Memoirous

2019, okay, wow As much as I felt like I was standing still, I kept going. I got a first draft done and a pretty good revision of another. I’ve been sending stuff out. Getting rejected and getting acceptances. I got prospects for next year, and the critique group is getting back together. Even though I felt washed up, I had 12 pieces accepted and wrote 4 new stories. This year I posted 130 blogs. I made new friends and lost a few. A couple friends died this year—I miss them. I started this year the same weight I ended it. Boot camp is working, nevertheless, I can keep up. On a good day. This year I read a lot of books! There’s still a pile beside my bed, but let’s not talk about those. I wrote a poem that a friend said was brilliant. This made me glow inside. I plan to submit it in 2020. My daughter got married—and it was beautiful. Friends and relatives came from far and wide to celebrate. We made merry. I rode my bike to Kingdom Come, actually to t

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Nearly 40 years ago I went to visit my sister who was spending her Christmas break at Ghost Ranch, a Presbyterian conference center outside of Taos, New Mexico. She had spent time working there as part of the college staff the summer before. Soon after arriving we grabbed snowshoes off some pegs and trudged back into Box Canyon where our voices echoed off the icy walls. During the long twilight, we slowly made our way back to the house following a trail of twinkling lights, like sparkling crystals in the haloed atmosphere. After a quick cup of hot chocolate we bounded into the back of a pickup truck and set out over gravel and blacktop roads. I had no idea where. It was Christmas Eve. We arrived in pitch darkness at a monastery lit by candlelight. The small chapel was packed. I can still recall the smell of wet wool coats and candlewax. The monks began to chant Noël in Latin. A drowsiness descended upon me. Suddenly I was awakened when the mass was over and both Benedic

O Holy Night is a well-known Christmas carol composed by Adolphe Adam in 1847 to the French poem "Minuit, chrétiens" (Midnight, Christians). I remember it as the finale to the Christmas Eve program at the Presbyterian church we attended in Kettering. It can be a long night until the next morning to hold off on opening presents. At least the car ride and time at church filled those tense, anxious hours. O Holy Night seems to be the perfect vehicle for a soloist, and, indeed, the woman who sang it annually was a trained professional, the daughter of one of the congregants, who came down from New York City. I remember one snowy Christmas in particular when there was speculation whether she would make it in time. Yet, always, in the end she rose up from the robed choir to take her place at the podium. The lights in the church were dimmed, lit mainly by the Advent candles, all of them now burning. The coughing and fidgeting ceased—in expectation. Or perhaps, we were all t

Via Facebook—I know the thing we love to hate and is stealing our elections—at the Uptown Historical Group, I discovered the wonderful little photo postcards of CR Childs. These have been featured at the site several times and this weekend decided to check them out. Places to click were plentiful through Pinterest and eBay—aka examples of his work available to purchase. The subject matter seeming to be the Midwest circa 1900 – 1910. Outside of that I was having difficulty finding a bio. It seems as though Lake County and the Chicago Historical Societies have CR Childs’ postcards in their archives. Childs started his own printing company that produced these penny postcards. Regional photographer Charles R. Childs (1875 – 1960) was born in Elmwood, Illinois and worked for the Joliet Daily News before moving to Chicago to start his own commercial photography business about 1900. By 1906, Childs was specializing in real-photo postcard views of Chicago's neighborhoods and suburb

Little Old Lady (comedy) or Laugh out Loud or LOL just put out a 50-word flash of mine titled Her Time about reinventing yourself--it's time--your time! https://littleoldladycomedy.com/2019/12/17/her-time/

Children’s Book Title Suddenly Relevant   There has been an uptick of interest in southeast Ohio because of Heisman Trophy winner Joe Burrow’s viral speech. In his acceptance speech he mentioned his hometown and the poverty affecting that part of Ohio, where, as he mentioned, students often go to bed hungry. Cloud of Witnesses recently released by Golden Alley Press is a middle-grade novel about an Athens, Ohio eighth grader struggling to find his place in school, his family, and the world outside his small-town. Author Jane Hertenstein has given talks and compiled a bibliography of books written about children growing up in rural areas of America. “There are very few resources that reflect these children and their particular struggles.” She gave a seminar at the Illinois Reading Council for teachers and librarians. She cited Dave Eggers’ new novel The Lifters as a book using a rural setting. Appalachia and what is termed “fly-over country” has suddenly captured our nati

Bright Invisible From Kyle White of Kyle White Ink a fellow flasher and November 5 birther brother: Hi Jane, I read this in one-sitting in the Northwoods today. I enjoyed the Chicago start, the history, your vivid poetry, and your tributes in-the-style-of. Felt like I was on the island. Resonated with your "imposter" moments, too! Thanks for sharing it! It's lovely. Bright Invisible: Word Sketches from Great Spruce Head Island a PDF chapbook, This chapbook will appeal to readers of the New York School—particularly fans of James Schuyler and John Ashbery. Great Spruce Head Island has been a source of inspiration for generations of artists and writers. I was invited to GSHI to spend a week walking where Frank O’Hara, Ashbery, and Schuyler walked. Through essays, journal entries, persona letters where I channel James Schuyler, I attempt to experience the island through their eyes. CLICK on image to request *FREE PDF The “imposter moments” refer t

365 Affirmations for the Writer We all need affirmation. Remember that line in the film/book, The Wife by Meg Wolitzer—“everyone needs approval” That film could actually be titled The Writer. Anyways, here is a year’s worth of encouragement, approval, affirmations to keep the writer going. Plus there’s bonus material of warm-up exercises and ideas to get the writer motor purring. Download or order a copy today—from Amazon or wherever you get books these days. 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. 365 Affirmations for the Writer is about listening to those who have gone before us and letting them guide us with their insight, their own trials. By reading what others have said, we can survey the path before us, count the cost, and plunge ahead. From an Amazon review: If you are a writer in need of a little inspiration, this book is for you. The quotes are gr

We all need affirmation. Remember that line in the film/book, The Wife by Meg Wolitzer—“everyone needs approval” That film could actually be titled The Writer. Anyways, here is a year’s worth of encouragement, approval, affirmations to keep the writer going. Plus there’s bonus material of warm-up exercises and ideas to get the writer motor purring. Download or order a copy today—from Amazon or wherever you get books these days. 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. 365 Affirmations for the Writer is about listening to those who have gone before us and letting them guide us with their insight, their own trials. By reading what others have said, we can survey the path before us, count the cost, and plunge ahead. From an Amazon review: If you are a writer in need of a little inspiration, this book is for you. The quotes are great, but I especially liked the bonus m

TWO 50-word flashes to a online journal named Little Old Lady comedy she has a section called Brainfarts--sounds like my kind of place so far I'm on a roll--just when last week I was feeling washed up. Time for some Affirmation.

I wrote a short piece last week. 529 words—from a brain challenge/philosophical exercise about the nature of things that become obsolete. Lately it seems that everyday objects are becoming hard to find. We all know that mass manufacturing is the most efficient way to produce/grow something. It’s why chickens were bred to have heavy breasts that weigh them down and forced to live in chicken concentration camps. It’s way easier. But what about those items that defy mass production, that regardless of how cost effective they are to produce just don’t sell that fast. Like birthday candles. How many times in your life have you been forced to buy birthday candles—at the most once a year? As opposed to buying milk or some other commodity. Nor does one want to buy birthday candles in bulk—and so on I put forth in the piece. Anyway, it was nice to take an idea from start to finish in one sitting—as opposed to the huge project I’d just taken on and been living with for over 3 months.

Mike Posner seems like a real good kid (age 31). Like everyone he’s had his ups and downs. An up might be his song I Took a Pill in Ibiza, downloaded over a billion times, a down might be: Father dying of brain cancer Friends and musical acquaintances dying Broken relationships In his video “Moving On” he confesses that he’s been feeling a little off. So, Mike Posner did a brave thing: in the middle of a promising music career filled with concert dates and album deadlines, he stepped away. And, not only that, he decided to walk across America. I am old enough to remember the articles in National Geographic by Peter Jenkins walking across America in the 1970s. Peter had graduated college and found himself at a crossroads. His marriage was on the rocks, the world seemed like it was on fire, the Vietnam war and hippie movement were winding down, and he needed a cause, something to go for. Jenkins documented his journey with text and photos. A camera was supplied by

I remember the first time I read/heard a prose poem and was suddenly enveloped with a sense of oh, okay, this is a thing. At Calvin College’s Festival of Faith & Writing I sat in an auditorium and heard Stephen Dunn in discussion with Scott Cairns about “At The Smithville Methodist Church.” I imagined this poem as a piece of prose. I saw how easily it told the story of a moment. Immediately I thought two things: 1) why can’t I do this? And 2) would this be okay? The answer to both is of course. We are “allowed” to try anything. I was also at this point deep into Robert Bly and the form called ghazal—and how it meanders and leads us back, round and round to a certain place. I imagined a prose poem much like a ghazal—that unwittingly tricks us into a small epiphany, by mostly juxtapositioning 2 seemingly unrelated ideas, the contrast showing them up more clearly and recasting them in a different light, possibly a third way. I love these moments. That crack us

Whew reader(s) it has been a hectic last few months, and this blog has suffered. I’m used to posting at least 2 – 3 times a week and lately it’s been sometimes once a week, 4 times a month. I’ve been hard at work on a new manuscript that will likely go nowhere. This is how it goes for unsigned, unfamous writers. A struggling artist. Yet, I feel a bit of satisfaction. To have finished. It is about bicycling. Many reader(s) and friends have “suggested” I write about cycling since it is a passion of mine. But, there is a lot of distance between an idea and the actualization of it. I needed a jumping off place, a framing device. On my Adirondacks/Vermont Green Mountain Loop I was able to visualize what it was I wanted to do. --Of course, there is a lot of distance still between that moment and getting words on paper/digital file. I hadn’t yet realized the scope. Every line or paragraph I found myself gping deeper, filling in backstory and giving historical content to what

my new ebook chapbook is FREE this is a hybrid incorporating persona letters, poetry, memoir travelogue, musings Bright Invisible: Word Sketches from Great Spruce Head Island a PDF chapbook, This chapbook will appeal to readers of the New York School—particularly fans of James Schuyler and John Ashbery. Great Spruce Head Island has been a source of inspiration for generations of artists and writers. I was invited to GSHI to spend a week walking where Frank O’Hara, Ashbery, and Schuyler walked. Through essays, journal entries, persona letters where I channel James Schuyler, I attempt to experience the island through their eyes. CLICK on image to request *FREE PDF=see side bar at upper right to CLICK

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Yesterday while walking past the Jewel parking lot I smelled pine. Already the Christmas trees have arrived. Suddenly I was engulfed in a James Schuyler poem “December” by James Schuyler Il va neiger dans quelques jours FRANCIS JAMMES The giant Norway spruce from Podunk, its lower branches bound, this morning was reared into place at Rockefeller Center. I thought I saw a cold blue dusty light sough in its boughs the way other years the wind thrashing at the giant ornaments recalled other years and Christmas trees more homey. Each December! I always think I hate “the over-commercialized event” and then bells ring, or tiny light bulbs wink above the entrance to Bonwit Teller or Katherine going on five wants to look at all the empty sample gift-wrapped boxes up Fifth Avenue in swank shops and how can I help falling in love? A calm secret exultation of the spirit that tastes like Sealtest eggnog, made from milk solids, Vanillin, artificial rum flavoring; a milky impulse to kiss and be fri

I have only the most tenuous hold on my time and schedule lately. Since returning home from a bike trip to the Adirondacks and Vermont I have been working hard on a manuscript about bicycling--not a travelogue. There are so many loose threads I'm trying to hold together--I need two or three monitors for this book! Right now I have about 40 tabs open--which drives my friends crazy--except it should be me going insane and not them! Anyway, apologies for being a slacker at the blog. The blog slog. This past weekend I experienced a first: the first time I presented a seminar and met someone who traveled to get there. Meaning: she said she came up the night before and stayed in a motel. Wow! I thought, I'm just like a real author. My talk was about flash writing and flash being the building blocks to longer writing--such as the novel. About 12 people sat through my rambling. They did seem to get something out of it. Kathleen definitely won the prize for coming from the furth

A cascade of coincidences. Kyle White and Jane Hertenstein, both writers of flash and THE SAME BIRTHDAY. I discovered Kyle’s work, Wisconsin River of Grace, when he was doing a reading at Everybody’s Coffee. I never intended to buy the book, but had to once I opened it and read a snippet (the good thing about flash is you can dive in anywhere and get a taste). Since that 2012/2013 publication he has continued fermenting flash. Bear With Me is a field journal that reads as a contemplative children’s book. In the sense that I could see it being shared with the whole family, the meaning explicit on so many levels. Just like a good Jon Scieszka book—there is something there for the adult and younger folk to hang their hat on. Mostly I enjoyed the pace of Bear With Me : short, pithy haiku-type entries with a unspoken “selah” at the end where one can sit and pause, ruminate over the importance of hibernation, relaxing, listening to your body, nature calling, living in tune with t

Last night I heard the most disappointing news about Abraham Lincoln. As an Illinoisan (formerly Ohioan) this was really bad. I mean I always knew as a lawyer he defended corporations and slaveholders, but he also fought a case in defense of a black woman. There are at least two cases where Abraham Lincoln worked both sides of an issue. In 1841 Lincoln argued before the Illinois Supreme Court a case involving a slave girl named Nance. A man by the name of Cromwell sold Nance to his neighbor, Mr. Bailey. When she left Mr. Bailey’s service after six months declaring herself free, Mr. Bailey refused to pay for her. Lincoln argued that the girl was free because in the state of Illinois it was illegal for a slave to be bought or sold. Lincoln won the case. On another occasion, though, in October 1847 Abraham Lincoln defended a slaveowner. Every year Robert Matson brought his slaves up from Kentucky to harvest his fields in Coles County. They were only in Illinois a short time befo

Readers of this blog know I appreciate Aleksandar Hemon’s writing. I re-read his novels and loved The Book of My Lives —so much so that I recall passages from it at random moments (especially since I live in Uptown where he based some of his observations). He has the peculiar ability to offer a surprising word in a sentence. I owe this to the fact that English is his second language. He uses it to its fullest. His newest volume is non-fiction comprised of flash memoir pieces. The book is divided between memories of his parents, perhaps their memories, and his own thoughts back on his life—including preambles on mortality, writing, and other philosophical meanderings. Early on he riffs on Robert Shields who recorded his life in 5-minute segments, accumulating eventually more than 94 cartons of diaries. It is like always being “on.” It also begs the question: Who cares? This work reflects a kind of Bosnian nostalgia=meaning there is no Yugoslavia. It is a pragmatic look back

Over the weekend I got hit on my bike-- I'm okay. It was by another cyclist at a 4-way stop. I stopped and he came around me to pass into the intersection as I made a turn left. Definitely it was an accident. As I picked myself up off the pavement (he was able to stay up as he was skirting by; I hit his back wheel and fell) he immediately said: You didn't signal. True, I thought, but you didn't shout out "passing." Then also thinking these things take a while to sort out, I guided my bike over to the curb and out of the intersection. Once off to the side I asked him his name. "Why do you need to know?" Hmm, okay, I thought, this guy's a jerk. He was a middle-aged white guy and I immediately picked up a whiff of privilege. I also surmised he wanted to control the narrative--even though the only thing I'd said so far was to ask his name. "Are you okay?" I knew he wanted me to be okay so he could keep going and get on with his da

I need to start this entry with an admission: I have not read a single Ann Patchett book. I have heard her name come up in literary circles for over a decade and it is “on my list.” FredShafer uses her material in his workshops at  OCWW , but I just haven’t gotten around to reading Bel Canto, The Commonwealth, and—now, The Dutch House. I moonlight At Wilson Abbey an event space and especially show up for book events put on by The Book Cellar and Women and Children First, as well as book launches held there. As much as I’ve decried buying more books, I am packing out my shelves more than ever. Back to Ann Patchett who had a Chicago appearance to support The Dutch House at Wilson Abbey last week. I wanted to hear this woman that everyone talks about so glowingly. There were 350 people in the auditorium. I stood in the back. When she came on at exactly 7 pm she apologized for being late??? Then told us that she’d missed an earlier flight and had to take the next one out of Na

Okay, maybe it was the wedding. Last week my daughter got married, but, seriously folks, I have not gotten a lot done these past few months. When all else fails, blame it on T-rump. I owe people I love, fabulous writers, reviews of their books. There is flash articles queued up inside my head to be written. I’m also working on a sudden book—a manuscript that has lain dormant for a while and perked up suddenly asking to come to life. Then there is the other bits of life such as relationships that needed attention. Coffee conversations, birthday, etc etc. The etc is what has crowded in lately, usurping the plan. The pan being to be on top of things. Which is always going to get inconveniently interrupted. Then there’s the constant computer card playing, checking Facebook, commenting on stranger’s posts, ugh! The impeachment. The messing around before buckling down to put words on the page. I promise to be better. As I drift off to favorites: Pinterest, crazyguyona

Sorry MIA--crazy last coupla weeks-- daughter got married the house was full now--       empty should I write a poem about white roses? NEW WORK will be up soon at  The Blue Pages Journal  http://bluepagesjournal.blogspot.com/ which accepted a weird piece, a flash series called Tiny, Little Horrors about intersectional moments flash memories of being suddenly scared or grossed out and how those memories have never left me--or left me scarred.