Ed Davis's Blog, page 2

Poetry IS Life

A new year is a good time to be thinking about poetry. It’s on my mind, since 2016 ended with poetry—the annual Solstice Poetry Reading at Glen Helen (which attracted 92 hardy souls on a cold winter evening)—and 2017 began with it:  a reading at Blue Jacket Books last Saturday by poets with works in From the Tower:  Poetry in Honor of Conrad Balliet. Also, I’m deep into reading Bruce Springsteen’s new autobiography Born to Run, and everyone knows the Boss is as much poet as musician.

So I’m asking myself here at the dawn of my 65th new year:  why is poetry so necessary? Because, for many of us, poetry is life.

 Springsteen’s excellent book reminds me how hard a song (poem) can hit; how, the more distilled, the sharper it’s honed, the more capable it is of “taking the top of your head off,” in Dickenson’s fiery phrase (or, more gently, capable of inserting fingers beneath your skin or uncurling in the mind like a flower’s petals).

The extremely high value of a song/poem—one that belongs to everyone because there’s so much room (for interpretation, for imagination, for inhabitation)—is that it becomes a place for writers to stand and declare their soul-hood:  “I may be just one, but I am one and won’t be denied!” And for their audience to be inspired—knocked on your ass, as the Boss might say—by the power of word and song (aren’t poems really both?).

“Life trumps art,” Springsteen concludes at one point in his memoir—but I find myself torn. Where does one end and the other begin? The experience of art not only informs nearly every aspect of my life but can actually overtake (and hopefully not overwhelm) it, existing with daily life side by side; for what is a summer stream without my aesthetic experience of it, noticing how its luminous surface is like a sheet of hot metal delivered from the blazing blast furnace of the sky? The experience is the poem I’ll later write about it . . . maybe; if not, the image, the experience is registered, stored (and storied), not only by my mind but on some cellular (unconscious) level as well.

Is everyone like this—or only poets, artists, songwriters? Am I weird?

We all have access to a poetic, aesthetic life but, like an aptitude or predilection toward archery or architecture, you’ve got to surrender to it regularly until it’s beyond engrained; until, for all intents and purposes (“intensive porpoises”—no poetry without language!), you are the poem.

Okay, but you still have to wash the dishes—but, hey, notice how the soapy foam on that fork makes it look as if it’s dissolving in the sunset glow entering the kitchen window . . .

Readings in 2017

Stay tuned for info on more poetry readings in 2017. Already you can put Friday, December 8, 7-9:00 p.m. on your calendar for the next Solstice Poetry Reading at the Vernet Ecological Center, 400 Corry Street, Yellow Springs, Ohio. Also, another From the Tower reading is planned for the Emporium in Yellow Springs, time and date to be announced soon.

Please share news of any readings, poetry or prose, that you know about and I’ll pass it along. Meanwhile, a good antidote for “the real world” is to read and write poems and songs.

Blog photo by Dennie Eagleson

Thankful for Poetry

It’s been a tough year for all of us. Along with life’s other challenges, this year’s election season was an especially bruising one for every American, regardless of where anyone stood along the political divide. Here at Thanksgiving, I believe that gratitude is the best attitude we can take toward life, along with humility. Hard as things get, I am always thankful for friendships in which I can truly be myself; a terrific, loving family; Nature in all her awe-inspiring manifestations; good work to do every day; and a meaningful spiritual life.

And poetry.

For the fifth year, Tecumseh Land Trust (TLT) and Glen Helen Ecology Institute are co-sponsoring the annual Solstice Poetry Reading on Friday, December 9, 7-9:00 p.m. at the Vernet Ecological Building, 405 Corry Street in Yellow Springs, Ohio. With the theme “Forever Glen Helen:  Wind, Water, Earth and Sun,” a dozen poets will entertain and amaze an audience that usually exceeds one hundred.

Krista Magaw came up with the idea for a warm, convivial evening of verse that many have woven into their annual holiday tradition. I like to call it a poetry reading for people who may not think they like poetry. Here’s why:

Focused on the solstice theme, poems are always concrete—firmly grounded in the natural world—and instantly accessible. You won’t be left scratching your head.
Because poets read for only 3-5 minutes each, listeners get the distilled essence of the best they can offer. No rambling. No prima donnas.
TLT’s education committee insists (and rightly so) on diversity of age, race, gender and experience in its featured performers. You get to hear a lot of different voices in a short span.
Folks really listen; they come ready to laugh, to be moved, to be healed and inspired by astonishing words and images. Distractions are minimal.
We eat and drink together. After an hour or so, we adjourn to the lovely, atmospheric atrium to consume wine, cheese and cookies and digest the first act before the open mic segment, always full of surprises. Who knows who among the audience might be inspired to share a heartfelt poem in such a supportive atmosphere? (Maybe you yourself?)
We appreciate each other in a new light. I can’t explain, but many have told me they absorbed the magic, the poetry mojo, before heading back out into December darkness.

P.S.

A good friend just sent me this link from the Berkeley Wellness Letter on the Science of Gratitude: www.greatergood.berkeley.edu/expandinggratitude.

Check it out and Happy Thanksgiving! Hope to see you at the Solstice Reading!

 

Dylan Accepts Nobel…Finally

“Well, I’m right here,” Bob Dylan replied when told the Swedish Academy had been trying for three weeks to hear from him regarding the Nobel in Literature they had awarded him. Whew. I’m sure fans and committee members alike exhaled with relief. But what did it mean that he had waited so long to accept his prize? “I was speechless,” he claimed. Really? And what does that mean . . . I’m right here?

The Lens

My study of Dylan while researching for my novel The Psalms of Israel Jones gives me a clue. In my novel, the world of my sixty-something rock legend has shrunk to the six feet surrounding a microphone, the back of his tour bus and the occasional night’s stay at a Day’s Inn. I doubt this is the case with Dylan—he at least haunts childhood homes of fellow rockers like Neil Young and John Lennon when he’s in their old neighborhoods—but the lens with which he views the world might’ve shrunk due to decades of fame, not to mention personal setbacks, from divorce to health issues.

Strange Countries

I think Dylan’s a pretty hard-core introvert who wants to be left alone to doggedly complete the journey he began when he left his hometown of Hibbing, Minnesota for New York in 1961. Maybe he fantasized the Nobel hoopla might just go away. (He still hasn’t said if he’ll attend the ceremony.) Maybe, like Israel Jones, Dylan just needs to do the one thing that gives him—and should give us—the greatest comfort:  writing and performing aural poetry that few would deny has changed the world. Awards are . . . distractions?

“Of course [I’ll accept],” Dylan responded last Friday in a call to the academy, adding, “I appreciate the honor so much.”

I hope so. A lot of us would be different people without his work. “Songs are strange countries that you have to enter,” he said in Chronicles, Volume I. We need to enter them, too. Those strange countries turn out to be our lives.

Dylan Wins Nobel

Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free,

Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands,

With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves

Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

–Bob Dylan, “Mr. Tambourine Man”

Bob Dylan:  winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2016. Finally, in this acrimonious election season, something we can all agree on, that Dylan has been America’s leading poet for decades. This year’s Nobel committee should be congratulated for expanding the definition of literature to include songwriting. As a poet and novelist, I believe songwriting is one of the hardest arts to master, and I bow not only to a man whose work I revere but to all practitioners of his most difficult craft.

His winning the prize has been in the works for years, and if it wasn’t easy for all on the committee to agree that what Dylan writes is great poetry equal to Roethke or Rilke, I understand. I, too, admire and respect those who’ve devoted their lives and careers to the lonely, misunderstood and often maligned vocation of poetry, of writing only words without recourse to what might seem to many the spectacle, seduction or pandering of adding music, especially rock music (though Dylan is master of many genres, including folk, blues, country and pop). I admit now what I hesitated to for many years:  that the poets I most dearly love and identify with are those who wrote the soundtrack of my youth:  Simon, Springsteen, Lennon and McCartney, James Taylor and Joni Mitchell, to name only a few.

But none more than Dylan.

For me, the test was always: Yes, it’s a terrific song, but can the words stand alone? Many—okay, maybe even most—of my favorite songs can’t pass this test, but I’d argue hard that Dylan’s usually can. The Nobel committee is correct that so many phrases from Dylan’s lexicon have come into popular parlance—“Patriotism is the last refuge to which a scoundrel clings” from “What’s A Sweetheart Like You” comes instantly to my mind; you will doubtless think of your own favorites. And that’s why he deserves this honor:  his words, as much or more than his songs, are in our bones and blood.

God bless Bob Dylan, great American poet.

Write and Cycle: The Joys of Biking

The storm struck as I crossed Jacoby Road on the Little Miami Bike Trail, four miles south of Yellow Springs, heading home from Xenia. The sky roiled, rain began pelting me and a cannon blast of wind flattened trees lining the trail ahead—or seemed to. I felt caught in something surreal, simultaneously insular and exposed, but exciting as hell as I rode right into the blustery heart of my own personal tornado. Leaves and limbs crashing around me, I wondered if I’d make it home alive.

It wasn’t really a tornado, just a pop-up storm that, if you’re a fairly long-distance biker as I am (maximum distance 30 miles in a day), is always possible in Ohio during summer. Though this was the worst storm I’ve ever ridden in, it wasn’t the first and won’t be the last. Why, you might be wondering, do I court disaster by venturing off into weather that can change faster than you can put on sunscreen?

For Serenity. I always consult radar as well as the sky before taking off, so it’s rare that I get caught in anything like the above storm. Many of my rides are simply part of my spiritual practice that includes meditation and prayer. No purpose other than floating north or south on the trails where, depending on time of day, the only traffic I’ll encounter includes squirrels, rabbits, deer, chipmunks and the occasional cardinal swooping inches from my face.
For the body. A former jogger who had to finally quit due to aging knees, I needed an exercise to replace the one that kept me fit for twenty years. If you do it right, biking can be much easier on bones, organs and joints than other sports, but you’ve got to increase your mileage slowly, carefully monitoring your body’s response. I bought the wrong bike at first, one requiring me to bend forward; the result was neck pain that might’ve ended my cycling career before it got started. But after I tried a recumbent, upright with a comfy seat, I’ve never looked back. However, my bike’s tiny front tire “feels” every crack and crevice, so it performs much better on smooth trails than on roads, a limitation that suits me fine; trails are safer and a lot more serene.
For Desirable Destinations. Soon after the rails to trails bikeway system became well established, my wife and I regularly rode south to Corwin, Ohio, where for awhile there was an ice cream parlor, now gone. Then we discovered Stoney Creek Roasters (now Telemetry) in Cedarville, with its welcoming half-moon deck above Massie’s Creek, cool beneath the sycamores on even the hottest day. Lately we’ve added Table of Contents Café inside Blue Jacket Books at 30 South Detroit Street in Xenia, where you can enjoy gourmet lunches (served 10:00 a.m. until 3:00 p.m. Monday through Saturday), including such delicacies as African peanut soup; grilled cheese sandwiches threaded with scallions on potato bread; and key lime cheesecake. Feed your body and mind simultaneously, surrounded by 50,000 books!
For Companionship. I’m both a solitary and social biker—each has special benefits. And while I do sometimes visit destinations alone, I’m usually there with my wife. On the trail, she sees (and hears) a lot more bird species than I do, invites me to look up and appreciate the sky more than I would by myself, and, most importantly, talked me into riding at night. There’s nothing quite like gliding down the bike trail from Xenia to Yellow Springs, especially in October, light on and dressed warmly. Passing silently down that long, dark tunnel, I feel the earth around me even more than in daylight, the closest I’ll ever get to flying on the ground. And it’s thanks to my wisely adventurous companion. I’d never have done this alone.
For Writing Opportunities. I try not to write in my head while riding so that I won’t miss the fields, clouds and orioles, knowing that when I arrive at one of the above destinations, I’ll turn it into a writer’s retreat, where, somehow under less pressure to produce, I’ll hammer out that review or blog that might’ve distracted me earlier from fiction or poetry. But that doesn’t mean you can’t interrupt if you see me with bowed head above journal or laptop.
For Practical Transportation. The bike is an earth-friendly alternative to the car, especially in a bikeable town like Yellow Springs. But my town isn’t the only one encouraging bikes. Nearby Xenia even allows biking on its wide sidewalks, and Dayton has recently instituted Bike Link , an easy, convenient bike rental system where you can pick up a bike at one location and either leave it at another near your destination or return it to its place of origin. Recently Springfield completed a trail connector to the heart of downtown, where bikers can enjoy the Heritage Center, Frank Lloyd Wright House and soon-to-open Winans Chocolate and Coffee on N. Fountain Avenue. With biking becoming ubiquitous, motorists are a lot more accepting of sharing the roadways these days.

So:  see you at Blue Jacket, Telemetry, Winans or maybe on that blissful stretch of trail between Cedarville and Xenia—you know, that spot where you can glimpse lamas in their fenced compound back through the trees.

In case you’re wondering, I made it home just fine through that storm; in fact, I wasn’t even soaked until the deluge struck . . . two blocks from my house. But that’s biking.

Channeling Dunbar & Dylan

I recall, years ago at the Antioch Writers Workshop, watching from afar as Herbert Woodward Martin prepared himself to become Paul Laurence Dunbar. Herb had sequestered himself outside the auditorium to do what he needed to do in order to let the famous Dayton poet inhabit his body, his mind, maybe even his soul.

To channel Dunbar. What does that mean when artists say they’re “channeling” someone else?

Do You Believe in Magic?

I hadn’t thought much about this quasi-mystical term until recently. Reuniting with my old professional musician friend Tom Martin (www.martinsguitar.com), I surprised him by remarking that his channeling Bob Dylan had allowed me to channel Dylan during the writing of my novel The Psalms of Israel Jones. “But,” Tom asked, “how did I give you Dylan and how’d that lead to Mr. Jones?”  It’s a good question:  what does channeling mean and what role does it play in creative life?

While I’d like to at least allow for the possibility of magic—there is much about creativity that is mysterious, after all—channeling seems more natural than supernatural to me:  a process any artist can access, with time, experience and motivation.

More than Mimicry

Since the sixties, I’ve loved many of Bob Dylan’s songs as performed by others, especially The Byrds. I just didn’t much like his voice, described by a journalist as sounding like “somebody’s grand-dad.” And yet, when, two decades later, I heard Tom play “Like a Rolling Stone” and “Girl from the North Country,” singing them as Dylan, with as much of Dylan’s voice and attitude as he could muster, I experienced a joyous sucker-punch to my soul. I finally got Dylan’s antiauthoritarian outsiderness; the need to question everything and everyone; to rip off every mask; to live now, every second, until you die.

And I got all that from hearing Dylan coming through Tom.

Power of the Personal

While I believe anyone can channel, I don’t believe everyone can channel just anyone.

Having a lot in common helps. Herb, like Dunbar, is African-American, a wizard with words and the possessor of a gorgeous speaking/singing voice. Tom, like Dylan, is a fine acoustic guitarist and harmonica-player who can condense a novel into a song, complete with characters, plot and theme. Like Dylan, Tom has some great rock and roll chops, too. The skills he’s honed over fifty or so years of playing contribute a lot to bringing forth Dylan, just as every poem and piece of fiction I ever wrote somehow led directly to Israel Jones.

Yes, I was intimidated when first I conceived my novel project, since, from the get-go, Dylan was the model for Israel Jones. I knew I would need to describe live performances, to let him sing and speak through me—to behave in ways the man who wrote Dylan’s songs would act. I wrote lyrics to Israel Jones’ songs by “hearing” Dylan’s voice—but I would’ve never had access without Tom’s channeling him for me first.

The Essence

However, Herb does not channel the real Dunbar any more than Tom channels the real Dylan. It’s the intuited essence of their subject that answers their summons, filtered through the rich and varied experience of their own lives. There’s a lot of Herb in his Dunbar, a lot of Tom in his Dylan. The channeler uses powerful tools like music, poetry and art to present original recreations that astonish, delight and change both artist and audience in profound and unpredictable ways.

The product of channeling is something old and something new at the same time, the intersection of perceiver and perceived; or, perhaps more accurately—and  affectionately, for this process is nothing if not emotional—the lover and the beloved.

I love Tom Martin’s Bob Dylan as he lives in Israel Jones.  As he lives in me.

P.S.

If you’ve never seen Herb perform Dunbar, put him on your bucket list now. As for Tom, he’s returned to the music scene in fine form—I recently saw him play at The Village Wine Cellars in Lebanon, Ohio, picking up exactly where I left him at the beginning of the ‘90s.

P.P.S.

Classes at Words Worth Writing Center in Dayton, Ohio, featuring instructors Katrina Kittle and Jeanne Estridge, begin August 30, 2016 and continue through December 8. Easy on-line registration and entire schedule at http://www.wordsworthdayton.com/id67.html

The End of Editing

(At least for now)

Shortly after The World According to Garp won the National Book Award in 1980, I recall reading that John Irving was caught on-stage editing the published copy of his novel before rising to read from it. Amazing! Wasn’t it good enough by then? Shouldn’t he have let it go?

Now, many years later I understand that we—no one else— are the CEO’s of our work and that there simply is no end of editing until we die (then someone else takes over). And yet if writers are interested in moving on and not getting stuck in a writing rut, they need to call it quits at some point, right? So, when is that, exactly?

Maybe you should stop editing when

You’ve made—or at least tried—all of the changes recommended by your beta readers. But before you quit editing, ask yourself if you let yourself off too easy. Oh, yes, you checked the box beside every single suggestion or criticism, but maybe you only responded to those suggestions that felt “right.” How about those suggestions toward which you felt neutral or those you actively resisted? There’s absolutely nothing to be lost by trying all suggestions; you can always return to the original. If you can check those boxes, then it probably is time to stop editing and submit.


You find yourself unable to change any more words, phrases and sentences. If the manuscript has begun to concretize on this micro level, it could mean you should back off and quit tinkering on the macro level, too.


The characters and story seem to be losing energy, maybe even interest, for you. Even though changes you’re contemplating but have not yet made seem logical, if making them significantly reduces your passion for the project, then maybe this is a good indication you should stop, reserving the right to revise if and only if a respected editor or publisher asks you to.


After extensive editing, you’ve let it simmer a good long time—days, weeks, maybe even months—so that when you re-read it, it feels fresh. That’s the adjective one of my best editors labeled a manuscript of mine she eventually published, one for which I wrote six extra chapters twice before deciding the book was done. I should’ve quit while I was ahead, but I was a rookie. At least while I was spinning my wheels, the book was aging in the cask.


You know it’s not complete, but you currently lack something essential to bring the piece to fruition. Possibly it’s craft; e.g., you simply must learn to use multiple points of view before continuing. But maybe it’s information you lack, and you need to do more research. While writing Sophie’s Choice, William Styron flew to Europe to visit the Nazi death camps before finishing the novel. But maybe you’re unable to give yourself permission to dig deep enough inside your unconscious for the rest of the story. You may, in fact, be, in the words of Lawrence Block, “washing garbage,” wasting your time editing superficial work requiring far greater depth. Mere editing may not help. Waiting, in this case, may yield greater rewards later on.

So whether you’ve revised and edited the piece for a week or a year, face it that you may be done—for now. Someone else may edit your words in the future. But since you have no control over that, relax, do the absolute best you can, let go and trust.

Addenda:  Publication

The Sycamore, a beautiful publication of Cincinnati’s Christ Cathedral, wants spiritual poems, this time on the topic “Loss,” for their fall issue. Deadline is August 31, 2016. Submit poems to editor Barbara Lyghtel Rohrer at editor@readthesycamore.com  (The latest issue on Spirituality and the Arts contains my poem “Holy Motion.”) Check ‘em out at http://readthesycamore.com/

My review of Donna Meredith’s new thoroughly researched and compelling eco-thriller Fraccidental Death has been published in the Charleston (WV) Gazette-Mail at http://www.wvgazettemail.com/ae-books/20160731/review-fraccidental-death-explores-fracking-controversy  With strong plot and characters, the novel presents a quite  balanced view of the controversial practice of hydraulic fracturing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advanced Dialogue: Nate & Silas

Not known for our conversational acumen, we men are even less lauded for our ability (or desire) to “go deep,” unless it’s to be the distant target of a forward pass. But recently I had a couple of miraculous moments during two male “non-conversations” leading to realizations resulting in a life-enhancing epiphany.

The Foxhole

The first was a social encounter with “Nate,” a fellow cancer survivor who’d given me excellent medical advice in 2015, resulting in my getting a prostatectomy rather than treating my disease with radiation or “watchful waiting.” We began chatting about Mohammed Ali, who’d just passed away and kept it up for a few minutes until eventually we were drawn away.

Later I was tempted to lament our lack of conversational substance when I had my first realization. While we were ostensibly two guys talking about a sports hero’s life and death, we’d actually been telling each other in subtext that we deeply appreciated the extra life we’d been given; and furthermore that we delighted in each other’s presence after emerging from the cancer foxhole amazingly healthy and alive.

Old and of Good Flavor

My second non-conversation occurred during a literary gig at the Bridgeport, West Virginia Public Library a few days later. No sooner had I begun placing my books for sale on the table near the front door than a gentleman I judged to be in his early seventies—I’ll call him Silas—sat down nearby. Without prologue, he began speaking non-stop almost as if he knew me.

As he continued his monologue unabated for the next ninety minutes, I realized it was the airplane experience I’d never had (I seldom fly), where it’s almost impossible to disengage from the extrovert in the seat beside you. Except I could’ve disengaged easily. Realizing that folks were there to buy used books at the library’s annual sale—not new ones by an unknown author—I could’ve moved into the room where I’d hold a writing workshop later; or I might’ve found a quiet corner to read and write in silence. I knew I wasn’t going to sell any books here.

I surprised myself by choosing to stay put and listen. A native Bridgetonian who’d returned after many adventures, Silas’s knowledge and life experience were broad, including, for instance, insider tips about the oil and gas fracking industry, a subject I’m currently interested in. About this time, I had my second realization:  I will use this man and/or his knowledge somewhere, sometime, in my writing.

Plus I just liked him. Silas was articulate, witty and refreshingly nonpartisan, objective and balanced in his opinions (of which he had many). A real plus in these fractious times. Now I’ll venture my opinion, that some older guys really do deserve the label mature (definition:  “experienced, fully developed, old and of good flavor”). If nature favors us with lucid, healthy brains, we can all aspire to that exalted state.

Ironic . . . or appropriate?

Two men, two non-conversations, one epiphany:  human connection is more about listening than expressing, about humility rather than zeal.

I smile to recall the title of my Bridgeport workshop:  “Advanced Dialogue.”

P.S.  

Antioch Writers’ Week-long Summer Workshop will be held from July 9-15—and while the registration deadline is rapidly approaching, don’t forget all 7:00 p.m. programs are free and open to the public, including Roxanne Gay’s keynote on Saturday evening, July 9. Most events, like Gay’s speech, take place at Antioch University Midwest, though some readings are held at coffeehouses like the Emporium/Underdog Café in downtown Yellow Springs. Go the website and/or contact director Sharon Short for the schedule. It’s a wonderful, possibly life-changing event I’ve attended for many years and I hope to see you there!

Serving the Work: Me, Brooks & Hemingway (Plus a Photography Exhibit at Aullwood)

“Hemingway able to rekindle brilliance despite excesses” read the headline above David Brooks’ op-ed column last week in the Dayton Daily News. I knew the excesses would be mostly alcohol, but I was keen to read what Brooks meant by “rekindling.” All of us who write need to know how to keep feeding the fire.

Along with his suggestions to perform the “professional routines that served as a lifeline when all else was crumbling” and strive for “moments of self-forgetting,” it was Brooks’ third item that really grabbed me. In his estimation, when you try to serve the work, you “[focus] on each concrete task and [do] it the way it’s supposed to be done.” To me, it also means elevating the work while deflating the ego around writing. That inspired me to speculate on how you, as a writer, can do this.

First of all, discipline yourself to not only show up, sit down and stay there until you’ve honorably done the work you intended but also strive to lead a disciplined lifestyle that allows it to happen, for example, incorporating physical and spiritual exercise, avoiding excessive drinking, eating and other work-killing indulgences Hemingway had trouble avoiding in his later career.
Ask trusted, knowledgeable peers for their opinions about your drafts and then consider every suggestion they offer, even to the point of trying each of them in the work. (If a change you’ve made doesn’t work out, you can always return to the original, so be sure to save it.)
Research exhaustively to find the facts, all of them, and not just the ones convenient to your truth. Writing fiction? Doesn’t matter. You still want credibility, fairness and verisimilitude. That might mean participating in experiences you’d rather not have. A female writer friend wasn’t crazy about going to a gun shop to handle guns, but her male character loved them, so she went. I didn’t really want to attend a Bob Dylan concert at Hara Arena while I was writing The Psalms of Israel Jones , but I went anyway and discovered a key detail which significantly impacted what happens in my climactic scene.
Serve others, because it serves your work, too. Share all you know about the writing process with writing peers who have less experience than you. You learn right along with those whom you would teach.
Bring your work to the attention of agents and editors humbly and appropriately; i.e., help others bring it to the world. Preparing the manuscript professionally, researching markets, preparing the pitch and querying: these are basics you can master through study and experience. Then, when your work is accepted, you’ll need to respond to agents’ and editors’ suggestions for rewrites before deciding to take or leave them. (My recommendation: mostly take them.)
Following publication, stand and deliver. Even large traditional publishers will expect you to mostly market your work by yourself. Doing it well requires mega-doses of humility. Bookstore and coffee shop owners, teachers, editors, bloggers and conference leaders will often help you if you ask them kindly, respect boundaries and expect nothing. With zero expectation (but much hope), I’m ecstatic when someone gives me a chance to publicly serve my work by serving them, for example, using every available resource, from social media to the U.S. mail, to help assure a book-buying crowd at my readings and signings.

Finally you stand before those who might enjoy, even need, your work and introduce these eager strangers to the concretized vision that once existed only in your head and heart. Now let your baby go to suffer possible rejection, indifference, even early death, in its quest to find enduring love. Then get off-stage and begin again.

Speaking of Service . . .

I recently met local “volunteer photographer” Bill Franz, of Oakwood, when he photographed me as Artist of the Week for his Dayton at Work and Play Facebook page. Follow the link, and you’ll see that he takes wonderful photographs of local art and artists, often to promote good causes. I saw his current Dayton Outdoor Exhibit at Aullwood Farm and enjoyed it immensely (it’s up through June 26). I think you will, too. Supporting others, Bill deserves our support. Be sure to walk around the Farm!

Literary Feasts

Blue Jacket in Xenia Has Food!

How would you like to dine on gourmet soups, sandwiches, desserts and coffee among 50,000 books? If, like me, you’re looking for quality destinations along Greene County’s Little Miami Bike Trail—or, if not a biker, a place not too far to drive—then Table of Contents inside Xenia, Ohio’s Blue Jacket Books will delight you.

Could be you know Blue Jacket Books already; after all, it’s been an anchor business at 30 S. Detroit Street for ten years, selling used books almost exclusively, with vast holdings in social sciences and history. Also, BJB has a strong local authors section (including yours truly) and hosts readings. I’m always surprised to find bookish folks who’ve never patronized Blue Jacket. If you need something beyond books to entice you to make the trip, how about excellent cuisine and fresh coffee?

Owner Lawrence Hammar’s wife Cassandra Lee, and James Luckett of Yellow Springs, go well beyond the minimum to satisfy hungry readers, writers and bikers with excellent homemade comfort food. The menu changes weekly, although some favorites, like zesty tomato soup, appear regularly. (The café’s Facebook page features dish descriptions and pictures for the day’s offerings.) The food leans vegetarian, and probably 70 to 80 percent is organic.

On my first visit, I was offered three different soups and sandwiches; I highly recommend the grilled cheese sandwich (gourmet cheese and bread) with green onions threaded throughout, plus tomatoes, a good compliment to the hamburger soup. I had African peanut soup at my next visit. Dessert choices included otherworldly chocolate and lemon cakes, all made from scratch. (Delicious.)

Very important to me, I was allowed to linger after eating. Once the lunch crowd dispersed, I was left alone to write on my laptop and take advantage of a free coffee refill, one of Stoney Creek Roaster’s darkest, richest blends.* I found myself quite productive in a peaceful atmosphere surrounded by the published works of diverse writers.

Table of Contents is open Monday through Saturday, 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., and serves lunch as well as “take-away dinners.” While I’m not likely to abandon my allegiance to Cedarville’s Stoney Creek Roaster’s (recently renamed Telemetry Coffee Roasters), now that good weather’s here, with its wonderful deck perched above Massie’s Creek, I definitely plan to include Table of Contents on my cycling itinerary. When you go, don’t forget to graze the shelves along with the food!

Back to Yellow Springs for Gourmet Lit

Epic Bookshop, tucked between the Emporium and Senior Citizens Center at 229 Xenia Avenue, in Yellow Springs, Ohio, will host Rebecca Morean on Friday, April 29, 6:30-8:00 p.m., reading from her new literary novel Azimuths and other works. Azimuths, a beautifully-written, poetic work, focuses on five women living in a trailer park in the Mojave Desert, with a fossilized whale underneath them and an oval supercollider beneath both. For a nice conversation between Becky and Hallie Ephron about the book, see http://www.jungleredwriters.com/2015/12/rebecca-morean-azimuths-trailer-park-on.html.

With Stops in Greenville and Oakwood . . .

April is of course National Poetry Month, and here are two readings to tease your artistic taste buds:

The Greenville Poets (Cathy Essinger, David Garrison, Suzanne Kelly-Garrison, Belinda Rismiller, Lianne Spidel, and Myrna Stone) will read at Montage Café (527 S. Broadway Street, Greenville, OH 45331) on Friday, April 22nd, at 7 p.m. It’s a cool venue with great homemade food and pastries.

The Wright Library Poets will give a reading on Tuesday, April 19th at Wright Memorial Library in Oakwood. Call the library at 937-294-7171 for more details.

*Unfortunately, Table of Contents currently lacks an espresso/cappuccino maker, a situation they hope to remedy soon.