Getting Inspired: Evan Czmola on Robert Bové

A Life of Inspiration

Interview with author Robert Bové

By Evan Czmola

"A morning prayer before the cats start complaining. They cry for food each morning. Robert Bové is always willing to get up, but the miscommunication between the motivated mind and the exhausted body always creates a struggle."

To Read the Full Piece, click HERE

Poems by Milorad Pejić

 From,

Hyperborea (Aula, Prague, 2011) / Hyperborea (Fondacija Mak Dizdar, Sarajevo, 2013)

 

Translated from the Bosnian/Croatian/Montenegrin/Serbian

by Omer Hadžiselimović

 

══

 

GEIRANGER*  I

 

The sun descends into Geiranger every day like

into a well. Like a needle onto a gramophone record,
the beak of a gull slides down onto the water, green
and blue.

The same age-old idyll. Only the houses under the sky
are empty, not a wisp of smoke. The people in them
Geiranger has used up, but it still watches over the
houses and cultivates them like mushrooms. Nailed
on the precipices they suffer from gravitation like
from a headache.

Tour buses crawl up the serpentines like ants at dusk.
There’s no panic in the harbor either: unhurriedly,
the campers with their doggies go out for a walk,
the fishermen shower their boats. No one suspects
that the sun, like a dropped sequin, is sinking for the
last time into the dark-blue depths of Geiranger,
forever and irrevocably.
______

* A fjord in Norway

 

══

 

EINSTEIN

 

I don’t ask questions, but answers come to me

from your students, Albert! Albert, I know less and less!
What are they seeking in the dark?  Light?

With every new discovery I am a step closer to
the already seen.  The mathemathics of the future takes me
back to your childhood, to a sunny fair on Schrannenplatz.
Sibylle the Gypsy had stolen you for a moment, that
famous-fortune teller who reads palms as if she were
reading poetry.

Sibylle the witch enticed you for nothing, just for play,
to amuse the brutes.  But when you reached out your hand to her
and when she brushed the dust off, she fell silent.  She gripped
the counter with the skins on it.  Everything stopped, everything
turned to ice, as in the tale of Sleeping Beauty.  Only, from a different
fairy tale, the dripping of chestnuts here and there on the green could be
heard.  She was looking for the light in the gloom but, like a
merry-go-round, there was a black hole spinning in your tiny palm.
Something not yet seen! And Schrannen Square was tumbling
into it as into a concrete mixer.

 

══

 

THE CRASH

 

Simple is the mathematics of life and death:

it is enough for place and time to coincide.
Odd Knutsen, a physical laborer at the Stavanger
canned-fish factory had planned his vacation
at a warm sea.  On his way home from third shift,
he would check the status of his credit cards, and
around noon, before going to bed, he would sniff
his sunscreen lotion.

At last the day arrived and snow-white clouds
stuck on the peaks of the Alps reminded him of
cotton candy amid little children’s hats at spring
fairs in Boknafjorden.  A wonderful sight, an
unplanned opportunity for a break will be rejected
for the sake of travel discipline.

What we learn we learn too late.  That black
point, that magnet in which place and time overlap,
you can’t fool.  The mustached driver of the
Greek rig had decided for the sake of travel
discipline to forgo his habitual steak
at the little restaurant with plastic ivy
near the small town of Airolo.  Those clouds 
reminded him of the toxic fumes around exhaust valves
in the industrial zone of Milan when a white
Volvo, blinded by the setting sun at the
St. Gotthard Tunnel exit, crashed under his feet.
When leaving its own it vanished into universal darkness.

 

══

 

GEIRANGER  II

 

All my life, when awake, I’ve sought a small plateau

from a dream of long ago, a place for a house by a thin
cataract, white like a ribbon from a half-opened book.  
I saw such a clearing when traveling once over the
“Sju søstre” waterfall, but I couldn’t recognize it, blinded
by the sequin of the sun in the dark-blue and dark-green
depths of Geiranger.

From time to time I open my bird-cage of wishes, but
my birds do not fly out any more.  I’m too old to begin
and to dream ahead.  I don’t see well any more.  I cut
my nails from memory and voices, too, come to me
colorless, as if from the loudspeaker at railroad stations:
the clamor of children on the precipice above the “Seven
Sisters” waterfall.  When we played in the yard, they
used to tie us around our waists with a clothesline so we
could withstand the magnets of the abyss.  So we could
keep together.  Today we are scattered out across countries
like crabs across fjords.

 

══ 

Copyright©2013 by Milorad Pejić

Milorad Pejić was born in Tuzla, Bosnia and Herzegovina, in 1960. Since 1992 he has lived in Sweden. His published books of poems include:

The Vase for the Lily Plant (Svjetlost, Sarajevo, 1985)

The Eyes of Keyholes (Bosanska riječ, Tuzla-Wupertal, 2001 and 2012)

Hyperborea (Aula, Prague, 2011)

Hyperborea (Fondacija Mak Dizdar, Sarajevo, 2013)

Getting Involved: The Empathy of Arthur Powers

What follows is from an interview with Arthur Powers:

In one sense, I have been interested in writing ever since I was in junior high school and became intensely interested in reading. There was a “classics” section in our school library, and I gobbled the books up one after another: Dumas, Jules Verne, Sir Walter Scott. I did some writing then, and in high school took a creative writing class.

But in another sense, I did not see myself primarily as a “writer.”  I loved (and still love) history – I wanted (and still want) to be an active participant in society – in the history of our times. I believe that living life – being involved – comes first. If someone asks me, I am a husband, a father, a grandfather, a Catholic, a lawyer, vice-president of a public safety communications company, member of the pastoral council, former lay missioner in Brazil, a poet & writer.

As a young person – as with most young people – I wanted to express myself. As I matured (I’m sixty five), I became much more interested in other people. My grandfather told me that one can never be bored if there are people to watch. I find people fascinating – I love to observe them, to hear their stories, to listen to the way they say things, to enter their world.

I also love words. I grew up in a family that loved words. My father was a wonderful punster, and my mother was always finding and introducing to us new vocabulary. My early writing is poetry – I started publishing poetry in the late 1960s, and by the 1990s (when I began publishing fiction) my word skills were well honed. I had the privilege of not having to earn my living through writing, so that I could focus on writing things I really wanted to write, and could take the time to craft my work. Some of my writing is better than others, but – on the whole – I am very satisfied with the craftsmanship of the work I have published.

I always have more ideas than I have time to write. Ideas come in many ways. I’ve woken in the morning with a complete story in my head (for example, the short stories “Thorn” and “Sonata on a Michigan Night”). Others grow out of a single line, or – more commonly – seeing a person in a particular situation (“The Moving” and “Switzerland”). They can be developed from a story someone tells me (“The Healer”), or from an experiences I’ve witnessed (“A Hero for the People” and “Two Foxes”), or from an almost geometrical idea (“Commedia Dell’Arte” and “Four Litres of Honey”).

In terms of what makes a good story, characters are the most important element in fiction, and next in importance is atmosphere. How characters confront situations and one another in that atmosphere is the essence of the story. (I know this because I read and write stories.) I want my readers to be drawn into the world of my characters – to understand, even empathize with, the characters’ situation and world view. Much like a “method” actor, I essentially become my characters as I write about them. I see them – but also see the world through their eyes.

I firmly believe that good writing is inspired – inspirited – by something greater than the writer. Often a reader will point out some meaning or nuance in my story that I never thought of, and I will immediately recognize that the comment is valid. Of course, at times I am completely bemused by a reader's interpretation of a story and his misunderstanding of what I had in mind. But that happens to all artists.

Most of what I write is either realistic or what is called in the United States “magical realism.”  I spent most my adult life in Latin America, so I tend not to distinguish between the two. Latin Americans do not draw a line between the “natural” and the “supernatural” in the same way that North Americans do. Natural and supernatural are two interrelated aspects of life. A faith healing (“The Healer”) or an angel (“Padre Raimundo’s Army”) is as real as a stone or a chair.

Everything in life is an act of self-discovery. More importantly, there is a discovery of ourselves in relation to others and with God. Writing and reading are part of life. Of course we grow through them. Good writing makes us grow in good ways (which doesn’t mean that it only deals with good things happening to good people). I heard recently that there are studies showing that fiction readers tend to be more empathetic than other people – I haven’t seen the studies, but it doesn’t surprise me. Reading fiction is a way of getting into the experiences of people whose world is different from our own.

Stories are like children. You love them all. All of those that have reached publication I feel to be well crafted. Some are light (“Grace & The Chickens”), some more profound. It is interesting to see how different stories touch different readers. A story I am very fond is the title story in “A Hero for the People.”  Yet only one very discerning reader – Debra Murphy – has remarked to me on the story’s underlying architecture, social message, and gentle humor – noting that it is her favorite in the collection. Most people focus on other stories in the collection – which is fine. They are all good stories.

Concerning my work schedule, I have a demanding job, a family, and an active life. I write when I can. Usually I will conceive a story in my head, ponder it, work out details – then write it down when it is ready. I’ll put it away and pull it out a few weeks (or months) later, make some revisions, and send it out. I try never to talk about the stories before I write them – I find that, if I talk, the stories are diffused and lose their immediacy.

I don’t think much about genres. Generally I suppose, for that reason, my stories would be labeled “literary.”  I’ve written some science fiction, some fables, and have a pretty good mystery in the works. I enjoy reading mysteries but, except for the very best writers (Marjorie Allingham, Ellis Peters), most writers end up twisting their characters and situations to fit the mystery plot and, in the end, that is not very satisfying.

In addition to my professional work and own writing, I’m also the “contemporary” editor for CatholicFiction.net – a site that reviews books of interest to Catholics (which is a broad category). So I read quite a lot of contemporary (roughly anything written since 2000) Catholic fiction. I also mentor a number of other writers, and read their work. In my spare time, I read history, biographies, some philosophy, some classics, short stories, poetry, and a few of the better mystery writers. A great number of writers have influenced me over the years. Notable among them are Willa Cather, Joseph Conrad, Graham Greene, and Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis.

Until recently, I have not belonged to writing groups. This was partly due to circumstances – I was living in Brazil (much of the time in remote locations), so there were no writing groups. But it is also due to my nature. I’m a very social person, but I find that writing is, for me, an individual endeavor, not a social one. I find that talking about what I write (before it is written) draws away from the actual writing. That being said, I truly believe writers can reach out and help each other through encouragement. I am a founding member of the Catholic Writers Guild: I regularly lead workshops and I mentor a number of writers.

Some have asked how technology (since most people over the age of forty have lived through dramatic changes) has affected my work habits. I used to carry around notebooks and writing pads, and write everywhere. I now find that I need a laptop to write. It has made it easier not only to write, but to revise. Currently I am working on a number of short stories. I am also seeking to publish my novel, Shadow Companion, set in Brazil during the military dictatorship. Portions of the novel have appeared in the journal Dappled Things. It is very good, but it crosses genre bounders (literary, political thriller), which makes it hard for publishers to classify.

Copyright 2013 by Arthur Powers - All Rights Reserved

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

Buy

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”