Building Bridges Real and Imagined

NHPR.org - Building Bridges Real and Imagined

        Last night I attended a talk given by Katherine Paterson, a remarkably prolific writer, primarily for children, whose work you are surely familiar with, and was fortunate to be invited to a more intimate reception for the author before the lecture, because of my work with Connections (described in the link above).
      I didn't expect much of the reception, figured it would be the usual rather boring mix-up of a group of people reflecting a lack of diversity listening to obligatory remarks and noshing on crudite' and cheeses. Instead, though I didn't get to meet the author, I had a very interesting time.  The setting was stunning to me, a law firm with a beautifully designed sky-lit atrium punctuated at one end with a massive spiral staircase. The other end, where we were milling about, held the only non-modern object in the space; a Revere bell that had once hung in The Stark Mill in downtown Manchester pealing people to work with a 4:30 AM ringing. I was rather impressed with all of that but what I loved the most was the diversity of people in attendance. From a NH supreme court justice and assorted political protege' to young refugee participants in the Connections program, everyone coming together to celebrate promoting literacy in the state of New Hampshire. Then, a surprise, I had a chat with my freshman high school English teacher. A first for me. We reminisced a bit about The Lottery, a story she had us enact in the ninth grade, (when I was the age my daughter is now) and I remembered rudely raising my hand and saying "I want to get stoned!", and that one day during silent reading time while I perused a magazine she had left out for us, I came across an article exploring Springsteen's lyrics, and I became enthralled with the poetic power of words right there in my plastic chair, and haven't been the same since. I told her that, and she told me that she was 21 then and it was her first year of teaching. I hope it was a nice moment for her too.
     Then we all made our way over to the beautiful Palace Theater, where I saw my first Shakespearean play at about the same time that I discovered Bruce's lyrics. (The latter would remain my bard of choice.)  The talk given by Mrs. Paterson was quite interesting. She made me laugh and frown, which I think is the mark of a well-rounded speech. She got those reactions from me because she is a truth teller which I guess is what all writers are.
     She said that the best advice she had ever received as a writer was to rewrite if you don't see any of yourself in your villain until you do, otherwise s/he won't be a complete character. Here are the books I bought at the event, there are many more I still want to get to. And I have never seen the film version of Bridge to Terabithia which I am now intrigued with.



     I was interested in the subject matter of Lyddie and started it as soon as I got home. I bought Flip-flop Girl for my daughter but will probably read it too. The picture book of her interpretation of Saint Francis of Assisi's Canticle of the Creatures was just an irresistible purchase. It is everything a picture book should be. I bought the last one, The Spying Heart: More Thoughts on Reading and Writing for Children for obvious reasons, I want more guidance from Mrs. Paterson who, though she begs to differ, certainly does know what she is doing.

On Partners

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/washington/2011/05/obama-poetry-night-white-house.html

      There they are. And at least they got noticed, even if it was mostly negative press coverage.

     I added something new to my writing regimen yesterday. I now have a fiction writing  partner, and we met for work-shopping for the first time yesterday. I think there is no question that this is going to be a very productive partnership. I completely concede that I wouldn't have gotten the work done (on a new novel idea) if I hadn't had the deadline of our meeting (though I must confess that I did not meet the five page quota I was supposed to). And the sharing, discussing and critiquing, of each others work is, of course, invaluable. Today I revised the piece and added quite a bit to it. Best of all, is that my writing partner is quite talented, and I'm really looking forward to watching his growth as a writer. There is no doubt in my mind that this is going to be fun and rewarding, and I will meet my quota next time. I am much more inspired to do so.

poetry night | Nikki Schwab | Yeas & Nays | Washington Examiner

      Man, I wish I was invited to this party! A poetry party at the White House.  Still, I am so very happy that my president and first lady are having it. The connection she is making with schoolchildren so that they may benefit from the event too, is under-appreciated. And did you see the photo of the president reading Chicka Chicka Boom Boom!? I'll post it for you. Wish I could hear that too. Can you hear me sighing?

Obamas to hold White House poetry night | Nikki Schwab | Yeas & Nays | Washington Examiner

This is a program...

worth supporting. Plus I love the poems about boys!

http://www.youtube.com/user/GirlsWriteNow

http://youtu.be/7nxFnRuBMW8?hd=1

Neil English: Model T truck driving poet, preacher, carpenter, peace maker | SeacoastOnline.com

Neil English: Model T truck driving poet, preacher, carpenter, peace maker | SeacoastOnline.com

Was I too quick to cancel my print subscription?

Was I too quick to cancel my print subscription?

I didn't get the Sunday paper and I have been absolutely jonesing all day long! Really, even feel irritable, like an addict deprived.
Then I read this from the CSM and now I want you to read it too.
When was the last time you got your hands dirty?

This morning's column...

Nancy Hill: 'This is a city that loves and nurtures the arts' | SeacoastOnline.com
Later we'll talk about use of the pronoun I....

Children's Literacy: See Spot Surf the Web

     I read an interesting piece in the Sunday Boston Globe yesterday about the death of the printed book. This is not news to anyone of course, and something we've all seen coming, and some of us have been anguishing over, for a long time. I find these reports distressing and depressing most of the time. What I liked about the piece yesterday (I'm sorry I have forgotten the author) was that I was left with one very hopeful feeling. The author said that children's books were not on death row, that the creation and sales of good children's literature was and will remain strong. I needed to hear that having long been a proponent of the myriad joys and benefits of reading to small children (as well as a writer of children's stories). Hearing that did my heart a world of good.
     Follow that this morning by this interesting piece from NPR about the changing world of children's literature;

http://www.npr.org/2011/03/28/134663712/childrens-book-apps-a-new-world-of-learning

     The conclusion I have come to is that the situation is really the same as it is for adults, it is just far more important to understand the consequences for children. The fact is we are talking about two different kinds of literacy. All children, every single one of them, need to be both print and digitally literate. Each is a different set of skills that requires exposure to an abundance of quality literacy of both types, the printed word and the digital word. Each requires the brain to operate in a different way, and both are best learned in developmentally appropriate ways during early childhood. One will never replace the other, and never again will only one suffice for later success. Mastery of digital literacy always has been and always will be dependent on print literacy making the picture and early story books more important than ever, but the importance of digital literacy for children probably can not even be imagined by the confines of what we know today.
     My stubborn attitude of refusing to even look at an e-book is actually a childish indulgence no child can afford, or be asked, to make.

Poets on Poetry

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20035

       I found this  piece from poets.org quite interesting. It caused me to reflect a bit on whether or not I follow Horace's advice for poets written hundreds of years ago, and on whether or not it is still sound advice. I'm happy to say I think that I do and it is. His counsel was to, " read widely, strive for precision, and seek honest criticism". Still, upon deeper reflection, I am sure that I can and should be doing better at all three. In writing, as I imagine in all professions, there is, and always should be, room for improvement. So please excuse me now while I get to that. I especially want to study a poem the author mentioned by Sharon Olds poem, which I will copy below;

Take the I Out

But I love the I, steel I-beam that my father sold. They poured the pig iron into the mold, and it fed out slowly, a bending jelly in the bath, and it hardened, Bessemer, blister, crucible, alloy, and he marketed it, and bought bourbon, and Cream of Wheat, its curl of butter right in the middle of its forehead, he paid for our dresses with his metal sweat, sweet in the morning and sour in the evening. I love the I, frail between its flitches, its hard ground and hard sky, it soars between them like the soul that rushes, back and forth, between the mother and father. What if they had loved each other, how would it have felt to be the strut joining the floor and roof of the truss? I have seen, on his shirt-cardboard, years in her desk, the night they made me, the penciled slope of her temperature rising, and on the peak of the hill, first soldier to reach the crest, the Roman numeral I-- I, I, I, I, girders of identity, head on, embedded in the poem. I love the I for its premise of existence--our I--when I was born, part gelid, I lay with you on the cooling table, we were all there, a forest of felled iron. The I is a pine, resinous, flammable root to crown, which throws its cones as far as it can in a fire.

UNH Magazine: Revisiting "Peyton Place"

This is an article I wrote that was just published at www.unhmagazine.unh.edu. It has of course been edited after it left my desk, so a few of the sentences are not my own, but it is something I worked very hard for several months of last year. It will be of particular interest to writers and anyone with a link to New Hampshire.

UNH Magazine: Revisiting "Peyton Place"

My column;

Mary Z. Walker and The Women's City Club | SeacoastOnline.com

Sounds fun

I want in on this game. Another lovely diversion;

The Top 10 Poets

The Top 10 Poets: Who are the Greatest? : Dean Rader : City Brights

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/blogs/drad...

http://www.sfgate.com

My writing with a slide show by Goya

Fighting Bull

By Tammi J Truax

Published by Seacoast Media Group, September 2008

     This summer marked a relatively major milestone for me; I took my first transatlantic trip alone, southern Spain in June. I saw and did many wonderful things while I was there. I could go on forever about just the museums in Madrid, or just not go on at all, and die happy over tapas and sangria by the Mediterranean Sea.

     One traditional tourist activity that I weighed heavily both before and after my trip was Corridas de Toros, a bullfight.  I decided, after much thought and study, to go - “when in Spain”.  I wanted to see and judge for myself what Hemingway called “a wonderful nightmare”.  There is intense controversy all over the world and within Spain about the ethics of the bullfight.  It has never been more intense, or more in the bull’s favor, than it is now, but anti-bullfighting sentiment is apparently not new.

     I was surprised to learn while viewing an exhibit on Francisco De Goya at the Prado Museum that he had passionate feelings about the subject when he created the series of prints called La Tauromaquia in 1815 and 16. (You can view these as a slideshow on YouTube.)  Art historians contend that the etchings show “Goya’s need to express his criticism of man’s deep rooted cruelty … brutality, which is explicit from the outset of the series, is an inherent characteristic of the figures from this world as a veiled critique of human barbarity.”

     To truly understand the bull fight, which may in fact be impossible for those of us who are not part of the Spanish culture, one must at least evaluate it within its current cultural context, and its significant historical context.

     The bullrings, themselves sometimes architecturally visit-worthy, probably originated as temples (Celtic-Iberian) and the rituals that took place in them were about sacrificing bulls to the gods, practices that ancient peoples almost certainly saw as necessary to their own survival. Stories of such sacrifices can be found in the bible and other ancient texts.  The bull was the supreme sacrifice because it was the largest of the domesticated animals to offer.  Under primarily Roman influence, over what was obviously a very long period of time, the religious significance waned and the rituals became more about entertainment. Though for another lengthy period of time Catholicism became entwined in the entertainment as it did in most aspects of Spanish culture. James Michener wrote elegantly of this entanglement in his novel Miracle in Seville. Now of course, no religious connection whatsoever can be made, and in fact, bullfighting was declared as “cruel and disgraceful exhibitions of devils” by Pope St. Pius V, who forbade attendance under penalty of excommunication. Nowadays, some seriously call it a sport, and some seriously call it art and as such integral to the culture, and some just call it a spectacle, including many Spaniards.

     I tried to keep an open mind about all of this when I purchased my terribly expensive ($110.US) ticket for a non-luxurious seat in the sun at an unimportant fight on a Sunday afternoon in Marbella.

     The adherence to the antediluvian rituals of the ceremonial opening may indeed have artistic merit. Regalia is almost always arresting. But the work of the matadors, though I was not seeing the rock-stars of the bullfighting world, really didn’t reflect what I would call artistry. Frankly, I have seen better moves on the dance floor, and I was watching hard for, maybe even hoping for, an artistic rationalization, as I had read about, what is supposed to be a spiritual symbiosis between man and beast. I didn’t see it.

     What I saw was a very predictable series of grossly unfair fights between a lot of men, and one bewildered animal after another. Each fight went down in exactly the same way so that it became almost boring. I found myself unable to be impressed when a young man, no matter how handsome, stabbed an animal, and then paraded himself, in a rather girly get-up, around the ring to receive applause while over gesticulating to the crowd. The act of hacking off the dead bull’s ear to toss to someone in the crowd as a gift, though deeply entrenched in tradition, seems absurd. I may have been impressed if anything at all had been in the bull’s favor during the fight, but it wasn’t. The matador who makes the final kill has a whole team of men working to weaken the bull first, and when anyone is in any danger they jump behind a wooden partition that the bull rams into, or if too far away from the well placed partitions they just jump the wall. We did see one matador get into what may be one of the most hazardous positions he could be in when he lost hold of his cape, and there was nothing artistic about the way he threw himself into the stands like a rodeo clown, causing my young American companion to remark, “Funny how fighting a bull becomes a lot more difficult when you lose your blanky.”

     In truth, the bullfights have clearly changed a lot over the last decade or two, largely in response to global demands.  It has become as humane as an animal killing ritual can probably get.  The elimination of the goriness there once was has also eliminated much of the peril that has rendered the show relatively facile, and really an almost risk free farce.

     Still, in the end, it is about killing. A bull fight is not over until either bull or man is dead, except for in rare instances when an unusually impressive bull is pardoned by the presiding authority. The kill itself, which has been called “the coup de grace”, does appear to be as merciful and skilled as an execution can be. The matador makes one swift thrust of his sword near the base of the skull, which severs the spinal cord, and death is supposed to be instant and painless. Of course, by this time the bull has been physically worn down by a series of other injuries that were not painless. During one bout I heard a bull cry, and I am not sure I’ve ever heard a sadder sound.

     I did not enjoy attending a bull fight. I did not enjoy the admonishment of my Madridian amigos several days later claiming that it is tourists like me who keep the bull fights operating. That may be partially true, but the Spanish are ultimately responsible. Some cities, like Barcelona, have outlawed bullfighting. Attendance all over the country is at an all time low, as is commercial sponsorship and televised fights, which were common not long ago. Still there are government funded bull ranches and bull fighting schools in Spain, and money is still being made.

    In the end though, it is hard for me to completely condemn the bullfight. It feels too hypocritical, as condemnation usually does to me. The Toro bravo is actually a distinct species of bull, bred for aggression, supposedly of an ancient race conserved only in Spain, and they are revered animals by the Spanish. They are raised in relative luxury and leisure, especially in comparison to most of the ungulates on this planet. They have to work only once in their lives, when and if they are chosen to enter the ring at the age of four, having been respectfully cared for and even blessed. Though I could not verify it, it is said that the dead bulls are always eaten, served in elaborate banquets to the townspeople or fed to the poor.

     If I were a bovine I would much rather go out that way then to be raised in an assembly line, live a brief and unnatural life, until killed by mechanical slaughter, and ultimately ordered up as a burger through a plastic clown’s head in a drive-thru eatery at an ugly American strip mall. Give me; give us all, a dignified death.
     All rights reserved. Do not use in whole or part without permission.

    

Dave Kiley Jr.: Portsmouth's only and original river pirate | SeacoastOnline.com

Dave Kiley Jr.: Portsmouth's only and original river pirate | SeacoastOnline.com

Distractions; Old and New

      I've been distracted lately, very distracted, and since my distraction all stems from a piece of my writing I thought I'd post it here and see what you think. I thought about writing this piece for a few years before I did. Then it sat around for a few years after I did. Over the last few months though, I sent it out. Hadn't really planned the timing, it just worked out that way. I submitted it to the famous Modern Love column and received my first rejection letter from the New York Times. That was a little exciting, a little fun. A copy of the piece also made it to the subject through a circuitous trip across the country. And he has been my distraction of late. That has been more than a little exciting and more fun than I can say. Here it is;

A Declaration of Love

By Tammi J Truax

     I’ve been wondering a lot lately just where it came from – this need of mine. This deeply rooted and undying need to hear my significant other make significant (preferably urgent and unique) declarations of undying love for me. I have reflected long and hard on it, on why it is so important to me, when in fact it has for most of my life been an unmet need. And I think it can all be blamed on Warren Kelley.

     In the third grade Warren Kelley and I sat at adjacent little wooden desks, he to my left. I remember him as softness. Velour, corduroy, and a downy crew cut everyone wished to touch but only adults could get away with. Softer still on the inside, with a sweet spirit the likes of which I’ve rarely encountered since.

     Warren spent most of each school day that year, not practicing spelling words and times tables like we were supposed to be doing, but writing and passing to me an endless series of notes on which he had printed, in soft gray graphite block letters, the same simple message; I LOVE YOU. My own desk was stuffed full with them. He would extend his arm into the aisle between us every few minutes, and I would then extend my hand and accept the little white note. I did not respond to Warren at all beyond taking and reading each and every one. I did not encourage him to continue or tell him to stop in these effusions. I seemed to know without question, that it was the perfectly appropriate, and probably involuntary, course of action for any man to take who was seriously interested in winning my heart.

     When this effort seemed to be an inadequate way of expressing his fondness for me he did what I think any good man would or should do; he made an embarrassing public demonstration of his  passion.

     There was some kind of parent function in our classroom one evening. As usual, Warren and I were near each other, but were not talking to each other. We just looked at each other silently, both of our little faces sprinkled with freckles and wonder. The reason for actually being there was rather lost on us. A considerable crowd was gathered in the stuffy room when Warren stepped up right in front of me and my ex-Marine father, and began, one ravenous rip at a time, to tear off bites of his Styrofoam cup, and ceremoniously chew and swallow each mouthful, as I silently stood before him and watched. The room grew quieter as people began to stare, and finally my father, leaning in just a bit, asked me, “Why is he doing that?” To which I immediately responded, by softly stating what I thought was perfectly obvious, “Because he loves me.”

     That was one of the few times I’ve ever sensed my father’s pride in me, I guess for bringing a boy to such romantic ruin, but that was not why it was such an important moment in my life. Warren changed me then. Changed me forever.

     He set in motion that year an expectation for me that my man should, well, gush for me once in awhile. The words need not be eloquent nor the gesture elaborate, but the message is mandatory. And sometimes, there must be a public display of this affection, the love affirmed for the whole wide world to see.

     I have spent a considerable amount of time ruminating on this expectation of mine, as well as on the men I have known who have not lived up to it. I have even attempted to alter it. I have made some attempt at loving a man unconditionally, forsaking my need. It doesn’t work. I can’t do it. I won’t do it. That kind of love is best reserved for one’s children, not one’s partner. I have come to the conclusion that my needs really aren’t that unreasonable.

     I don’t need a handsome knight in shining armor to come cantering up to my door on a white steed. A kind of cute guy in an old pick-up truck would suffice. He doesn’t need to be bearing gifts of glistening jewels; a handful of meadow flowers he picked just for me would be perfect. I don’t really need thirty seven love notes a day; I could get by with two or three juicy ones a year. I don’t long for a man to make a spectacle of himself for me, but paying more attention to me than the most statuesque blond beauty at a party is essential. I must confess that, while I wouldn’t want any man to cause himself bodily harm for me, the truth is, seeing my name emblazoned in ink across a man’s upper arm would be a dream come true. A request my late husband declined to fulfill.

     So, I’m left still wondering. Wondering what to do, what to think. Sometimes I also wonder what became of Warren Kelly. I wonder if his significant other ever needs reassurance of his never-ending love and desire. I wonder if the ingestion of 1970’s chemically questionable cups during his formative years caused him any later harm. I wonder if he knows how deeply touching his unselfish and courageous affectations have been to others. I wonder if he even remembers me, or has any idea that he set the bar for all other men for me, forever.

      It seems to me that the Fab Four were wrong, with all due respect to them. In the end the love you take is not equal to the love you make, it’s equal to the love you declare, freely and fearlessly.

      Warren, I’m sorry I never responded then, but I do declare now;

Thanks, and

 I  love  you.

All rights reserved. Do not use in whole or part.without permission.

I interviewed a beauty queen;

http://www.seacoastonline.com/articles/20110106-LIFE-101060323

For locals

Jolly Green Gift Giving

By Tammi J Truax

     You have been hearing a lot lately about how shopping locally is good for the environment, and by that we mean both the fragile ecosystem that is our home and the fragile economic system that rules it. Spending your hard earned cash at local, independent shops, businesses that used to be called Mom and Pop operations, is the right thing to do. If you want to go a step further, as many of your local merchants have done already, you can do even more good by buying green goods. That means choosing products that have the smallest carbon footprint (the negative impact the item has made on the planet) before coming to you and maybe after purchasing, and in most cases that means you, or the recipient of the gift, benefit as well, by less exposure to impure parts or ingredients.

      Karen Marzloff of Seacoast Local further explains why shopping locally is important, “New Englanders are projected to spend $700 each this holiday season, and every dollar spent locally creates up to three times the economic activity in our communities. Around the country, economists forecast that U.S. consumers will spend approximately $445 billion during the 2010 holiday season. Every one of those dollars spent at local independents helps ensure that they will remain local economic engines for years to come and maximizes the growth of economic security, rather than sending away profits to corporations that own big box stores and out-of-town chains.”

     So remember that when you spend money at a chain store in your town, most of that money is leaving town, and is more likely to be reinvested in someplace like China than in Portsmouth. If you follow Seacoast Local on Face Book or Twitter they will post holiday specials being offered by local indies throughout the season. For your holiday gift selection consideration I asked just a small sampling of the many fine shop owners we have ready to serve us, what is their greenest gift offering this year, and here is what some of them said;

     The owner of Blue Moon Imports at 1 Washington St. Centre in Dover said, “The greenest gifts I have this year are beautiful fair trade purses and Christmas ornaments made out of recycled sari fabrics from India. Each piece is hand embroidered and truly unique. They are absolutely beautiful!”

      Liz Wright, co-owner of FaLaLo at 51 Ceres Street has a bounty of well-researched green goods but decided, “Our greenest gift is the recycled phone book bag. They come in three sizes, and have two different types of handles. They’re not only recycled, but also fair trade. They are made in the Philippines by women who work with the not-for-profit organization Handcrafting Justice.”

     Heather Lessard, partner and poet-in-residence at Tulips Handcrafts on Market Street says her greenest gift is “Herlihedrons” which are spectacular sculptural assemblages created by local artist Nina Herlihy who collects objects like driftwood and seashells and turns them into something else like mermaids, owls, even Santa’s! Tulips carries almost exclusively New England made arts and crafts.

     Owner of Puttin’ On The Glitz at 150 State Street, Assiah Russell, recommends her line of Stephanie Robb Designs of silver and gold jewelry with natural stones, and she recently went to Buffalo, New York to check out the company. You won’t get research like that done for you at a retail chain store. She says, “All pieces are hand-crafted by a small design team that employs four women who sit around a work table and collectively work on designing. All scraps are recycled so there is no waste. The quality and price-point are excellent. A fine example of a woman dedicated to producing an entire line, totally made in America and supporting her local women.”

     Image Arts at 738 Islington Street Plaza 800 can surround your art (hopefully created by a local artist) in custom frames made from sustainable wood. For this they use a company that offers a line of eco-care frames that are produced from managed forests with an active reforestation program. They use organic water based stains on the molding with no chemical solvents. 

     If you have expectant or new parents or a baby on your list Nest Maternity and Baby Clothing and Gifts at 601 Islington Street carries almost exclusively green items for the purity of the products. They carry every conceivable supply for diapering little green babies, and organic toys and clothing, and sweet burp cloths handmade by the owner’s Mom. I really like the Willie Nelson onesie.

     Also for the little ones, head mom and buyer, Jody Breneman, of the family-run shop G. Willikers!  at 13 Market Street said her greenest gift is the wonderful fire truck ($26.00) for ages 1 to 7 years. It is made by Green Toys which produces American made products from recycled milk jugs. She will soon have the entire line on hand which includes a tug boat that will tug at your heart. The fire truck has won two toy awards this year. G. Willikers! also features many children’s books by local authors which I really appreciate, and they offer shipping and free gift wrapping.

     You would be hard pressed to find a greener shop anywhere than the two operating out of the 76 Congress Street storefront. They are 1 World Trading Company which says they are “purveyors of goods that benefit the planet and the people that live on it.” They carry everything you need to green up your home and your lifestyle. When pushed to divulge what was the greenest gift of all proprietor Paul Keegan chose The Klean Kanteen, a food grade stainless steel travel container for hot or cold drinks combined with a colorful handmade Guatemalan pouch, citing the gifts ongoing contribution to the globe every time it is used instead of a plastic water bottle. Available in two sizes, from $24. to 26.  For an inexpensive gift, they carry a handcrafted, organic, and minimally packaged soap that is blended by bicycle power in Massachusetts. Available in several scents, I think the peppermint would make a festive Christmas gift. Paul also runs Re-Cycles which sells bicycles he has refurbished that were going to the landfill. You can’t get much greener that that.

     I did some of my Christmas shopping at 1 World where I bought an organic cotton tee made in India with 80% wind power, printed with Earth friendly ink in the USA, and designed by a Keene artist with the slogan New Hampshire - Live Green or Die for a friend that moved away (they say they will plant a tree for every tee sold and that if the recipient plants the tag wildflowers will bloom), a pretty handmade charm bracelet for a girl that collects them, bamboo ski socks for my black diamond daughter, and a bar of doggie soap from a local farm.

     And Santa if you’re reading this, while I was at Worldly Goods on Congress Street I saw the warmest women’s mittens made from recycled sweaters for $59. a one-of-a-kind pair!  A bonsai tree from Little Timbers Nature Store right up the street is a fairly green gift for happy growers (like me), and I believe vintage estate jewelry from Market Square Jewelers is a green idea vastly underrated. (Do we really need to mine any more diamonds and gold?)  And thank you Santa, for all of the green good you do too. More people should make their own toys and get around in a sleigh. Let our local merchants know if you need anything and they will be happy to help you fill up your pack.

     

Tinkering with many things ...

     Hard to decide which is more distasteful ~ having work rejected or having work I have completed killed. I am certain the hardest to swallow of all is having my work maimed upon being published. Frustrating is the kindest way I can describe how that feels, but I would prefer to pepper that with some profanity. Having been tied up with those scenarios over the last couple of weeks (though I remain thankful for the assignments), I haven't gotten many submissions out lately. With one noteworthy exception. I submitted to the New York Times for the first time! Something for the Modern Love column they run on Sundays. It is extremely competitive, a few of them have resulted in movie and book deals, but I had a little something I thought was a good fit so I sent it in.
     Have also started working with a new publisher about one of my children's books. It is all very exciting but still in the planning stages.
     Here is a link to the latest installment of my radio show, about my hometown's connection to the last selection for the 2010 Pulitzer Prize for Literature in fiction, followed by a few cartoons for writers.

http://seacoastjournal.podomatic.com/entry/2010-12-17T12_39_03-08_00

http://htmlgiant.com/behind-the-scenes/the-writer-at-work/#more-52128

Wanted to share this announcement

Boston Public Library Special Exhibit


The Public Life of Poetry: Whitman, Dickinson, Longfellow, and Their Contemporaries

THROUGH SUNDAY JANUARY 30, 2011 6 P.M.

Rare Books Lobby
Central Library
Boston Public Library
Copley Square
700 Boylston St.
Boston, MA 02116

The Public Life of Poetry: Whitman, Dickinson, Longfellow, and Their Contemporaries
In his 1855 Preface to Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman boldly declared that “a bard is to be commensurate with a people” and that “[t]he proof of a poet is that his country absorbs him as affectionately as he has absorbed it.” With these pronouncements, Whitman expresses the sentiment of commonality and reciprocal appreciation that drove the work of many nineteenth-century American poets, poets who depended upon their readers’ “absorption” of their verse.

The Public Life of Poetry: Whitman, Dickinson, Longfellow, and Their Contemporaries presents the work of poets who believed themselves to be speaking to and for a vast number of Americans. As critics have pointed out, the American literary milieu was dominated until the early nineteenth century by writers who were effectively dilettantes and could not hope for large readerships. By the mid-nineteenth century, however, with the example of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the professional poet was born. Longfellow’s books could be found on parlor tables across the country.
But, in fact, nineteenth-century Americans found poetry in print all around them—not only in their private homes, but also in the public sphere—and this exhibit also presents some of the “disposable” or “ephemeral” poetry that circulated during this period alongside the work of respected literary lions. Printed verse appeared in advertisements, in schoolbooks, at monument dedications, and on the covers of periodicals. Readers, in turn, produced and reproduced poetry in parodies, scrapbook collections, and even samplers. An overlooked segment of nineteenth-century American print culture, public poetry occupied an important sociocultural role, helping readers to make sense of war, death, love, separation, and other transformations of and challenges to emotional and spiritual life.
This exhibit of material from the Boston Public Library’s Department of Rare Books and Manuscripts features early editions and manuscripts from iconic American poets such as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Walt Whitman, and Emily Dickinson; political broadsides and ephemera by John Greenleaf Whittier and Ralph Waldo Emerson; collections of dialect poetry by James Whitcomb Riley and Paul Laurence Dunbar, and more.

From the local daily;

Adina Prietz Linden: ' ... to feel connected' | SeacoastOnline.com

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The Recorded Voice Of Virginia Woolf Part 2

This is the only surviving recording of Virginia Woolf's voice. It is part of a BBC radio broadcast from April 29th, 1937. The talk was called "Craftsmanship" and was part of a series entitled "Words Fail Me".

The audio is accompanied by a slideshow of photographs of Virginia Woolf.

The text was published as an essay in "The Death of the Moth and Other Essays" (1942)


I came upon this recording of Virginia Woolf speaking about writing just as I was about to start reading Mrs. Dalloway for the first time. It's a bit mesmerizing to hear her.

The Recorded Voice Of Virginia Woolf

Interesting...

     A writer out of loneliness is trying to communicate like a distant star sending signals. – John Steinbeck


http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/3810/the-art-of-fiction-no-45-john-steinbeck