Memoirous

Next to last weekend in October we leave the campfire mid-way through with the idea we will go for a ride We see the city lights from Montrose Point we ride the lakefront path in semi-darkness past the golf course the tennis courts the batting cages the dog park the quiet zoo streets deserted, riding into the heart of the city as if it were a full moon At a certain point the wind picks up leaves scatters them before us a swirling yellow tide and I try to say it makes me feel sad, a sense of transience and you say in English your second language how the blowing leaves always makes you feel happy We are both right a moment pregnant with happiness and sadness is bittersweet We rode home content.

Writing is a journey. Every time we sit down to begin a piece or write the first chapter or the first line we are venturing into uncharted territory. We never know how it is going to turn out. Oh, we have a certain idea, like most pioneers or explorers. But, these journeys can take detours; we have to react to circumstances and often go with our gut. 365 Affirmations for theWriter is about listening to those who have gone before us and letting them guide us with their insight, their own trials. They know the terrain, how harsh it can be; they know where we can find water, shade, and rest along the way. By reading what others have said, we can survey the path before us, count the cost, and plunge ahead. My motivation for compiling 365 Affirmationsfor the Writer is to offer light along the way. From day to day, week to week, we are getting further inside our writing, further down the path. The book is 365 days of inspiration—quotes from writers and writing prompts. Here is

flashback to a few years ago The Great Pumpkin Pumpkin latte Pumpkin parfait Pumpkin flambé Pumpkin pie Pumpkin fries Pumpkin chai Pumpkin cheesecake Pumpkin pancakes Pumpkin shakes Pumpkin soup Pumpkin mousse Pumpkin juice Pumpkin oats Pumpkin compote Pumpkin floats Pumpkin spice Pumpkin diced Pumpkin n’ rice Pumpkin gelato Pumpkin dough-nos Pumpkin gumbo Oh pumpkin, late have I come to know ye

I’m still working on a hybrid manuscript I started this summer on Great Spruce Head Island on James Schuyler and his connection to the island and the Porter family. In re-reading Just the Thing: Selected Letters of James Schuyler 1951-1991 , I came upon a random footnote. First some context. James Schuyler was crazy. He didn’t start out that way. He was a curious, witty, conversational gay young man. He was a self-taught poet, once serving as a secretary to W. H. Auden at his vacation home on Ischia in Italy. Moving amongst heady circles he associated with renowned poets and artists. Until his breakdown, or series of breakdowns. This was in the days when psychological drugs were still in their infancy. If you were diagnosed as schizophrenic you were sentenced to a life of lithium and being zoned out. No wonder most creatives risked psychosis rather than being medicated. Mostly Schuyler kept his episodes in check. The stability of living with the Porters helped as well as t

Dog Eared: A Year’s Romp through the Self-Publishing World W. Nikola-Lisa Gyroscope Books A million years ago I was strolling through a book fair. I know, remember those things. It seems a whole world has changed since those days. Though we are still reading, it is just by a variety of conveyances: usually electronic—even as I write this review it will be typed into a computer and likely read by others on a computer. Nevertheless, children’s books are still the domain of the physical book. Children love to be read to and also spend time leafing through books to look at the pictures. W. Nikola-Lisa was at this children’s book fair in the reconstructed Stock Exchange room of the Chicago Art Institute. We got to talking, I made a faux pas, he corrected me and the rest is history. I commented that I loved the illustrations of Night is Coming and re replied he was the author not the illustrator. I then said I loved the lyrical writing, more like a lullaby, perfect for lulling

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Writing Out Loud Beth Finke Golden Alley Press I probably met Beth Finke a decade ago. We met at a party at the offices for Open Court Publishing, parent company of Carus Publishing, parents of Baby Bug, Spider, Cricket, etc. magazines for children. Beth had just wrapped up a picture book about her seeing eye dog, Hanni and Beth: Safe & Sound. Through the years we’ve kept in touch. At certain points living parallel lives. For instance last summer she was attending the IOTA Short Prose Conference on Campobello Island about the same time I was cycling down the coast of Maine to reach the mailboat to take me out to my residency on Great Spruce Head Island (Art Week). In addition Beth is a prolific blogger. But the main thing we have in common is memoir. Beth facilitates 3 or 4 memoir writing groups all over the city. I released an eBook this spring Flash Memoir: Writing Prompts to Get You Flashing while Beth launched Writing Out Loud: What a Blind Teacher Learned from Le

The Lincoln Park Zoo This is not exactly a museum, but it is a memory. I remember going to the Lincoln Park Zoo on numerous occasions. It was FREE! (Though over the years I’ve had two bikes stolen, locked up out front of the zoo—so not quite a bargain!) Through the years animals have come and gone. Gone are the elephants. Humanely it was not possible to keep such a large animal in a small enclosed space. The polar bears have also suffered. I’d have to say one of the most popular exhibits has been the Ape House which went through a recent renovation: They now have a great outdoor playground. The old house really did come across like cages behind glass (as opposed to the new facility which is also cages behind glass but disguised to look like a jungle). One of the my first observations at the zoo was not so much the animal behind the glass, but the animals in front of the glass. The people who came ritualistically, daily, to connect with their friend, their special hairy a

Art Institute of Chicago What a wonderful world to get lost in—this place of armor, hydra heads, Nighthawks , Ivan Albright, Louis Sullivan, and miniature houses/interiors. When I first came to Chicago in the early 80s you could get into the Art Institute with a donation. I once paid 25¢, rather donated . I have to admit I wasn’t always an aficionado. Today I work for a gallery, helping to curate their exhibits and write up descriptions. Back in 1982 I used to think what was the difference looking at art in a book or up close in person. Then I turned a corner. It happened in Washington DC at the Corcoran, I turned a corner and came across the Moor , with his black bold face, flaring nostrils. I loved that picture. And, because it was hard to find my way around, I kept turning that corner and encountering the Moor. At lot of how I discover cool stuff is by getting lost. When I came back to Chicago I paid a visit to the Art Institute and it was as if I’d woke up; I was ali

Shedd Aquarium I find it rich that the aquarium is one of the most expensive museums in Chicago. It costs as much as a trip to Europe and yet every day during the summer there are long lines waiting to get it. Forget Spring Break—you’d need to start lining up in February when the wind whips in off the lake and freezes you as you walk down Roosevelt Avenue from the train. It could easily cost a family of 4 $200 for same-day admittance . Hard to believe that when I first visited the Shedd in the early 80s it was free. Truly you could not pay someone to go there. The place was always empty, and smelled like a chlorine pool, one with a little bit of mold growing in it. This was before the addition of the Abbott Oceanarium. Back when I went the niftiest thing was when a guy or gal in a scuba diving outfit entered a tank to feed the sharks. The divers burbled around while the lazy sharks lay at the bottom totally uninterested in fresh meat. I just checked the website: $89.95 for

I moved to Chicago in 1982 from Dayton, Ohio and going to university in Athens, Ohio. So, yeah, Chicago was the big-time. I immediately set out to explore the city. I remember every weekend depositing my token into the turnstile and hopping a train to downtown to walk around or explore a museum. The museums opened up whole worlds to me. Museum of Science and Industry The Museum of Science and Industry in the early 80s seemed super corporate. For instance there was the General Motors Gallery and the AT&T Gallery. Nowadays this is somewhat standard. You can’t even build a stadium without naming it, not for a benefactor but a business. The Ramen Noodle Arena. Quicken Loans. Remember the Enron Stadium until they went belly up, taking investor money with them. I believe the AT&T Gallery had a display of telephones, a concept so far in the past that it now belongs in the nostalgic Main Street display, the one with “gaslight” lamp posts and the ole Walgreens Pharmacy, wher

Recently I read a small graphic book, Make Trouble from a commencement speech delivered at the Rhode Island School of Design by designer/film maker/artist/idea-ist John Waters. One line that stood out: A career in the arts is like a hitchhiking trip: All you need is someone to say “get in” . . . This really resonated with me, a middle-aged been at this a long time writer who seemed to have some early success, but had stalled out and turned to writing about writing ie Freeze Frame and Flash Memoir: Writing Prompts to Get you Flashing . I’d definitely put in my 10,000 hours, plus. And, now all I was looking forward was someone to email me back with the right words, the words I’d been hoping to hear for a good decade. It wasn’t for lack of trying. I’d sent this poor, page-stained, corners curled digital manuscript out to numerous untold agents. With no luck. Those who say it isn’t luck, that luck means you have no real talent are already well on the road to publication, having s

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