Suzy,’ he gasped. ‘I know you can do it.’

I waded out into cold currents, pushing each step forward until I found a rock that was flat enough and solid enough to hang onto. I heard my father’s chant, over and over, ‘I don’t lie, sweetheart. You can do it!’ I knelt on that rock and grabbed the end of the stick that kept my little brother from drowning. I slowly pulled it upstream, toward me. Over the roar of the waterfalls, I heard shouts and high shrieks, but I wasn’t listening for that. I was listening for my father’s chant that kept time with my throbbing heart. “Can do it. Can do it. Can do it.” I finally had Robbie’s thin wrist. I gripped it until he cried, then I grabbed his other wrist and pulled him onto the rock with me. I hugged him and patted his back until he quit sobbing. That’s when two strong men waded out to us and brought us back to shore. The other Rangers were trying to decide how to get my father onto the bed of a pickup truck and drive him to the nearest hospital, which was thirty-five miles away. ‘Just shoot me!’ he kept yelling. ‘Shit, just shoot me now!’

Every memory of my father pushed me forward: It was seeing his face when I told him about the librarian. It was his words after class. It was hearing his voice when I saved Robbie from drowning.

My father refused to let me visit once his world sank into diapers and immobility from the chest down. But his voice marched me forward into being a college honor student and ushered me into a marriage with a man I loved and two children I adored.

Decades later, when I went to the Nursing Home to pick up his cremains, the Social Worker handed me a sealed envelope with my father’s last wishes. “Toss me over Skagit Falls,” the note said. “That’s when my life ended. I know you can do it, Suzy.”

So, that’s what I did. As I stood there, with my brother and husband and children, I did not cry. I remembered the gift my father had given me, decades ago. And as his cremains floated then sank into the foaming water before rushing over the falls, I knew I could do it. I shouted, “Thank you! Thank you, Daddy!”

He was right. I could do it.

***

Over the years, Sue Pace’s poetry, prose and personal essays have been published in Australia, the UK and the USA. Most recently she has had her work published in “Prole - Poetry and Prose” and an anthology in “Raven’s Chronicles”. She has work forthcoming in the UK and in the USA. Her collection of related short stories, “Driving Sharon Crazy,” is available on Amazon. She is always grateful for the effort that Sheila Bender puts into keeping writers and writing alive and well.

We taught 19 writing workshops across the US for years. Now we are at it again! Let Meg Files know you are interested, and you will receive detailed information about the workshop schedule and lodging.

Hi Writers,

We have a second subscriber essay in the new series “writing from inspiration,” Michael Shurgot’s “Of Earthen Folks and Telescopes.” You can read all the previous subscriber essays in our themed series (and leave comments for them) by scrolling down the posts.

Do you have an essay, story, or poem about being inspired? The new subscriber writing call is for poems and essays about receiving inspiration. What has compelled you to act because it was inspiring? A person’s words or actions? A pet’s? A newspaper or magazine article? A speech? Someone else’s writing? An object you own or came across? A play, music, or visual art? A poem? What was your response to the moment of inspiration? How do you carry that inspiration with you, and how has that altered your life? Send your essay or poem or flash piece to me!

Two Class Reminders

Enroll here for the remaining two-hour session of Prompt(s) & Response on August 12, 9 AM to 11 AM Pacific Time. The class is designed to help you find surprising topics and keep on writing.

There are a couple of rooms left at the hotel for our Lake Garda workshop from September 26 to October 3. It is hot in Europe right now, but luckily, September will bring cooler temperatures and beautiful cold water in the lake.

If you are considering joining us (and maybe going on to visit other European sites when the weather is cooler), let me know. I am happy to talk with you about the workshop, although this website does a good job of presenting it.

This Week’s Resource Links: Articles from Word Smarts

There are in-person and online programs offered on Toni Morrison’s work through February 18, 2027. Subscriber Mark Levine shares this information from the current issue of Poets & Writers magazine. Visit ohiocelebratestonimorrison.org to read a two-page article about the programs.

From Writers.com:

• Passager Journal — Submission Window: July 15 – September 15, or until they reach their submission cap (400). Passager Journal publishes fiction, nonfiction, and poetry by authors who are 50 and older. In this instance, writers must be 50 or older by February 1st, 2027, to submit. WIR subscriber Mark Levine tells us you may also submit via hard copy: Mail to:
  Passager
  7401 Park Heights Ave.
  Baltimore, MD 21208
  Please include your name and contact information on every page.
  No previously published work.
  Notify Passager immediately if your work is accepted elsewhere!
  Website: www.passagerbooks.com.
  Questions to: editors@passagerbooks.com

• Literary Mama — Rolling Submissions. Literary Mama seeks submissions “by anyone who identifies as a mother, or with the journey of motherhood, or the act of mothering in its many forms.” Their interests include writers from non-normative experiences of motherhood and writers who act as caretakers for parents. (Our instructor Rudri Patel is a senior editor here!)

• Poetry Wales — Submission Window: July 27 – August 10, or until they reach their submission cap (550). Their theme is On the Body, with interest in work that questions assumptions about bodies and invites us to discover new ways of thinking through the body.

Subscriber Mark Levine writes that Ohio is celebrating Toni Morrison’s work with special programs through February 18, 2027. He emailed, “I learned of this in the current issue of Poets & Writers. There are online and in-person programs. People can get information by going to the website, which is: ohiocelebratestonimorrison.org. They can also get details by reading the two-page article in the July/August issue of Poets & Writers.”

More opportunities reported by Writers.com:

• Vashon Artist Residency — Application Deadline: August 19, 2026. Located on Vashon Island, in the heart of the Salish Sea, Vashon Artist Residency offers a peaceful waterfront retreat with comfortable, thoughtfully designed living and working spaces for visual, literary, performing, media and interdisciplinary artists. Applicants must be at least 21 years old and not enrolled in a full-time, matriculated degree program.

• The Center for Fiction / Susan Kamil Emerging Writer Fellowship — Application Deadline: July 31, 2026. The program annually provides financial support, professional and creative development, personalized mentorship, and community engagement to nine early-career, New York City-based fiction writers. Learn more about the program and meet our current Fellows below.

• The Poetry Project’s Emerge—Surface—Be Fellowship for Emerging Poets — Application Deadline: August 3, 2026. Mentors CAConrad, JJJJJerome Ellis, m.s. RedCherries, Christopher Rey Pérez, and Kim Rosenfield will each select an emerging poet to work with. Over the course of nine months, Fellows will be given the opportunity to work one-on-one with their Mentor to develop their craft; explore publication and performance opportunities; and reflect on the professional and community-based dimensions of a writing life. Meetings between Fellows and Mentors can take place both in-person and virtually.

Last Week’s Resource Links

Everything is Groovy with This Boomer Slang

Why Do We Say Break a Leg?

When Shoud I Use “Different From” vs “Different Than”

Here is a page of many more to read.

Subscriber Publishing Successes: Send info about yours to me!

Sandra Hurtes’ essay “Woman’s Best Friend?” is up on True Stories Well Told.

Mona Anderson’s poem, “We Don’t Say What We Mean,” appears in Touchstone,” Vol. 68.1, and her poem “After” has been published in the New Hampshire ACLU’s Poetry Protest Project.

Marlene Samuels’ “I Remember the Wallet” is up now on True Stories Well Told.

Carol Blatter’s essay, “My Right Thumb,” will be on True Stories Well Told at the end of July. Link coming soon.

Rose Ann Woolpert’s novel, Mrs. R. Pacheco, the story of Mary McIntire, a Kentucky girl who wanted to become a playwright and ended up achieving her dreams and also becoming First Lady of California, is out from Historium Press.

Beckie Miller’s book about her son’s murder, Losing Brian - Finding A New Me (Surviving a Child’s Murder), will be available starting July 21st on Amazon, at Barnes and Noble Book Stores, on the Atmosphere Press Website, and other venues in both hardcover and paperback versions.

David D. Horowitz’s poem, “Strings Attached,” recently appeared online in The Asses of Parnassus.

Barbara Simmons’ poem, “Diffusing Peace,” has been accepted for publication in SweetSmell Journal Issue Five. She also heard from Scotia Road Books about another poem, “Hopefully Before Our Expiration Date,” to be published in their anthology, When We Gather to Eat: An Anthology of Hunger, Heritage, & Healing.

Linda Petrucelli’s memoir Mother Tongue was reviewed in the June 1st Kirkus Reviews Magazine (page 151).

Mona Anderson’s poems, “Look Up” and “Ablaze in Red,” are now published in the Northern New England Review, Volume 46.

Gloria Sinibaldi’s memoir, The Cottage and the Chicken Coop: Reflections on Memory, Meaning, and the Quiet Miracles That Shaped Me. Told in lyrical fragments rather than a linear path, The Cottage and the Chicken Coop reveals how meaning often lives in what we overlook. It invites readers to pause, reflect, and recognize the quiet miracles that shape who we become.

Danna Walker’s “The Drive to Natchitoches” appears in Wildgreens (scroll down a bit to see it).

Sue Pace has learned that Raven’s Chronicles will soon publish her very short prose piece about transitions. We’ll have the link soon and put it in the newsletter.

Sandra Hurtes published a two-part essay, “On Writing Prompts,” about how they helped her find a story she wanted to write. You’ll find them both on True Stories Well Told.

Lynda Monk’s new book, The Adoptee’s Guide to Healing, Wholeness & Growth, has just been released by Books that Save Lives.

John Delaney’s collection, Morocco: Poems and Photographs, is out now from Finishing Line Press.

Marianne Vincent’s essay “BorderLess” appears on the People Potential’s blog.

Sandra Hurtes’ essay “1964. Brooklyn” is up on True Stories Well Told.

Author Quote

Toni Morrison: "There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal."

Author’s note: The following short essay, inspired by the great poet Theodore Roethke, was composed in response to a prompt from a writers’ group in Las Vegas: “Aliens are about to land! Before they do, they will read only one communication: your essay. Create the greeting you would like the aliens to read before they land somewhere on Earth.”

April 6, 2026

“I learned not to fear infinity,

The far field, the windy cliffs of forever,

The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow.”

—Theodore Roethke, “The Far Field”

Dear Visitors,

Welcome! I greet you warmly and fearlessly. You are a “Sidereus Nuncius,” a “Starry Messenger” in the words of Galileo Galilei, one of our most brilliant scientific minds. Galilei was among the earliest explorers of the vast universe that you have traversed, and regardless of which part of this spectacular wilderness you have come, I trust that your journey has been peaceful and rewarding. And oh, what sights you must have seen! Galaxies, suns, planets, moons, vast clouds of swirling cosmic dust, black holes! How spectacular a journey, but also how frightening! Thanks to the work of Galilei’s successors and their ingenious telescopes, we now know that the universe and its innumerable galaxies are a vast caldron of relentless fire and constant change, and we marvel at the technical knowledge that has enabled your fabulous journey. As we say on Earth, “Kudos,” and “Thumbs up!”

Given your superior technology, I suspect that you already know much about us and our planet. As you rush—or should I say glide?— toward us, I ask you to ponder the epigraph to this greeting. It is an excerpt from a long poem by the American writer Theodore Roethke. I choose these few lines because they include words that are quite relevant not only to your impending visit but also to our experience of that visit: “infinity”; “forever”; “time”; and “light.”

On December 25, 2021, the James Webb Telescope, the most powerful telescope ever built by humans, was blasted into the heavens. The stated goal of this marvelous instrument was to probe deep space for what our scientists call the “original light” of the universe; that is, light emanating and remaining from what we call the “Big Bang,” the initial cataclysm that our scientists theorize created the universe and all the myriad life forms that inhabit it. The James Webb Telescope is thus traveling towards infinite light in the “forever time” of our universe, and revealing billions of tomorrows whose dawns we shall surely cherish.

As you approach our planet, what one of our astronomers dubbed a “tiny blue marble in the vastness of space,” I would ask you to imagine the James Webb Telescope as symbolizing what is most indicative of the “human spirit”: our collective determination to search and to understand the unimaginable unknown that surrounds us; and our refusal to fear either the actual search of this cosmos or what we may discover. Perhaps the “windy cliffs” of planets in distant galaxies known only to the stars. We build magnificent telescopes and launch them into space with gigantic rockets because there is so much out there that we do not know, and because the light that we hope to discover may tell us much about both our origin and our destiny. Perhaps your location in some distant corner of this universe, and in a realm of time totally different from ours, means that you already know much more about the origins of life, yours and ours; and also more about the ultimate fate of all life everywhere, which some of our scientists believe will ultimately return to the nothingness from which it escaped and evolved.

So, while you are here, I hope you will take the “time”—however you measure it—to tell us what you know about this vast, violent, intergalactic cosmos that we all call home. If you can travel here from there, well before we can travel from here to there, then your scientific knowledge far surpasses ours. We would welcome as much of the treasure trove of your expertise as you would be willing to share.

I assure you that most of us here are quite generous and welcoming to strangers, so you need not fret about where to land. I would suggest, however, that you let us know your approximate arrival date and time (preferably using our number systems) a few days in advance so we know what to expect and when. I suggest picking a large airport near one of our major cities. Your choice. And should you need accommodations, just let us know how many rooms you would like. All of our large cities have plenty of hotels available.

One other point. As you eavesdrop on our electronic communication, you will probably hear the word “aliens” on some radio or television program, or on a podcast from some political egomaniac who thinks he or she is, well, really important. Ignore such nonsense. You are “Starry Messengers,” and we believe that you are visiting us because you are genuinely curious about us and our planet. We are here for you, and we trust that you will enlighten us with your knowledge of our mysterious, perhaps sacred beginnings; and also fortify us against fearing the far field from which you have come.

Oh, and should you arrive at night, no worries. As the owner of an American hotel chain promises, “We’ll keep the lights on for you.” Enjoy your visit!

Cheers,

Michael W. Shurgot

Michael Shurgot published his memoir, Could You Be Starting From Somewhere Else? Sketches From Buffalo And Beyond in 2014 through the Createspace Independent Publishing Platform. Today, he is a retired Shakespeare scholar and professor, and the author of essays, short stories, a memoir, and three nonfiction books (focused on Shakespeare’s characters and plays). His newest releases are novels that compose the Green River Trilogy: Green River Saga (Sunstone Press, 2020); Raven Mountain: A Mythic Tale (Sunstone Press, 2023); and Seotse: A Visionary Tale (Sunstone Press, 2024). Visit the author at MichaelShurgot.com.

Hi Writers,

We have the first subscriber essay in the new series “writing from inspiration,” Pam Hale’s “Open Heart.” To read the essay, click here. You can read all the previous subscriber essays in our themed series (and leave comments for them) by scrolling down the posts.

Do you have an essay, story, or poem about being inspired? The new subscriber writing call is for poems and essays about receiving inspiration. What has compelled you to act because it was inspiring? A person’s words or actions? A pet’s? A newspaper or magazine article? A speech? Someone else’s writing? An object you own or came across? A play, music, or visual art? A poem? What was your response to the moment of inspiration? How do you carry that inspiration with you, and how has that altered your life? Send your essay or poem or flash piece to me!

Two Class Reminders

There are a couple of rooms left at the hotel for our Lake Garda workshop from September 26 to October 3. It is hot in Europe right now, but luckily, September will bring cooler temperatures and beautiful cold water in the lake.

If you are considering joining us (and maybe going on to visit other European sites when the weather is cooler), let me know. I am happy to talk with you about the workshop, although this website does a good job of presenting it.

I am enrolling for the remaining two-hour session of Prompt(s) & Response on August 12, 9 AM to 11 AM Pacific Time. Enroll here. The class is designed to help you find surprising topics and keep on writing.

This Week’ Resource Links: Articles from Word Smart

Everything is Groovy with This Boomer Slang

Why Do We Say Break a Leg?

When Shoud I Use “Different From” vs “Different Than”

Here is a page of many more to read.

Last Week’ Resource Links

· Silly Goose Press - Special Issue Submission Window: July 1-15, 2026. Silly Goose has opened their submissions for two weeks only for a super fun special issue. From their website: The Sturgeon Moon is set to rise on Thursday, August 27, and we want to leave her an offering. We’re looking for your midnight moonlit mythologies, your odes to the Great Lakes goddesses, your meditations and manifestations, your rites and rituals, and your love letters to the never-topped muse, The Moon. Open to all genres (there’s no one way to worship a Sturgeon Moon after all) and for two weeks only.

· Tupelo Press - Submission Window: July 1-August 31, 2026. Tupelo Press is open for submissions during their summer open reading period. This is not a competition. They will select and publish writing they love. They are open to submissions of full-length and chapbook-length poetry submissions, and they select multiple titles for publication.

· The Drue Heinz Literature Prize - Submissions Open July 1, 2026. The Drue Heinz Literature Prize, awarded by the University of Pittsburgh Press, recognizes and supports writers of literary short fiction and makes their work available to readers around the world. The Prize is open to authors who have published at least three short stories or novellas, or one book-length collection of fiction, or a novel. Please see the website for more details, guidelines, and submission requests.

· Poetry International’s Summer Tiny Chapbook Competition - Submission Deadline: September 1, 2026. Submissions are now open for the 2026 Summer Tiny Chapbook competition. They are accepting chapbook submissions of 8-16 pages, any genre. There is a $20 reading fee.

Read winning flash fiction stories about teachers in and out of the classroom

Subscriber Publishing Successes: Send info about yours to me!

Mona Anderson’s poem, “We Don’t Say What We Mean,” appears in Touchstone,” Vol. 68.1, and her poem “After" has been published in the New Hampshire ACLU’s Poetry Protest Project.

Marlene Samuels’ “I Remember the Wallet” is up now on True Stories Well Told.

Carol Blatter’s essay, “My Right Thumb,” will be on True Stories Well Told at the end of July. Link coming soon.

Rose Ann Woolpert’s novel, Mrs. R. Pacheco, the story of Mary McIntire, a Kentucky girl who wanted to become a playwright and ended up achieving her dreams and also becoming First Lady of California, is out from Historium Press.

Beckie Miller’s book about her son’s murder, Losing Brian - Finding A New Me (Surviving a Child’s Murder), will be available starting July 21st on Amazon, at Barnes and Noble Book Stores, on the Atmosphere Press Website, and other venues in both hardcover and paperback versions.

David D. Horowitz’s poem, “Strings Attached,” recently appeared online in The Asses of Parnassus.

Barbara Simmons’ poem, “Diffusing Peace,” has been accepted for publication in SweetSmell Journal Issue Five. She also heard from Scotia Road Books about another poem, “Hopefully Before Our Expiration Date,” to be published in their anthology, When We Gather to Eat: An Anthology of Hunger, Heritage, & Healing.

Linda Petrucelli’s memoir Mother Tongue was reviewed in the June 1st Kirkus Reviews Magazine (page 151).

Mona Anderson’s poems, “Look Up” and “Ablaze in Red,” are now published in the Northern New England Review, Volume 46.

Gloria Sinibaldi’s memoir, The Cottage and the Chicken Coop: Reflections on Memory, Meaning, and the Quiet Miracles That Shaped Me. Told in lyrical fragments rather than a linear path, The Cottage and the Chicken Coop reveals how meaning often lives in what we overlook. It invites readers to pause, reflect, and recognize the quiet miracles that shape who we become.

Danna Walker’s “The Drive to Natchitoches” appears in Wildgreens (scroll down a bit to see it).

Sue Pace has learned that Raven’s Chronicles will soon publish her very short prose piece about transitions. We’ll have the link soon and put it in the newsletter.

Sandra Hurtes published a two-part essay, “On Writing Prompts,” about how they helped her find a story she wanted to write. You’ll find them both on True Stories Well Told.

Lynda Monk’s new book, The Adoptee’s Guide to Healing, Wholeness & Growth, has just been released by Books that Save Lives.

John Delaney’s collection, Morocco: Poems and Photographs, is out now from Finishing Line Press.

Marianne Vincent’s essay “BorderLess” appears on the People Potential’s blog.

Sandra Hurtes’ essay “1964. Brooklyn” is up on True Stories Well Told.

Mona Anderson’s poem “Ice Blessing” is published in WayWords Literary Journal, Issue 21, on the topic of Wonder.

Author Quote

“Processions, meetings, military parades, lectures, waxwork displays, film shows, telescreen programs all had to be organized; stands had to be erected, effigies built, slogans coined, songs written, rumours circulated, photographs faked.”
― George Orwell, 1984

1991, 48 years old

The glare of the operating room lights seems to make my breath shallow as I stand at the doorway- or perhaps I’m short of breath because I’m staring at the naked body of a man stretched out on a metal table, his skin painted with a coat of orange antiseptic. Am I going to make it through this without fainting? I take a deep breath and enter.

I have been invited by famous heart surgeon Jack Copeland to observe an open-heart surgery.

Since I’ve been hired to raise money for the capital campaign for a new Heart Center at the University of Arizona, he feels this experience will help me tell a better story. I know this is a huge privilege, so I don’t want to blow it. Keep breathing. Keep a wide stance, feet on the earth. You are just the observer. It’s not you on the table.

Just scrubbing in and suiting up has given me the impression that I’m going on a journey into outer space. Everything and everyone looks foreign in here. I feel foreign to myself. So I’m intent on following instructions. Stand where they tell you to stand. Keep your mouth shut. Stay out of the way. No fainting or vomiting dramas.

Music plays over the speakers. Right now, it sounds like Mozart. Dr. Copeland has told me the music is important to him, and it will change during the hours we’re in here. This is a multiple bypass surgery, so it will take some time. Many kinds of music will be appropriate to accompany the chapters of this story. There will be many movements to this symphony.

The nurses are assembled, each in a certain position, like actors standing on their mark onstage.

In walks Jack, as I’m now allowed to call him. But within the professional, hierarchical medical protocol, he’s Dr. Copeland all the way. He is a kind of god. They say he is the second most famous person in Tucson, next to the basketball coach, Lute Olsen. Short, but huge in our estimation, sandy-haired and not yet slumped from too much surgery, he has an easy manner with a sly sense of humor, but a wicked temper if he feels crossed or short-changed. Everyone is on alert.

The tray of impressive, shiny operating instruments is on a table within his reach. He commands these one by one, and they are delivered instantly by the nurse in charge. “Scalpel!” And it is handed to him.

It begins.

The first cut is the hardest. (Is that a song?) A slice through the orange chest that, up until now, looked fake. But the trickle of blood tips me off that this is the real thing. I see the layers of skin and fat and muscle that encase the chest, and now we’re down to the bone.

Out comes a saw, just like in a meat market, and before I know how to react, the rib cage is open. They are prying it apart and wrapping it into an open position with something that looks like piano wire. I am aghast. It is brutal, even though Mozart’s music is not saying so. Blood is cleaned away. I vow never to have open-heart surgery. Dr. Copeland’s canvas is being cleansed for his work, which is something between a plumbing job and fine art.

Now the music changes to a Gregorian chant, and I see that we’re in a temple. The heart is exposed to the level of the pericardium, the outer covering, a kind of rind around a pulsing piece of fruit.

Copeland motions me forward. He wants me to see up close.

My breath is sucked in, my eyes surely widen, and suddenly the meat market-turned -temple has taken me to something beyond my earthly experience. Inside this anonymous man, whom I’ve now forgotten about, since everything is now draped except his open chest, is the covering of the human heart. It is white. Pearly. Glistening with promise. It is gorgeous. Literally breathtaking. It looks like the surface of the moon. There is no blood now. And underneath the pearly covering beats what now looks like much more than a pump. It looks like a world of mystery, alive and pulsing before my very eyes.

“Does it make you want to be a surgeon?” Copeland asks me.

I’m stunned. “No, “ I shake my head, “but…” I am mute, awed. What I am seeing has left me without words.

What is almost flattening me at this moment is not gore or horror, or a desire to master the medical intricacies I can’t even imagine. It is the mystery. The stunning mystery of the human body, of this gorgeous heart that keeps it going. This heart that has earned so many myths and legends. This heart that is credited with being the seat of passion, of hurt, of courage, of knowing.

No, I don’t want to be a surgeon. I want to be a mystic. An explorer of the mysteries of the heart. I don’t want to master outer space, the daring adventure into the world of science and technology. I want to go deep into inner space. That’s what I know now.

Don’t get me wrong. I know I’m privileged to have a job like this. It’s exciting to be representing surgeons, cardiologists and scientists who are trying to find a cure for heart disease. It’s a feeling of being part of the cutting edge. I’ve loved many parts of my development career at two universities. I love wearing power suits and carrying an impressive business card and knowing exactly what my role is. I like having colleagues and being part of something large.

At the same time, looking at this inner moon, I want to explore; something in me knows there is another call coming. Another world to explore. I can’t see around the bend in this river, but I hear the roar of a change coming. This anonymous man, whose heart will be lifted out of his body to be repaired, who will be kept alive with a heart/lung machine, whose repaired heart will go back into his chest, who will be sewn back up to the music of the Eagles and even some rowdier country western victory music, this man who will be glad to be alive even with all the recovery he will face, who will have no idea I was in the room, has given me a gift today. Heart to heart. His heart has spoken to mine.

***

Pam Hale authored the award-winning book, Flying Lessons: How to Be the Pilot of Your Own Life. She created Sand Spirits Insight Cards and workbook, and authored countless articles, book forewords and contributions. She has been a teacher, a photographic artist, a fundraiser and consultant, an energy healer and life coach, a spiritual companion, and she created Earthskin Design™ photographic fabric creations, sewn by women refugees. A mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, Pam lives outside Tucson, AZ, with her husband, Jon Trachta. She is working on a series of children’s inspirational books and a memoir, Traces of Silver.

Hi Writers,

We have a new subscriber essay in the series writing from grief. Morgan Baker’s “No More Tennis with My Mother.” To read the essay, click here. You can read all the previous subscriber essays (and leave comments for them) by scrolling down the posts.

Next Writing It Real Subscriber Writing Series

Do you have an essay, story, or poem about being inspired? The next subscriber writing call is for poems and essays about receiving inspiration. What has compelled you to act because it was inspiring? A person’s words or actions? A pet’s? A newspaper or magazine article? A speech? Someone else’s writing? An object you own or came across? A play, music, or visual art? A poem? What was your response to the moment of inspiration? How do you carry that inspiration with you, and how has that altered your life? Send your essay or poem or flash piece to me!

Two Class Reminders

There are a couple of rooms left at the hotel for our Lake Garda workshop from September 26 to October 3. It is hot in Europe right now, but luckily, September will bring cooler temperatures and beautiful cold water in the lake.

If you are considering joining us (and maybe going on to visit other European sites when the weather is cooler), let me know. I am happy to talk with you about the workshop, although this website does a good job of presenting it.

I am also enrolling for the remaining two-hour sessions of Prompt(s) & Response, one in July and one in August. Enroll in one or both. Let me know if you have questions about these classes designed to help you find surprising topics and keep writing.

This Week’s: Resource Links:

· Silly Goose Press - Special Issue Submission Window: July 1-15, 2026. Silly Goose has opened their submissions for two weeks only for a super fun special issue. Per their website: The Sturgeon Moon is set to rise on Thursday, August 27, and we want to leave her an offering. We’re looking for your midnight moonlit mythologies, your odes to the Great Lakes goddesses, your meditations and manifestations, your rites and rituals, and your love letters to the never-topped muse, The Moon. Open to all genres (there’s no one way to worship a Sturgeon Moon after all) and for two weeks only.

· Tupelo Press - Submission Window: July 1-August 31, 2026. Tupelo Press is open for submissions during their summer open reading period. This is not a competition. They will select and publish writing they love. They are open to submissions of full-length and chapbook-length poetry submissions, and they select multiple titles for publication.

· The Drue Heinz Literature Prize - Submissions Open July 1, 2026. The Drue Heinz Literature Prize, awarded by the University of Pittsburgh Press, recognizes and supports writers of literary short fiction and makes their work available to readers around the world. The Prize is open to authors who have published at least three short stories or novellas, or one book-length collection of fiction, or a novel. Please see the website for more details, guidelines, and submission requests.

· Poetry International’s Summer Tiny Chapbook Competition - Submission Deadline: September 1, 2026. Submissions are now open for the 2026 Summer Tiny Chapbook competition. They are accepting chapbook submissions of 8-16 pages, any genre. There is a $20 reading fee.

Read winning flash fiction stories about teachers in and out of the classroom

Subscriber Publishing Successes: send info about yours to me

Carol Blatter’s essay, “My Right Thumb,” will be on True Stories Well Told at the end of July. Link coming soon.

Rose Ann Woolpert’s novel, Mrs. R. Pacheco, the story of Mary McIntire, a Kentucky girl who wanted to become a playwright and ended up achieving her dreams and also becoming First Lady of California, is out from Historium Press.

Beckie Miller’s book about her son’s murder, Losing Brian - Finding A New Me (Surviving a Child’s Murder), will be available starting July 21st on Amazon, at Barnes and Noble Book Stores, on the Atmosphere Press Website, and other venues in both hardcover and paperback versions.

David D. Horowitz’s poem, “Strings Attached,” recently appeared online in The Asses of Parnassus.

Barbara Simmons’ poem, “Diffusing Peace,” has been accepted for publication in SweetSmell Journal Issue Five. She also heard from Scotia Road Books about another poem, “Hopefully Before Our Expiration Date,” to be published in their anthology, When We Gather to Eat: An Anthology of Hunger, Heritage, & Healing.

Linda Petrucelli’s memoir Mother Tongue was reviewed in the June 1st Kirkus Reviews Magazine (page 151).

Mona Anderson’s poems, “Look Up” and “Ablaze in Red,” are now published in the Northern New England Review, Volume 46.

Gloria Sinibaldi’s memoir, The Cottage and the Chicken Coop: Reflections on Memory, Meaning, and the Quiet Miracles That Shaped Me. Told in lyrical fragments rather than a linear path, The Cottage and the Chicken Coop reveals how meaning often lives in what we overlook. It invites readers to pause, reflect, and recognize the quiet miracles that shape who we become.

Danna Walker’s “The Drive to Natchitoches” appears in Wildgreens (scroll down a bit to see it).

Sue Pace has learned that Raven’s Chronicles will soon publish her very short prose piece about transitions. We’ll have the link soon and put it in the newsletter.

Sandra Hurtes published a two-part essay, “On Writing Prompts,” about how they helped her find a story she wanted to write. You’ll find them both on True Stories Well Told.

Lynda Monk’s new book, The Adoptee’s Guide to Healing, Wholeness & Growth, has just been released by Books that Save Lives.

John Delaney’s collection, Morocco: Poems and Photographs, is out now from Finishing Line Press.

Marianne Vincent’s essay “BorderLess” appears on the People Potential’s blog.

Sandra Hurtes’ essay “1964. Brooklyn” is up on True Stories Well Told.

Mona Anderson’s poem “Ice Blessing” is published in WayWords Literary Journal, Issue 21, on the topic of Wonder.

Marlene Samuels’ essay “You Forgot Something” is posted on True Stories Well Told.

Beckie Miller’s essay “Becoming Grandma” about the birth of her firstborn grandson is included in Chicken Soup for the Soul, due out March 10.

Author Quote

Spring passes and one remembers one's innocence.
Summer passes and one remembers one's exuberance.
Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence.
Winter passes and one remembers one's perseverance.”
― Yoko Ono

After months of back pain with no relief, the doctors told my mother she had metastatic small cell lung cancer, although she told us not to tell anyone. Perhaps she was afraid she’d be judged for being a smoker in the past, and that people would think her cancer was her fault.

That didn’t matter now. Her disease was terminal, and I wanted her to die.

Knowing the end was inevitable and that I was going to be in emotional pain, I just wanted it over. Like ripping that ole band-aid off. Let me get on with my life, I thought. I knew I was going to be a mess. Let me get to the part where I heal.

We were told she had 9 months, maybe a year. In the hospital library, a young man was stocking the shelves. “Who are you here for?” he asked.

“My mother.”

“What does she have?”

“Small cell lung cancer.”

“That’s what my mom had. Nine months.”

I left the library furious. My mother would have more than that. She would will herself to have more.

I was wrong. The young man was dead on.

At home, I took a shower and screamed into the hot water coursing down my body. There would be no more phone calls, no more summer days on the tennis court or beach, no more watching her play or read with my daughters.

Maybe I didn’t want her to die. Maybe I didn’t want to get it over with. I wasn’t ready for my tennis days with her to end.

My mother definitely didn’t want to die. She was a planner, and this death thing was getting in her way. She had mapped out her 70^th birthday with her family at a resort in NH that welcomed dogs, so my three siblings and I could bring our pets who were also part of the family.

My mother was fun. She loved parties and card games, her friends, her family, and tennis, but she was also quick to judge, and she could throw out a cutting remark like an arrow from a bow that stayed stuck in you for a long time. Sometimes the remark was directed at you – “you were a mistake”, or at someone else “don’t let that man come to my funeral” she said to me one day about my father.

She loved her grandchildren. When they were young and I was exhausted, she would take them to “the breakfast club”. I got to sleep in, and they were entertained and fed by her. She babysat them before they were ready for preschool, so I could teach twice a week. She was busy. Her life was full.

She was adamant that we not talk about her dying. “I’m not going to die, am I?” She asked over and over. I learned to answer, “I hope not.” Or “I don’t know.” Or even, “That’s the plan.” But, I couldn’t lie. I couldn’t say, “No, you won’t.”

She had to wear an enormous plastic “clamshell” brace to isolate her back so the tumors wouldn’t hurt as much. I took her to her favorite boutique near my house, where the owner and sales staff knew her. They watched as the funny woman they loved turned into a biting, angry one.

They asked how she was. “I’m fine. The pain is better,” she said.

“That’s because of the chemo and radiation,” I added.

“That is not helpful,” she replied.

I shut up.

They dressed her in baggy tops and elasticized pants to go over the brace. We didn’t laugh on this visit.

At my dining room table one night, over a roast chicken, she faced her husband, aka my stepfather, some of her kids, my husband, and her grandchildren. “I’m going to miss so much. You’re going to have fun without me,” she choked out.

We did, but not right away.

After she was gone, I went to her home, where I had spent my summers with my kids, and my husband came on weekends, and screamed once again, this time, in my car. “Where are you? Come back! You need to come back.”

My pain was like a train screeching along the tracks – loud and scary. If she could hear me, I believed, she’d come.

She didn’t.

Healing isn’t linear like I hoped. One day, I was fine – teaching a class, picking my kids up from school. And the next, I could be in a bookstore, and my knees buckled. Why, I wondered. I had never been in this store with her – no memories. But it was where I had bought the last books she read. And, many years later, it was where I launched my own book.

She demanded much of my time and attention, and I gave it readily. The idea that she could take her love away pressed on my heart. My father had left when I was 9. I didn’t want to lose another parent.

I definitely don’t miss feeling judged for my messy house, filled with books, toys, growing daughters, and multiple dogs. Luckily, she didn’t get a chance to judge me for getting a second dog and then breeding her to have puppies. I don’t worry she’ll say something cruel.

But I miss watching her with my kids – swimming, playing Blackjack, eating chocolate mousse. I wish she could’ve watched my kids graduate from high school and college, or danced all night at my daughter’s wedding, or seen my other daughter run the Boston Marathon or put her play on, or welcomed her great-granddaughter.

And I still miss laughing when we played tennis together.

****

After an adventure of living in Hawaii for a year, pre-pandemic, Morgan Baker returned to her roots in Cambridge, where she teaches at Emerson College and lives with her husband and two Portuguese Water dogs (one of which was a Pandemic puppy). She is Managing Editor for thebucket.com. Her debut memoir, Emptying the Nest: Getting Better At Goodbyes, is out from Ten|16 Press.

Hi Writers,

It’s a holiday weekend filled with pre-Fourth of July events and visitors for a few days. Sorry for the delay in the newsletter. And you were/are probably busy, too.

Let’s do this week’s resource links first:

Ellen Bass's newsletter with great Zoom announcements

Events of Language with Richie Hoffman, on the aesthetic and political value of poetry

Trauma: The Splintered Narrative

The Literary Film &TV You Need to Stream in July

Was the Declaration of Independence Better Before the Edits?

And author quotes applicable to the holiday and our times:

“The fact is, with every friendship you make and every bond you establish, you are shaping the image of America projected to the rest of the world.”

– Michelle Obama

“In America, change is possible. It’s in our hands. Together, I know we’ll get there. Look how far we’ve already come.”

— Barack Obama

Last week’s writer resources

When a Workshop Throws You Off by Radha Marcum

Hippocampus Magazine, Stories on Sunday. This Sunday, Writers on Estrangement, with Jenny Bartoy, Danielle Jernigan, and Nicole Graev Lipson. Pay what you will.

I Have a Really High Tolerance for Weird, an interview with Polly Buckingham, Editor of Willow Springs

Personification, Giving Ideas Human Form by Sean Glatch

When a Life Becomes a Story: Balancing Emotional Truth & Narrative by Elle LaMarca

***
If you haven’t read the last subscriber-posted essay, “Green Satin” by Mari Gold, click here. You can read all the previous subscriber essays (and leave comments for them) by scrolling down the posts.

Writing It Real Subscriber Writing Series

Do you have an essay, story, or poem about being inspired? The next subscriber writing call is for poems and essays about receiving inspiration. What has compelled you to act because it was inspiring? A person’s words or actions? A pet’s? A newspaper or magazine article? A speech? Someone else’s writing? An object you own or came across? A play, music, or visual art? A poem? What was your response to the moment of inspiration? How do you carry that inspiration with you, and how has that altered your life?

Two Class Reminders

There are a couple of rooms left at the hotel for our Lake Garda workshop from September 26 to October 3. It is hot in Europe right now, but luckily, September will bring cooler temperatures and beautiful cold water in the lake.

If you are considering joining us (and maybe going on to visit other European sites when the weather is cooler), let me know. I am happy to talk with you about the workshop, although this website does a good job of presenting it.

I am also enrolling for the remaining two-hour sessions of Prompt(s) & Response, one in July and one in August. Enroll in one or both. Let me know if you have questions about these classes designed to help you find surprising topics and keep writing.

Subscriber Publishing Successes, Send Info About Yours to Me

Beckie Miller’s book about her son’s murder, Losing Brian - Finding A New Me (Surviving a Child’s Murder), will be available starting July 21st on Amazon, at Barnes and Noble Book Stores, on the Atmosphere Press Website, and other venues in both hardcover and paperback versions.

David D. Horowitz’s poem, “Strings Attached,” recently appeared online in The Asses of Parnassus.

Barbara Simmons’ poem, “Diffusing Peace,” has been accepted for publication in SweetSmell Journal Issue Five. She also heard from Scotia Road Books about another poem, “Hopefully Before Our Expiration Date,” to be published in their anthology, When We Gather to Eat: An Anthology of Hunger, Heritage, & Healing.

Linda Petrucelli’s memoir Mother Tongue was reviewed in the June 1st Kirkus Reviews Magazine (page 151).

Mona Anderson’s poems, “Look Up” and “Ablaze in Red,” are now published in the Northern New England Review, Volume 46.

Gloria Sinibaldi’s memoir, The Cottage and the Chicken Coop: Reflections on Memory, Meaning, and the Quiet Miracles That Shaped Me. Told in lyrical fragments rather than a linear path, The Cottage and the Chicken Coop reveals how meaning often lives in what we overlook. It invites readers to pause, reflect, and recognize the quiet miracles that shape who we become.

Danna Walker’s “The Drive to Natchitoches” appears in Wildgreens (scroll down a bit to see it).

Sue Pace has learned that Raven’s Chronicles will soon publish her very short prose piece about transitions. We’ll have the link soon and put it in the newsletter.

Sandra Hurtes published a two-part essay, “On Writing Prompts,” about how they helped her find a story she wanted to write. You’ll find them both on True Stories Well Told.

Lynda Monk’s new book, The Adoptee’s Guide to Healing, Wholeness & Growth, has just been released by Books that Save Lives.

John Delaney’s collection, Morocco: Poems and Photographs, is out now from Finishing Line Press.

Marianne Vincent’s essay “BorderLess” appears on the People Potential’s blog.

Sandra Hurtes’ essay “1964. Brooklyn” is up on True Stories Well Told.

Mona Anderson’s poem “Ice Blessing” is published in WayWords Literary Journal, Issue 21, on the topic of Wonder.

Marlene Samuels’ essay “You Forgot Something” is posted on True Stories Well Told.

Beckie Miller’s essay “Becoming Grandma” about the birth of her firstborn grandson is included in Chicken Soup for the Soul, due out March 10.

Minneapolis resident Sheila Wilensky writes “How Did They Let It Happen Asks the History Books” in her blog.

Marlene Samuels’ essay, “My Bug in Winter,” is up on True Stories Well Told.

The Irish have a word for it, Anam Cara: soul friend, a teacher, a spiritual guide. She saw me more clearly than anyone else in my life and loved me, flaws and all. We had fun together hiking in the mountains, walking on the beach, and going to concerts. When we met to go to dinner or a concert, without previous agreement, we’d be dressed in the same color or in a similar way, even though our styles were different. She stood by me through the most difficult time in my life. She was the light in my darkness, encouraging me, informing me of my worth, enabling me to build a new life.

To Santa Barbara, Jacquie Taylor was a spiritual leader, a healer, and a feminist. She had a weekly radio program, Outrageous Women, and led monthly New Moon Circles that drew in women from all over California. She taught about the Goddess so that women could see the Divine Feminine within themselves. Her message was unconditional love, but she didn’t just talk about it; she lived it, and everyone loved her back, strong, creative women, broken women. They all wanted to be near her, to be uplifted by her light.

When she had breast cancer, the doctor assured her that he had removed the growth and had clear margins, but he recommended radiation therapy. She declined radiation and continued with her work. Ten years later, Jacquie learned that the cancer had not only returned, but it had also spread throughout her body. The doctor said she had less than a year to live. Soon, it was too difficult for her to go out, but she remained cheerful. Her core group of friends mobilized to help her in every way we could. There were prayer circles and rituals, and we each took one day a week to help her. We cleaned the house, grocery shopped, cooked meals.

She looked radiant the day I went to be with her, a glow coming from within her. She just wanted to talk. “This is harder for you than it is for me.” I knew she meant facing her death. I burst into tears. She was dying, and yet she was comforting me. When I was able to pull myself together, she said, “I love you.”

I was afraid to answer the phone for two days, afraid of the news I didn’t want to hear, afraid I’d fall apart again. I was at work when the call came. It was her son, Chris. “Mom died; please come.”

In the time it took to drive to Jacquie’s house, memories flashed through my mind of vacations we took, the concerts we went to, the parties at her house, of how she was always impeccably dressed, her hair perfectly coiffed. She was the only person I knew whose lipstick always looked fresh. That was the outer trimming; the inner was spectacular, and it shone through like the sun. My dearest friend, my soul sister, was gone.

The house was filled with people who knew and loved her. I was told that for the past two days all she said was, “Bring your bees, bring your bees.” In ancient times, the bee was the symbol of the soul.

Chris hugged me. “Mom is in her room; come see her.” He said she’d taken a shower and washed her hair. Marilyn and Beverly were with her. Jacquie said she was tired, went to her room, and sat in the rocker. In a few moments, she left this world.

The group of women who had helped her during the last six months of her life stood around her. When I saw her, I was horrified. They’d left Jacquie in her robe, without makeup, her wet hair hanging limp on her shoulders. Her mouth was agape, and her eyes looked blankly at the ceiling.

“You can’t let people see her like that,” I said through sobs. “Let’s put her on the bed. Comb her hair. Put on one of her nice dresses. Some lipstick.” Someone said, “It doesn’t matter; the people from the mortuary will be here soon, and she’s going to be cremated.”

“You can’t let people see her like that; she wouldn’t want to be seen that way,” I said, but these makeup-less, Birkenstock-wearing women kept saying, “She won’t mind; she’s happy that people are coming to see her.” I ran out of the room, out of the house, and drove home, where I cried, paced the floor, or lay in bed staring at the ceiling for days.

There was a memorial for Jacquie a month later, in an oak grove at Rocky Nook Park, where a stately oak tree was bought and dedicated to her. I don’t know how many people were there, but a crowd filled that hollow beside Mission Creek. I hadn’t been asked to participate in the plans for the memorial, but minutes before it began, Beverly asked me to say something about Jacquie. “We’ve only asked a few people. We’d like you to speak.” I didn’t know what to say. I looked at faces in the crowd and realized the profound effect Jacquie had had, not only individually but on the community as a whole. Most of the women there considered Jacquie their best friend. I don’t remember the words I said that day, but I know I spoke of Jacquie’s gift to love unconditionally. As words tumbled out of my mouth and tears ran down my cheeks, I felt the grief of Jacquie’s sons and her friends, as well as my own.

Two weeks later, Chris called. He was going to scatter Jacquie’s ashes in the ocean, as she had requested. He invited me, Beverly, and Marilyn.

It was early evening. The sky was blue, and the temperature was perfect, as it usually was in Santa Barbara. There was a lively ocean breeze, and an occasional wave splashed over the breakwater. We walked to the end of the jetty, turned to watch the sun sink below the horizon, and said blessings for Jacquie. Chris opened the box with her ashes and ceremoniously cast them over the sea wall.

At that moment, there was a gust of wind and spray from a cresting wave. Jacquie’s ashes were blown back on us. We were covered with Jacquie, in our hair, our eyelashes, and when I pursed my lips, she was there. It was my final goodbye kiss for my dear friend.

A few nights after the scattering of her ashes, I dreamed of her. She was luminous, her hair neatly flowing over her shoulders, her lipstick perfect. She wore a beautiful turquoise coat. Jacquie smiled at me and lifted the collar. Under it was a bee.

Frances Tallarico was born with wanderlust and writing in her soul. She currently lives in Missoula, Montana, where the art and music scenes nourish her imagination, and proximity to wild nature is her temple. Frances writes a blog, The Write Mind of a Left Hander, musing on lessons learned on the road. She is the author of numerous essays, poems, epistles, and one and a half as yet unpublished novels.

Hi Writers,

Time seems to be moving even faster than last month. The Summer Solstice is already a week in the past! But so much is freshly blooming, and I hope that means your writing is as well.

We have a new essay in the Writing It Real subscriber essay series on writing from grief. If you haven’t read “Green Satin” by Mari Gold, click here. You can read all the previous subscriber essays (and leave comments for them) by scrolling down the posts.

The next subscriber writing call is for poems and essays about receiving inspiration. What has compelled you to act because it was inspiring? A person’s words or actions? A pet’s? A newspaper or magazine article? A speech? Someone else’s writing? An object you own or came across? A play, music, or visual art? A poem? What was your response to the moment of inspiration? How do you carry that inspiration with you, and how has that altered your life?

Class reminders: There are a couple of rooms left at the hotel for our Lake Garda workshop from September 26 to October 3. It is hot in Europe right now, but luckily, September will bring cooler temperatures and beautiful cold water in the lake.

If you are considering joining us (and maybe going on to visit other European sites when the weather is cooler), let me know. I am happy to talk with you about the workshop, although this website does a good job of presenting it.

I am also enrolling for the remaining two-hour sessions of Prompt(s) & Response, one in July and one in August. Enroll in one or both. Let me know if you have questions about these classes designed to help you find surprising topics and keep writing.

This Week’s Writer’s Resources:

When a Workshop Throws You Off by Radha Marcum

Hippocampus Magazine, Stories on Sunday. This Sunday, Writers on Estrangement, with Jenny Bartoy, Danielle Jernigan, and Nicole Graev Lipson. Pay what you will.

I Have a Really High Tolerance for Weird, an interview with Polly Buckingham, Editor of Willow Springs

Personification, Giving Ideas Human Form by Sean Glatch

When a Life Becomes a Story: Balancing Emotional Truth & Narrative by Elle LaMarca

Last Week’s Writer’s Resources:

From Kim Shur’s Writerly Things Substack. Click here to find two publication opportunities and a worthwhile essay. You might want to subscribe to her Substack.

Writing It Real Subscriber Successes:

Beckie Miller’s book about her son’s murder, Losing Brian - Finding A New Me (Surviving a Child’s Murder), will be available starting July 21st on Amazon, at Barnes and Noble Book Stores, on the Atmosphere Press Website, and other venues in both hardcover and paperback versions.

David D. Horowitz’s poem, “Strings Attached,” recently appeared online in The Asses of Parnassus.

Barbara Simmons’ poem, “Diffusing Peace,” has been accepted for publication in SweetSmell Journal Issue Five. She also heard from Scotia Road Books about another poem, “Hopefully Before Our Expiration Date,” to be published in their anthology, When We Gather to Eat: An Anthology of Hunger, Heritage, & Healing.

Linda Petrucelli’s memoir Mother Tongue was reviewed in the June 1st Kirkus Reviews Magazine (page 151).

Mona Anderson’s poems, “Look Up” and “Ablaze in Red,” are now published in the Northern New England Review, Volume 46.

Gloria Sinibaldi’s memoir, The Cottage and the Chicken Coop: Reflections on Memory, Meaning, and the Quiet Miracles That Shaped Me. Told in lyrical fragments rather than a linear path, The Cottage and the Chicken Coop reveals how meaning often lives in what we overlook. It invites readers to pause, reflect, and recognize the quiet miracles that shape who we become.

Danna Walker’s “The Drive to Natchitoches” appears in Wildgreens (scroll down a bit to see it).

Sue Pace has learned that Raven’s Chronicles will soon publish her very short prose piece about transitions. We’ll have the link soon and put it in the newsletter.

Sandra Hurtes published a two-part essay, “On Writing Prompts,” about how they helped her find a story she wanted to write. You’ll find them both on True Stories Well Told.

Lynda Monk’s new book, The Adoptee’s Guide to Healing, Wholeness & Growth, has just been released by Books that Save Lives.

John Delaney’s collection, Morocco: Poems and Photographs, is out now from Finishing Line Press.

Marianne Vincent’s essay “BorderLess” appears on the People Potential’s blog.

Sandra Hurtes’ essay “1964. Brooklyn” is up on True Stories Well Told.

Mona Anderson’s poem “Ice Blessing” is published in WayWords Literary Journal, Issue 21, on the topic of Wonder.

Marlene Samuels’ essay “You Forgot Something” is posted on True Stories Well Told.

Beckie Miller’s essay “Becoming Grandma” about the birth of her firstborn grandson is included in Chicken Soup for the Soul, due out March 10.

Minneapolis resident Sheila Wilensky writes “How Did They Let It Happen Asks the History Books” in her blog.

Marlene Samuels’ essay, “My Bug in Winter,” is up on True Stories Well Told.

Author Quote

“Again a Solstice” — poem by Jennifer Chang

My mother had been “actively dying” for two weeks. I visited her almost every afternoon after work. As I walked the ten blocks between our apartments, I often ran into people who knew our family.

“How’s your mother doing?” each person inevitably asked.

“She’s fine,” my father insisted I respond, which was a lie and gave me a headache. I wanted to say “she’s dying” but knew if word of what I’d said reached my father, he would get angry. Life was tough enough without that extra burden.

On Tuesday, after my daughters left for school, I took the bus downtown to work. Turning the corner, there was my husband, arms folded over his chest. He nodded, then put his arms around me.

We took a taxi through strangely muted city streets to my parents’ apartment. Mom’s three closest friends were huddled in the den, expectant faces tilted towards me as though they were waiting for me to cry.

For several seconds, no one spoke until Liz broke the hush.

“We’ve picked out an outfit for her.”

“One of her favorites,” Helena added.

Marge fiddled with a thread in her lap.

Clothes were important to my mother, who had owned an elegant boutique, buying suits and dresses for women before the term “personal shopper” was heard of. She was her clients’ fashion role model and their muse. Always stylish, she’d been proud of her body before the ravages of a first and, three years later, a second mastectomy.

“She’s going to be cremated,” I said. “Why does it matter what she wears?”

My mother had died less than two hours ago, yet we were discussing fashion. I felt like a feather floating before a mountain range, a cumulative rock of women who still saw me as a child. Sweeping me into the bedroom, they propelled me towards my mother’s closet.

Helena reached inside, extracting a black-and-white tweed suit. She held it out, as though presenting the silver trophy to a winning jockey.

“This is perfect,” she said in triumph. The other women nodded in agreement.

“No.”

Ignoring their horrified faces, I opened the closet, pressing into dresses and suits that smelled faintly of Ma Griffe, my mother’s perfume. I didn’t know what to look for, but anything would be better than that stiff tweed. Navy blue-and-white checked suit with black trim? Too somber. Maroon dress with a wide, white collar? Uh-uh. Then my hand landed on an emerald green satin cocktail dress. I remembered Mom wearing that dress, seated on the sofa before an evening out. She had sparkled, not simply from the dress or the glittery pin on it.

“This one.”

Helena wailed, “Oh no,” then tried pretending she hadn’t spoken.

“When you’re less upset, I’m sure you’ll understand how inappropriate that dress is,” Liz said. “It’s not something she’d wear in the daytime.”

Why should these women select the last dress my mother would wear? I was twenty-nine with a husband, two daughters, and a job. Didn’t my opinion count?

Standing among silk and wool, we heard a key in the front door. My father was home. I rushed to meet him, sure he would reassure me that he loved me and together we’d manage. We’d be a team, incomplete but together.

Daddy stepped over the threshold, pale but otherwise looking as though he’d returned from a normal day at work, the newspaper in his hand. I waited for an indication that we were sharing a milestone. His glance absorbed my gray skirt but didn’t travel up to my eyes. The beat of my headache grew stronger.

“The cleaning lady comes tomorrow, “ he said. “What will we do about her lunch?”

“I’ll take care of it, “ I said and did. The women’s outrage at my unsuitable wardrobe choice persisted, but I prevailed. At her funeral, although no one saw it, my mother wore the green satin dress.

Mari S. Gold is a freelance writer and lifelong New Yorker whose work has appeared in The New York Times, City Guide, American Profile, Vermont News Guide, Indianapolis Monthly, Maine Life, and Voices, among others. She writes for the New York Landmarks Conservancy; reviews theater and dance for TandBontheAisles, and maintains a blog, But I Digress, that focuses on travel, food, and cultural events.