Night Writer: Jeff Vande Zande

I don’t know when I realized that I wanted to be a writer, but I was surrounded by writing from a young age. My father, John Vande Zande, was a writer. He wrote Night Driving (William Morrow), a collection of short stories, which won a Chautauqua Literary Circle Award. I distinctly remember Saturday mornings because we three children had to be quiet so Dad could write. Such mornings were sound-tracked by the clacking of typewriter keys. When I was young, I thought that all fathers wrote stories on Saturday mornings. It was only later that I would discover that my father had a strange affliction . . . an affliction that he would pass on to me.

When I was six, I wrote my first story, which my parents tape-recorded as I read it aloud. It was called “The Strange Bug.” I can still remember the opening lines: “First I was run over by a car. Then I was run over by a train. And I was hurt. And I had to go to the hospital.” Since that first story, I’ve been an on-again off-again writer. In my teens, I didn’t write . . . sort of a rebellion against my father. In my twenties, I wrote poetry; I suppose because my father wrote fiction. For most of my thirties up until now, I’ve concentrated on stories, novels, and screenplays for short films.

I’m at a place where I am quite content with my writing at the craft level. I know when I’m working on a good poem or good story. What I struggle with at 42 years of age is the fear that I’m repeating myself . . . of not doing anything new. My most recent novel, American Poet, had a great deal to do with Theodore Roethke. Through research, I learned that Roethke reinvented himself as a poet with almost every book. It makes me wonder if I’m doing that. I worry that I’m spinning out the same themes over and over without really saying anything new.

I’ve definitely explored some specific themes in my work. I’m interested in working-class themes and how work both gives us identity and confines us. I’m also interested in themes of altruism. I’ve been told that fathers and sons is an ongoing theme in my work. Likewise, I’m interested in characters who are trying to discover their true selves. Recently, I’ve been exploring old age and retirement as a theme. That stage of our lives is the last frontier, and I think it’s been fairly unexplored in literature. It’s relevant, I think, because we are living longer, so some of us have to face the unknown of twenty years after retirement. In a way, it’s like a second go-around with our teenage years. We are faced once again with the challenging question, “Who am I?” We usually don’t have work to define us anymore. There are no maps for how to approach those years after retirement. In fact, I explored it in a novella entitled The Slow Moons Climbs. So far, no publishers have been interested in it.

Of my themes, I think I am most interested in the idea of self-identity. It’s the greatest challenge we are given in life . . . to discover our true self and to give ourselves the freedom for our self to evolve. Norm Maclean of A River Runs Through It fame once wrote, “The problem of self identity is not just a problem for the young. It is a problem all the time. Perhaps the problem. It should haunt old age, and when it no longer does it should tell you that you are dead.” That’s the theme that fuels The Slow Moon Climbs, but it is also the theme of my first novel, Into the Desperate Country. In that novel, my main character loses his wife and daughter to a tragic car accident. Years later, he realizes that he doesn’t know who he is. I have a colleague who used to teach Into the Desperate Country in a literature course. Whenever he would invite me in as a guest author, I would have excellent discussions with his students. The theme of self-identity is very relevant to them; most of them are struggling with it every day.

Recently, I’ve struggled with my own self-identity, especially as it relates to being a writer. I’ve entered a time in my life where finding time to write has become much more difficult. When my children were younger and not in school, I was a night writer. I wrote every night from 11 p.m. until one in the morning. I easily functioned on six hours of sleep. As my children and I have aged, it’s harder for me to work at night. When I was working on American Poet in the fall of 2011, I was writing until one or two in the morning and then getting up at 5:45 a.m. to get my kids ready for school. I had a cot in my office at Delta College to take naps on between classes. That schedule made it so I could finish the book but, when I look back, I realize that I was sleep deprived for at least three months. I also wasn’t very healthy.

Since then, I’ve been getting sleep . . . and I like it. I’ve been going to the gym regularly, too. I might even be in the best shape of my life. I haven’t really started any longer projects like a novel since finishing American Poet. When I’m working on something, I need to work on it every day for a sustained amount of time. Right now, my daily life offers no sustained amount of downtime. I’m in a process of trying to discover what kind of writer I’m going to be if I’m no longer a night writer. I’m trying to wrap my mind around the idea that, for novels at least, I’m probably going to have to become a summer writer. I’ll still write at night in the summer, but at least I’ll be able to sleep in. It’s difficult because I have an idea for a new novel but, short of thinking about it, I can’t really start writing it.

A recent development in my life is a writing gig I have with the Cedar Sweeper, a magazine devoted to fly fishing in Michigan. Once every two months I write a short story for them, and the only stipulation is that the story has to be related to fly fishing in some way. Also, the story can’t be longer than 2,000 words. I’ve really enjoyed coming up with ideas for fly fishing-related stories, and the practice keeps me immersed in the world of short fiction.

The last long project that I finished was a novella. I never allowed myself to work beyond midnight on it. That might be why it ended up being around 80 pages long. For me, however, this novella, entitled Parable of Weeds, is definitely new territory compared to the realism of most of my work. I guess it would be called a slipstream novella because it slips between sci-fi and literature. If I had to compare it to something, I would compare it to Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. I’ve done a little slipstream writing in short fiction, and I love the world-creating that it requires. Parable of Weeds was my attempt to execute a longer slipstream piece. I really wanted it to be a novel, but it more or less finished itself on page 80. Even though it was new territory, I must have done something right because it was recently accepted for publication by Untreed Reads, an e-book publisher out of California. That will be new territory for me as well . . . having a book that is strictly an e-book.

I sometimes wonder if I would still be writing if I weren’t teaching creative writing. It’s a mixed blessing of sorts. It fuels me and keeps me interested in writing, but it also drains me and makes me sick of writing. I hear a frequent question from my students: “Once this class is over, what should I do to keep improving as a writer?” I think they expect me to tell them about another class; however, I usually have pretty simple advice for them: “Read everything you can, especially in the genres that you want to write in.” Once writers know how to read like a writer (which I try to teach my students) then, technically, they don’t need any more classes. They can learn everything they need to learn by reading other writers. If students ask me who they should read, I often tell them to start with Hemingway. It’s cliché, I know, but it’s really good advice. I follow up by emphasizing that they shouldn’t stop with Hemingway. All writers have something to teach us about writing.

Interestingly, I think as a writer I have reached a point that I no longer read writers to study their craft. After twenty years of writing, I know how to write; I don’t need to study other writers anymore. Or maybe I’m simply too stubborn to learn anything from them. I don’t read a great deal of contemporary fiction, especially not the stuff that’s being called “cutting edge.” It bores me, but I’m not going to get into why. When I begin to explore the reasons behind my boredom, I come out looking like a closed-minded curmudgeon. Right now I am reading Neil Sheehan’s A Bright Shining Lie, a nearly 800-page non-fiction book on the Vietnam War. I’d been teaching Tim O’Brien’s short story “The Things They Carried” for years, but I realized recently that I know next to nothing about the Vietnam War. I felt I should know something since my students were asking me questions that I couldn’t answer.

I think that I’ve also outgrown my need for contact with fellow writers. I used to have some writer friends with whom I would exchange work. Early on, it was very helpful, and I would even recommend similar exchanges for anyone who is just getting started writing. Eventually, though, I got to the point where I didn’t need other people. I often found that they weren’t making my writing better; they were just making it closer to how they would have written it. To be honest, I don’t care that much for spending time with writers . . . at least not writers who can only talk about writing. Jesus, but that gets tiring. On the whole, writers are a pretty solipsistic bunch. I would much rather spend time with their writing than with them, at least most of them. I can go many months without ever talking about writing. In fact, I’m happiest that way. For whatever reason, however, when I’m around other writers, we always end up talking about writing. There’s always a sub-textual pissing match going on beneath the surface of the conversation, too. Too often, writers seem to be one-upping each other with what they talk about. Or maybe I’m just sensitive.

That’s not to say, however, that I don’t like people. In fact, I’ve discovered that I really enjoy working collaboratively with other people on creative projects. About five years ago, I took a few classes to learn more about screenwriting . . . mainly because we had students at Delta College interested in screenwriting, and I wanted to be able to offer them a class. As a result, I now find myself teaching in a film program at Delta. I work with another professor from the Electronic Media discipline. We both feel that if we are going to teach students how to write and make short films, then we should also be writing and making them. Our most recent project will be a twenty-minute film when it’s finished. I have to say that I really love working with other people on a creative project, perhaps more than I love writing. Writing fiction or poetry can be such a lonely business. I suppose that’s why some writers like to get together with other writers. That’s the difference, though. When writers get together, it’s usually to talk about writing or something they’ve written. The creative aspect always takes place in isolation. When film makers get together, it’s to get something done. It’s not to critique; it’s to create together. Film making has allowed me to branch out in other ways, too. I’ve even taken a stab or two at acting.

I’ve been asked if I consider myself a writer. My answer: I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m most happy when I’m involved in creating something. For me, that doesn’t have to necessarily be a written piece. I’ve dabbled in acting. I’ve committed myself to working on screenplays. When I’m doing either, I feel that same creative high that I feel when I’m writing fiction or poetry. I’ve also done some painting and even tried my hand at making furniture. While doing either, I feel just as inspired and fulfilled as I do when I’m writing.

I like to create, and it really doesn’t matter what I’m creating. What this means is that I’ll probably never be a great writer. The great ones always seem to be obsessive about writing, which I’m not. If Theodore Roethke is any indication, that obsession also makes them rather intolerable people, which I hope never to be. So, maybe I’m not a writer, especially if obsession is part of the definition. Honestly, I’m okay with that. I’ve discovered that I need creative projects in my life, and that’s enough to sustain me. It’s a big part of my self-identity.

I can live with that. In fact, I can live by it.

 

www.jeffvandezande.com  

 

Copyright 2013 by Jeff Vande Zande

Turning Point

Early in 2009 we set out to publish five, themed literary anthologies – and we have succeeded.

In every case, as per our mission, we have sought to tackle big themes related to the human condition: pain, migration, war, human nature, and faith. In these four years we have dealt with countless queries in thousands of emails. We have read nearly 800 submissions and thousands and thousands of pages. We’ve worked with 63 authors (award-winning, established writers as well as a few first-time writers). Although this has always been a two-person operation, we have had assistance from colleagues and honors quality students. Each project has been different and satisfying. For the recently-published Puzzles of Faith and Patterns of Doubt we published less than 9% of submissions. For the Being Human, Battle Runes, and Common Boundary anthologies we published about 15% of submissions. We held one group reading at St. Francis College (April 2010), have had Nahid Rachlin (March 2011) and then John Guzlowski (October 2011) come and read separately, and just held another group reading (February 2013). In the future, we hope to hold two more readings but have them student-centered. We have had an active web site loaded with profiles, interviews, articles, and a number of book reviews.

We are now able to take a deep breath. But what is next?

As we have periodically added author profiles and interviews to the Bibliotekos site, we’d like to add more. We’d like to have more articles on the site – about authors and books. And we are opening another tab (with a new call) for science writing – not necessarily for any anticipated anthology but to be published on the site.

We are not sure what our next book project is, but we have so far been able to exceed our own expectations. We’d like to spend some time developing material on the site. As you might be aware, one of us is editor of the ASEBL Journal / blog, a scholarly venture, and that requires quite a bit of time and attention as well.

The journey has been fascinating, we look forward to the next phases, and we appreciate your continued interest and support.

Cape Town

"Cape Town"

Vaneshran Arumugam

Your street remembers me like a vein, full of lifeblood- I'm a fighting corpuscle...for you

You have pumped like this for centuries of lives,

Watching us come and leave your bountiful table

Through all our various shades and trades

Sprawling at your feet

Spilling our needs deep into this land.

Your stone remembers me like a house hewn from all that is precious - I am the finest grain of shiny sand polishing my path through your corridors of possibility

Where you've seen history unfold its leaves in terrible directions.

Your waves remember me like a name-giving first bath - I am a magic spell of words...for you

For you are the mother that wakes before all of us

Guiding our dreams to the morning sun calling the changes to the tunes we play

To the rhythm you lay down

Reassuringly, unswervingly

I remember you're the mountain

I remember you're the gold-drenched shore

I remember you're the avenues, the trees

The sum of everything yet to be

Begins with you

I remember you are all our mother

Our mother after all.

Copyright©2013 by Vaneshran Arumugam

FAITH AND DOUBT anthology available

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We are excited and proud to announce the publication of Puzzles of Faith and Patterns of Doubt – our fifth, themed anthology (and the last in the series). As with our other books, this has been a labor of love. We do virtually all of the work ourselves, but we are grateful to Pastor David Rommereim for writing a beautiful Foreword and to our student interns Evan Czmola, Tyler Perkins, and Kimberly Resnick. We are especially grateful to our dear friend Mary Kenefick Keating for giving us a striking cover image.

The contributors to the volume include: Larry Lefkowitz, Patty Somlo, Arthur Powers, Frank Russo, Rivka Keren, Michele Merens, Julie J. Nichols, Atar Hadari, Gary Guinn, W.C. Bamberger, Andrea Vojtko, Bill Scalia, Edie Cottrell, Joey Dean Hale, and Roberta Allen. Each one of these wonderful and inspiring people is either an accomplished fiction writer or poet (or both). You won’t be disappointed with their work.

Here is what one accomplished writer (and a Bibliotekos contributor) says about Puzzles of Faith: The poems and short stories in Puzzles of Faith and Patterns of Doubt probe their subjects with a delicate and sensitive scalpel. “Access Closed” by Joey Dean Hale offers a poignant portrait of a man “without an original idea” who, in his estrangement from his family and his faith, retains a stubborn nobility. “Padre Raimundo’s Army” by Arthur Powers is a shining parable about the triumph of faith and goodness over inhumanity. In Patty Somlo’s “Since Letitia Williams Saw Jesus,” a woman sees a vision, passes it on, and in so doing, loses it. But perhaps her deepest faith resides in what she pretends to see in the hopes that it will appear. This is a thought-provoking and eclectic collection that memorably explores contradictory truths, lies, and enigmas. – Anne Whitehouse (poet and novelist, The Refrain, Blessings and Curses, Fall Love, among other books).

And here is part of the Foreword: In this volume, you will notice those who have risked observing their living with the delicate venture into what is other. You will wander in the wilderness of the pain caused by misinformed choices. You will see those who turn hallucination into healing. You will enjoy the turning of death from empty religion into the raw gift of grief. You will pay attention to the packages offered in the stories that announce the timely gift of reconciliation and forgiveness; hope from the places of deep pain re-imagined and healed through the telling. Each describes what is beyond the ordinary, as well as what is deeper in the vicissitudes of a faith moving well beyond religion and into the heart songs which religion hopes to honor, but has become limited by its penchant to be above doubt and beyond mystery. – Rev. David Rommereim.

Finally, a few of our words from the Preface: Much of the work in this volume is not religious – the doubts that strain one’s faith are questions of character, difficulties in personal relationships, or problems in the family. The puzzle of faith is not really about God, it’s about the human predicament: our sins, our mistakes, our failures (and at times our glories) with ourselves and others.

We trust you will support the press and pick up a copy of the book – don’t forget that we do offer discounts – and tell all of your friends, family, and colleagues about us and what we are doing. Not all features are yet live on the Amazon page (e.g. *Look Inside* - give that a few days), and it takes a little longer for the title information to appear in other distribution streams (other online sellers and bookstore databases).

Thank you for your support.

 

Newtown

to you they were not
          children
they were not
          beautiful

avatars in your videogame
          mind, you forgot
they would not fight back
they would not shoot
or bludgeon or stab you

you forgot they drew
pictures of their houses
and played with their dogs
and dreamed of being
superheroes and movie stars

you forgot they were afraid
of thunder and the dark

you came to show them
your close friends Glock
Sig Sauer and Bushmaster .223

extras in your action movie
          mind, you knew
they would scream and run
but you forgot the smell
of fear and blood would
          fill your brain

you remembered your heroes
from Virginia Tech and Tulsa
Aurora and Oak Creek
Minneapolis and USC
Café Racer Espresso and
          Columbine

but you forgot the parents
whose hearts are gone forever
and the children

you forgot
          they were innocent

                ~

- James K. Zimmerman
          12/15/12

copyright by James K. Zimmerman 2012 - All Rights Reserved

 

Puzzles of Faith and Patterns of Doubt

We are pleased to announce the contributors to our fifth themed anthology, Puzzles of Faith and Patterns of Doubt: Short Stories and Poems.

We received over 370 individual pieces for this anthology, and it has taken us quite a long time to read through and consider all of the work. We are grateful to all who submitted and acknowledge their support. Of course, we could not accept everything – we had to make difficult decisions and eliminated some very fine stories and poems. In the end, we have accepted only 9% of what was submitted, far below our usual 15% acceptance rate.

Each anthology has been different, and this one is no exception: we had some general ideas about what we wanted to read (what we thought we’d receive on the theme of faith and doubt), but then we were pleasantly surprised (as always) by the creativity of the writers (and their different reflections on the theme), so we followed that lead.

Some names you might recognize from previous anthologies, but we have quite a number of new contributors to add to our roster. All are accomplished writers. Unless we change our minds, we provide here a preliminary breakdown of how the finished book will be laid out, after a Preface by Gregory and Fredericka and a Foreword by the Reverend David Rommereim (Pastor, the Lutheran Church of the Good Shepherd, Brooklyn).

Compiling the accepted submissions in the proper layout, copyediting and proofreading (by several people, including our current editorial interns Tyler Perkins and Kimberly Resnick), all have yet to be done. Gregory was responsible for the cover photography on all of the anthologies so far, but we are pleased to note that Puzzles of Faith and Patterns of Doubt will most likely feature photography (an angel in the garden of the Carmelite Monastery, Dublin) by Mary Kenefick Keating. In spite of the work, we enjoy the process of these book projects and ask, again, for your patience as we move forward to a February 2013 publication date.

Accepted authors and works, probable sequence:

§  Larry Lefkowitz, “The Shoemaker”

§  Patty Somlo, “Since Leticia Williams Saw Jesus”

§  Arthur Powers, “Padre Raimundo’s Army”

§  Frank Russo, poems, “In the Museum of Creation,” “Nativity of Christ Cathedral, Riga,” “Blind Faith,” “Good Friday, Lake Victoria,” “The Caves of Atapuerca”

§  Rivka Keren, “Zipora”

§  Michele Merens, “Hilde’s Son, The Rabbi”

§  Julie Nichols, “One Traveler”

§  Atar Hadari, poems, “The Empty Synagogue,” “Aroma,” “Honey,” “Mr. Taylor,” “Prayers,” “High Windows,” “Healers,” “Silence”

§  Gary Guinn, “The Scar”

§  William C. Bamberger, “In the Details”

§  Andrea Vojtko, “Searching for Life on Mars”

§  Bill Scalia, poems, “Dawn, Day 1,” “When God Called Adam from the Dirt,” “The Mass of Pallas Athena,” “Intercession (The Authenticity Dream),” “The Revival,” “Vastation,” “The End of Time”

§  Edie Cottrell, “Pumpkin Patch”

§  Joey Dean Hale, “Access Closed”

§  Roberta Allen, “Odd”

Inside Battle Runes, by Chandra Persaud

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Inside Battle Runes: Writings on War

Selected Works and Interviews with Their Authors

 

By: Chandra Persaud

 

War is more than physical acquisition, more than human rights or civil liberties. It’s more than human power, money, artillery, or politics. War is individualistic, drawing out different emotions and perspectives depending on its intensity, cause, and even battlegrounds. The collection of writings in Battle Runes: Writings on War places a strong focus on the psychological aspects of war, speaking a language none of us can truly understand unless we’ve been immersed in it in some form – seeing our homes destroyed, witnessing friends and loved ones perish, enduring personal demise, or attempting to acclimate to normal routines after discovering some of life’s darkest secrets. Recent interviews with specific contributors reveal their inspirations and unique perspectives regarding how war changes the lives of those who come to know it.

A recurring theme in this anthology is the loss of religious belief or hope due to war. God or spirituality seem very distant as bombs drop on homes, bullets pierce the bodies of the innocent, and fear spreads like wildfire. Humankind is left expecting very little in the form of a miracle, a sudden change of events seems almost impossible, and even prayers seem to be left unanswered. The protagonist in Hunter Liguore’s “Pieces” no longer depends on religion to save him or those affected by war: “I used to pray to Allah, until I realized that he could not hear my prayers over the bombing and gunfire” (6). In turn, the protagonist finds his own way to alleviate the troubles and heartaches caused by war. During times of gunfire and attacks, the protagonist risks his own life in order to pick up the remains of a victim, store them in a plastic bag, and hand it over to family and loved ones present at the moment, ridding them of the burden of doing this themselves – “every piece is sacred” (7). In this way, he keeps love, humanity, and hope alive.

Liguore offers an interesting view on the effects war has on faith and religious belief: “For me, war and spirituality/religion come together much the way an audience and a theater performance do – through the observation of the exterior war, we can be reminded of the spiritual war that is being waged daily. Most of the existing sacred texts deal in wars, but so often, they are allegories for the spiritual war . . . Perhaps the effect [of war] should be to be more conscious of our own spiritual battle, that in coming closer to one’s deity – that is, seeking silence and peace through prayer/meditation – the exterior war would essentially be eliminated.” Thus, religion and spirituality should be used to tame humankind’s inner demons – those feelings that must be controlled and traits that need to be rectified. This in turn will eliminate much of the chaos in the world. This gives rise to some thought-provoking questions: If we are not using religion to conquer our spiritual battle, how can we expect to see its inexplicable effects? When one is at peace internally, how can he or she not want the same externally? Is war a result of our own inner turmoil? How much of war is influenced by our lack of distinction between emotions and facts?

On the other hand, some of the pieces in Battle Runes speak of the need for and trust in spirituality and religion during times of war. The belief in a power greater than ourselves, capable of abruptly changing circumstances, compensates for our lack of control. Margaret Kingsbury’s “The Consequent Phrase of a Melody” sheds light on the plight of families left behind because of war. While the protagonist maintains a strong exterior and attempts to carry on with life while her husband is overseas, she reveals her pain, loneliness, and desire for her husband’s return through her tears at night and her conversations with God. “Religious belief is integral to my protagonist’s ability to cope with the devastation and loneliness of war. The capacity for hope and the ways in which individuals seek out and establish that hope has always been inspiring to me. Belief in God is how my protagonist finds solace from her loneliness,” says Kingsbury.

The protagonist in “The Consequent Phrase of a Melody” also gives voice to the many women who are left alone and tasked with raising children, running households, and keeping their families together while their spouse is at war. While the protagonist is no longer the woman she was when she fell in love with her husband – “she no longer knew her own melody” (77) – she refuses to allow her loss of identity to affect the well-being of her family. She hides her pain, frustration, and worry and displays her strength to protect, care, and provide even when her life seems to be falling apart. According to Kingsbury, the protagonist represents “an amalgamation of women in my life, especially my sister and mother, who are the most important women in my life. Both had husbands who were stationed overseas during wartime and were left to raise their children by themselves. What I remember from when I was a child and my father left for Desert Storm was my mother’s loneliness and her attempts to keep that loneliness and desperate worry at bay, both from us children and herself. There is always a lot of concentration on the mental state and well-being of the solider while at war and when they return home, as there should be. I wanted to explore the sometimes parallel I saw in my mother, although the protagonist is a very different kind of woman than my mother . . . My characters are inspired by real-life experiences and people, but take on their own voice and needs. The mother in the story is both similar and different to the women in my life.”

Apart from faith and spirituality, Battle Runes: Writings on War also speaks about adapting to life after war. When an individual is transplanted to a foreign land or forced to accept bullets, explosions, blood, and death as the norm, readapting to one’s “normal” lifestyle may become an arduous task. Pushing aside experiences at war and embracing past routines, duties, and interactions may leave one feeling misunderstood, guilty, or lonely.

Inspired by a memorable story shared by a war veteran on a radio show and a recent visit to Grand Marais, Minnesota, Norah Piehl’s “Going Somewhere, or Coming Back?” speaks of the difficulties a young solider encounters as he attempts to readjust to life after war. He seeks not to be constantly reminded that the aftermath of his time at war creates a gap between him and the long-time residents of his town, simply because he witnessed events and endured emotions that they did not. Thus, he searches for a way just to blend in, to remain hidden. Yet, it’s the very act of doing so that prevents him from coming to terms with his war experience and fully integrating back into civilization.

Piehl says, “I think one of the biggest struggles veterans encounter is the difficulty of putting into words and sharing an experience that they don’t really understand themselves. They may want to talk about their war experience – whether as part of their own healing or as part of a desire to raise awareness or (re)form connections with their civilian friends, family, and acquaintances – but until they are able to articulate their own narratives to themselves, to intellectualize their experiences, this kind of conversation can be very difficult to have.”

While war is associated with death, trauma, and separation, there still remain certain aspects that are admirable – putting one’s own life at risk to save a fellow solider, the formation of lifelong friendships based on a shared experience, and unity with strangers grounded on a common goal. Battle Runes: Writings on War also captures camaraderie, love, selflessness, and maturation that take shape on the battlegrounds.

John Gifford’s “Chance of Rain” demonstrates the camaraderie and selflessness that are often exhibited when war brings times of perceived imminent peril or death. During a missile attack, Richard Juergens, leader of the First Battalion, hands over his gas mask to a fellow solider in order to keep that solider safe and ease his fears. Juergens is willing to put his own life at risk in order to protect another individual under his care, which according to Gifford, is “a selfless act that’s also the hallmark of leadership.”

“Chance of Rain” is based on some of the author’s experiences as a U.S. Marine during the Persian Gulf War and a particular friendship that formed during those days of battle. The trigger for action in this story – a missile attack – was a terrifying truth that Gifford was forced to encounter practically every night. “I was an expert rifleman and could hit a dinner plate-size target at 500 meters with my M-16. But during the missile attacks we couldn’t use our weapons. We were helpless. All we could do was don our gas masks and hope the missile didn’t fall on us. It was a terrible feeling,” says Gifford. Yet, John always reassured Gifford that those moments would pass. John was a fellow, more experienced solider and friend of Gifford’s, an individual whom the author admired for his wisdom and collected composure during times of chaos. Richard Juergens displays similar qualities in “Chance of Rain,” standing as a firmly rooted tree for all the men under his care.

Thinking about camaraderie and war, Gifford says, “I think back to all the friends I’ve had in 42 years of life and some of the best were the guys I served with during the war. Other Marines. Other guys who lived through the same challenges and struggles I did. There is something special about the people with whom you share a common adversity. Especially when it’s one of the defining moments or events of your life. Thereafter, you’re inextricably linked with these people, and as time goes on, as you move, temporally speaking, further and further away from that event, these people remain vivid in your mind because they’re direct links back to that time and place, which is gone forever. Consequently, you feel you share something that no one else can understand, even if you never talk about it or never see those people again.”

Thom Brucie’s “A Deepening Heart” also hits on the more humane side of war. Set during the American Civil War, this short story tells the tale of Nathan Branchwell – a young man who joins the fight not because he is particularly passionate about the war’s cause, but to earn the hand of his beloved. Nathan is willing to put his life on the line to earn enough money during the war to prove himself worthy to his (potential) future father-in-law. Similarly, when he lands upon a scene of carnage and devastation, he is willing to risk it all to save a battered mule – the only form of life left, a symbol of survival. Nathan renders up every piece of gold he saved during the war to rescue the mule from death, jeopardizing his chances of any future with his beloved when he returns home. Just as Nathan begins to question his decision, readers also wonder why Nathan would do such a seemingly-foolish thing, especially when he winds up shooting the mule to put it out of its own misery.

Yet, at the end of “A Deepening Heart” we see that Nathan’s war experiences teach him that love is not measured by gold, status, or material assets. Love is how far one is willing to go when put to the challenge, how often one is willing to listen to his or her conscience, how much one is willing to sacrifice. Nathan’s war experiences change him forever, giving him a newfound confidence, allowing him to realize his own potential – “He [Nathan] thought for a moment about the absence of gold with which he would return to Agnes, but he did not worry about it, for now he knew what he was capable of in the name of love, and Rev. Perser would know too, one way or another” (66).

That final sentence of “A Deepening Heart” forebodes what may come to pass when Nathan returns home. Brucie offers an intriguing explanation: “If, for example, we accept the notion that his killing of the mule is kindness, we will expect a gentle reunion with Agnes and her rigid, self-righteous father, with a humble Nathan having no say in the matter of his love for Agnes or in his marriage to her. However, if we foresee Nathan’s return as the culmination of his unique individuation, we might intuit a warning from the line, “and Rev. Perser would know too, one way or another,” for Nathan will have Agnes as his wife, no matter what. The mule then acts . . . as text, the non-verbal writings of Nathan’s desire to live in peace; but he will live in a peace of his own making, and he will construct that peace through his own design, using his own rules . . .”

If probed to extract a “message” from this story, Brucie would offer this: “Each individual must live his or her life with courage in order to live in hope, for without courage, we dare not think, and without hope, we despair.”

It is courage that those, who have been immersed in some aspect of war, display long after the dust settles or while on the battlefield. It is courage that can be found in significant doses scattered throughout the pages of Battle Runes: Writings on War – in the stories and poems of husbands, brothers, and fathers who leave their comfortable homes without a guarantee of a safe return; mothers who carry on with life, while only shedding what seems to be an unshaken persona in solace; ordinary civilians or soldiers whose selfless acts are symbols of love and comradeship; war veterans who return home, picking up from where they left, pushing aside emotions and images their families and friends often cannot relate to.

It is courage that allows those who have experienced war to use what they’ve endured to come to appreciate their countless blessings. As author and war veteran, John Gifford describes beautifully, “I was 20 years old when the war [Persian Gulf War] began and like any young man who finds himself in a combat zone for the first time, I found the experience of war both surreal and life-changing, so much so that, in many ways, the event has since served as a kind of barometer by which I measure my current life. Today I live in a brick house instead of a tent. I can eat my dinner without worrying about a rocket attack. I can go for a walk or a drive anytime I feel like it, rather than having to dig a fighting hole or fill sand bags. It’s the small things you miss when you’re captive to a war, and later, afterward, you have a new perspective on the value of these little liberties. I guess today I am enjoying an earned freedom and it reminds me of how far I’ve come as an individual.”

Battle Runes: Writings on War takes readers inside the hearts and minds of characters who share stories that often go untold, whose realities mark them forever, whose experiences stay with them, in some form, indefinitely.

Traveling With a Gun: Janyce Stefan-Cole on Writing



Janyce Stefan-Cole



As a kid I already knew something was up. I was a little different from the others in my family. I remember being relieved when my mother showed us a portfolio of her paintings on paper – most in bright colors. When I was older I was able to see she had flair. She was also known for writing good letters, and at one point she studied French which for some reason excited me and I began wearing a beret around the house. I knew the French to be artists; I was in love with Paris – from photos and movies. But before all that I’d begun creating little worlds on paper: figurative drawings that I would then tell stories about in my head. So I’ve been a narrator with a visual bent since I can remember.

Artistic endeavors were not encouraged in my family and I kept my creations secret. I have a sense my mother had a voice that never found its form. That seems to me a crime against human expression, like a limb allowed to rot, infecting the whole tree. I guess I was louder in voice than she, or more willing to take a chance. I had a terrific teacher in high school, Mr. T., who wanted me to go to art school, but I contracted mono and jaundice from drinking out of another kid’s cup at a party (he got hepatitis so I was lucky) and I missed the first semester of my senior year, and had to have a tutor at home. Art portfolios were due in November so I never had a chance to apply. I did have a story published in our school journal which was my one claim to fame in an otherwise lackluster academic performance.

I studied philosophy and religion at Boston University – subjects also not encouraged by my businessman father. I was painfully sincere at the time and discovered books in a personal way and began devouring them, everything from the Brontës to the Russians – Dostoevsky was a hero – to Camus and Kierkegaard. The book that launched my consciousness as an artist was James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. In particular the relationship to one’s name. I understood others had hidden questions of identity too, and difficulty naming themselves, as in, who am I? In a subtle way I think A Portrait influenced my recent novel, Hollywood Boulevard, about a successful actress, Ardennes Thrush, who quits in spite of her very public achievements.

After graduating I was at a crossroads and briefly went to art school, immersing myself in Boston’s many museums. Then I took off with a guy. We spent an entire summer crisscrossing Canada and the U.S. in a converted Hostess Twinkie van. I made drawings as we traveled; they became a kind of glue as I moved farther from anything familiar. The journey ended in San Francisco and after a year or so there, we went south to Mexico where I painted, studied and taught. I was living by my wits; looking back I think I was pretty brave. I did learn how to travel. The problem was I didn’t have a plan and I took the road into visual arts somewhat haphazardly. Having written stories in college, with one or two things published, I could have gone either way: visual or literary. Two and a half years later I left Mexico alone and returned to New York where I began to try to show my work. I did show, but I didn’t feel satisfaction. My paintings became increasingly narrative but it wasn’t enough. The road I’d not taken re-emerged when I decided to paint my studio and came across those college stories hidden in a folder. I sat on the floor to read them and knew I wanted to finish the group. I felt instantly in my right skin. I never did paint the studio and I’ve never looked back.

Thus began my second apprenticeship. I wrote stories about what happened along the way, creating characters that were amalgams of people I’ve known. I’d met a lot of people on the road. Coming up with ideas is tough if you look too hard. I don’t think good fiction comes from dogma, but a writer’s ideas should inform the story. I would say ideas generally find me. With Hollywood Boulevard, Ardennes Thrush came to me unsolicited with a very strong voice. I was in Hollywood at the time (my husband Brandon was at work on an independent feature film he co-wrote and was co-producing) and it made sense to place Ardennes’s story there, and for her be an actress. The idea of quitting ties into the idea of identity, a la Stephen Dedalus, and I followed the thread into researching personality disorders.

A good story is one that draws the reader into a world. This means, in addition to creating a sense of place, taking a character’s journey with her. I’ll follow a good character almost anywhere. Plot for me surrounds the protagonist’s internal dilemma. My writing may not appeal to readers looking to escape or be titillated. I’ll introduce sex – organically – and guns that go off, and I have nothing against a book being entertaining, but I get antsy if that’s all that’s going on. I think I ‘play’ each of my characters; I need to know them very well. I’ll shamelessly steal from all aspects of my own life. Writers are spies, and sponges; not much slips past me. Everything is game once it finds its way into the text, while of course protecting the innocent, or unsuspecting. I create from what I know: people, places and events, but – for good or ill – my characters are all my own inventions. If I am very lucky my writing takes me into a kind of parallel universe where the characters are with me at all times whispering, telling me who they are, to the point where real life begins to interfere: the phone, emails, emergencies, dinner . . . It’s an enchanted place and painful to leave once a book ends. Family and friends know by now I’ll get back to them when I disappear into my work.

I don’t know that I consciously have a message or philosophy for readers to take away from my work, but I do return to the idea of looking within. This would be along the lines of the unexamined life as not worth living – or, perhaps, that God is within – though there’s plenty of distracting candy out there to suggest the opposite. I would encourage readers to take my character’s journey with them; their trip from the inside as the plot unfolds, perhaps leading to greater awareness of the reader’s own journey. Mostly I just want people to read.

I’m in awe of great writing. Not self-conscious pyrotechnics but subtlety, having my breath taken away by an author’s voice and choice of words, characterizations. When I write well I marvel at it later but cannot retrace my steps to see how I arrived there. The opposite has occurred often enough, recoiling over my own bad writing. A book takes so long because each sentence must be gone over many times. Syntax matters. Normal Mailer once said when he can read his manuscript without wincing it’s done.

My writing day begins at my desk by 9am, like any other job. If I am not in control of my time I grab a minute when I can. If ten minutes is all I can sneak in, I’ve learned to take them and write. Ideally I’m alone when I work, with distracting sounds and rhythms at a minimum. In the city I like big fat snowstorms when all the hyper-activity is muffled and hushed. In the summer we go to New Hampshire where the interruptions are few: a snake in the cellar, a porcupine waddling along an evening path, deer grazing, maybe the resident bear showing up. “Conversation With a Tree” was written in New Hampshire. I’m not at liberty to say if the tree spoke or not, but, like the local creatures, the tree doesn’t know or care what a writer is or does: Perfect. I know writers who work in cafes. The author alone is supposed to be passé, and we’re expected to be available to tweet everything from sex to shampoo in so many characters or less. I try to reach people through my writing. I don’t see how I can do that if I’m tooting, hooting and honking all day. It takes up so much time, time being equal parts friend and enemy.

I don’t think in terms of genre as I write, I guess that is the job of publishers and publicists, how to package a book. Hollywood Boulevard has been called a psychological thriller with a noir tone. Psychological works for me because my protagonist’s mind, his or her journey from the inside, is what drives me as I write. To the degree that there is intrigue, characters finding themselves in harm’s way, thriller applies. I enjoy the old fictional noir detectives – detectives in general, perhaps because, like writers, they are always searching for clues. The noir tone appeals, the un-heroic hero, the fumbling protagonist who manages to do the right thing in spite being flawed. It’s fair to say I’ve fumbled a fair amount through my own life, sans outline, following clues.

Jean Rhys of Good Morning Midnight is a writer I admire. An emotionally unafraid writer, personally troubled by demon alcohol, she looked truthfully into her characters’ eyes, and was ahead of her time with an unflinchingly present voice. I saw a sign in a country shop recently: “Well-behaved women don’t make history.” That’s Jean Rhys. I like that. James Salter’s A Sport and a Pastime is a wow, a genuinely sensual book with a spare style, not a wasted beat. Monica Ali in Alentejo Blue creates a rich tapestry of types. I admire almost any Alice Munro, Denis Johnson, E. Annie Proulx (The Shipping News in particular), writers I would be proud to keep company with who have perhaps influenced me, though I take no responsibility for comparisons. I recently read Padgett Powell’s coming of age, Edisto, a book where nearly nothing happens, and only the boy’s voice takes the reader along to an unvarnished humanity. This summer I read Edward Falco’s reluctant male of his novel Wolf Point, and Emily St. John Mandel’s mesmerizing, The Lola Quartet. I’m not drawn to wordy books, believing if there is a simpler way to say something without sacrificing meaning that is the way to go. I suppose Hemmingway comes to mind. I just read Varley O’Connor’s under-rated biographical novel, The Master’s Muse.

Several years ago I was at an art colony with the poet C.D. Wright. I read a short piece one evening and the next morning at breakfast she told me about Michael Ondaatje’s novel Coming Through Slaughter, saying what I’d read reminded her of his writing. I was badly hung over because I’d drunk wine to find the courage to read in front of writers like her and Louis Nordan, and then more wine to get over the nerves. I asked her to repeat the title three times. A few of us had stayed up most of the night, deep into the Virginia countryside full of crickets chirping under a star ceiling, and life seemed good and scary and full of crazy hope. When I looked up Ondaatje I was astounded at any comparison with his poignant, pared-down prose poem style in Coming Through Slaughter, and was probably shamed into wanting to be a better writer.

My aim is to write, to keep at it, and die in the saddle. As long as characters present themselves and tell me their stories I’ll write. Read, certainly, and travel some more. Travel shakes out the cobwebs with new sensations and unexpected turns. The world is still a richly wonderful place, problems and all; greed and power aren’t all people are about, though lately it looks that way. My next novel involves an NYPD detective in Brooklyn. It’s a character driven search; there are foreigners, a real estate bubble forming, and there is a gun.

Visit Janyce’s website and buy her book.

Copyright 2012 by Janyce Stefan-Cole