The O.W.L. Passes: A Tribute to Venezuelan Playwright Isaac Chocrón

Watching People Leave...

The big down side to being a lifelong military brat was always having to leave people or watch them leave – often suddenly (“Dad’s got transferred to…”), and never seeing them again.  Nothing you could do about it.  Some you kept, most you lost. 

Then came the Internet, decades later.  Some you could find again.  Some still remain lost.

As a young adult, I found myself still relocating every couple of years.  My father sent a letter commenting on that and reminding me that I had spent the first year of my life on the road (Route 66 mainly) bundled up in the back seat of a Studebaker, feeling the vibrations of the road.  He was somewhere on the planet where Air Force duty called, and Mother drove back and forth from California to Oklahoma and Louisiana, trying to decide where to live whilst he was gone, herself and a baby girl. 

So he thought this might be a relevant reminder to myself.  It was.  I decided then and there it was time to find a place to settle, to CHOOSE it (not have it chosen for me), and STAY there.  See what it was like to form roots and stay, no matter the result.  Watch people evolve around me, watch myself grow.  I chose New Mexico and stayed there 25 years before coming to Scotland.

However, despite forming roots and the Internet, some people still seem to get lost along the way and it doesn’t have to do with lack of care as much as…time, space, and some sense that “well, that person is still there, need to send a letter, an email, put it on the to do list…”

The other night I saw that someone from Venezuela had visited my blog and it reminded me it had been “several months” since I’d heard from or emailed Isaac, in Caracas.  I had sent a few emails here and there with no response and wasn’t sure anymore if I had the most current email address.  Anyway, I was in Scotland now and Venezuela seemed oh so very, very far away…though in his last email he had intimated he might someday visit me in Scotland…

I then wondered might he be on Facebook by now?  We were friends before all this Internet and social networking thing…had he, also, climbed into the porthole, gone through the threshold into cyberspace and was he therefore now more accessible to me?  I typed his name at FB and, lo!  There he was!  I rushed to his page and grinned at his photo – and then realised it was a tribute page with links to his Obit and various articles about his life and work…all in Spanish…and that he had died in November 2011.  So…it had been more than “a few months” since we last emailed. 

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Isaac-Chocr%C3%B3n/280823478628082?fref=ts

Being His Gal Friday

Isaac was very important in my life…a generous loving bright light at a time I needed that.  I was working on my Theatre Arts degree at University of New Mexico in Albuquerque.  One day the chairman called me in and asked if I would like to be “Gal Friday” to a visiting important playwright from Venezuela, who would be with us for a few months teaching as the PNM Endowed Chair.  My assignment was to show up at the airport, gather him up, give him a tour of Albuquerque to help him look for an apartment, and then deposit him at the Hilton.  And be generally on call to help him and chauffer him around as needed.  I was game and agreed to pick up Isaac Chocrón at the airport a few days later.

That was all that the chairman told me.  No description of  Isaac, no photos, just be at the gate he named and “you’ll find him”.  This was pre-Google days, I couldn’t do the usual advance research. 

But there are other kinds of research available to us sometimes.  The night before Isaac’s arrival, I had a dream in which I was in a car with the chairman and a stranger who was Isaac.  He wore a long trench coat and had dark hair.  He turned to the chairman (I was in the back seat) and said, “Michelle is the O.W.L.  One Who Loves.”  I heard his voice, distinctively.

Odd dream, I thought, on my way to the airport the next day.  And there he was, at the gate…the man in my dream, wearing the trench coat.  He took one look at me and said, “Let us drive somewhere to talk.”  We just knew each other.

It was a rare day of snow in Albuquerque, I recall it was quite cold and we had to wait for the windows to defrost in the car with the heater on.  I took him to eat New Mexican food and then we drove around and ended up sitting near the Rio Grande in the car talking for hours, letting the heater blow.  We spoke about life, death, love, passion, writing, the arts.   He told me he had come to Albuquerque, had accepted the honorary professor position in order to escape from Caracas for a while because he was in grief.  (And that he could see I was also in a period of grief, of another kind.)  His young lover had recently died, and it was too painful to be there in the house they had shared.  He would find an apartment here and then his housekeeper Sara would follow, who cooked and looked after him.  We talked as if we had known each other our whole lives or in some other life…it was an instant and loving connection.  It had nothing to do with romance or sex or anything like that…just two old souls, who recognized each other, and were both in a time of needing some healing companionship (I had just gone through one of my infamous relationship breakups).

I finally took him to the Hilton (which he pronounced “the Heeeeeelton”) quite late that night.  The restaurant was closed but Isaac had a way of commanding attention and being treated like royalty.   He just expected it, and if he didn’t get it, he had the greatest “Who are these heathens?” look he would level, which would cause anyone to skedaddle and do his bidding whilst they wondered, "Who is that guy?".  Obviously in Venezuela he was used to being recognised and given due respect.  Probably also in parts of New York City.  But this was Albuquerque and…the waiters didn’t yet know who he was.  He somehow managed to get the kitchen to open and he ordered two deep bowls of black beans and a loaf of bread.  He showed me how to stir olive oil and honey into the beans (to keep from gas).  We ate in the dim lights of the closed restaurant, and then I left him, drove home in absolute amazement.  I could see it was going to be an interesting semester.

Sara came and was so loving.  I recall that in the apartment she always kept a tall Guadalupe Virgin votive candle burning on the tile floor of the bathroom, a pink one that smelled like roses.  We taught each other English and Spanish – mostly she watched American soaps on TV to learn her English (and when I visited Isaac and Sara the following year in Caracas, I did the same, watching their soaps). 

Show your love...

My memories of Isaac are pivotal moments, life-altering moments.  A former lover was in an auto accident and near death with a collapsed lung.  I had just found out and was upset, as I was en route to some event with Isaac.  I recall we were on our way to the campus from my car as I told him this story.  He stopped us in the middle of the sidewalk and commanded me to immediately go get back in my car and go visit my friend in the hospital.  I was hesitant, not sure what his new wife would think, not sure it was appropriate, not sure enough healing time had passed…and Isaac ranted to me about Americans being in their heads too much and it was obvious I cared for this man and I needed to go see him immediately because he had almost DIED for god’s sake!  He was outraged at my hesitancy. 

So I did what he said, I about-faced, left him on the sidewalk, got in my car and drove to the hospital.  It turned out just fine and by going there the healing was finalised between me, my former lover and his wife.  And we are still friends down through the years.  It was a very important lesson from Isaac.  Say your piece, show your love, “shower the people you love with love” as sings James Taylor.  

(Isaac, I do try.  I do still remember what you said and in the most difficult moments with people, I do still try to just love and say what I really feel, sometimes even if they don’t think they want to hear it.)

The night before Isaac flew back to Caracas, he booked us each our own rooms at the Heeeelton, as we were both flying out early in the morning; I was going to Louisiana to visit my family.  We had our ritual black bean stew again in the restaurant.  By now the staff was quite familiar with him; he often came there for meals and meetings, as he had some kind of love affair with the Heelton.  He was flying out much earlier than me so we said our tearful goodbyes in the lobby before going off to our rooms.           

A few months later I had a call from Isaac.  He had written a play, “Escrito y sellado” (“Written and Sealed”) which took place in New Mexico – a play about death, grief, God, friends and the desert - and I was a character in it.  He insisted I must come to Caracas for the opening.  He told me to get my passport and he bought my ticket and off I went.  One of my life’s grandest adventures.  His friends were all in the arts and my week there was powerful.  They all said, when I arrived, “You are home now”.  And it did feel that way, a warm familiarity about a place on the planet I had never imagined myself visiting.  I met such loving, passionate people, wide open.  Sara fed me and took care of me like a daughter.  Each morning she brought us strong Venezuelan coffee and oranges and croissant on the honeysuckle vine-laced balcony of Isaac’s apartment, overlooking the city.  Armed guards were at every corner, even in the arts centre…yet a freedom of expression prevailed.  When they asked why I couldn’t stay a few more weeks and I explained I had to get back to my job, they were puzzled.  For most of them, their jobs were their art.  Dancers, writers, visual artists…through the government, they made their living doing their art. 

Forget About Yourself

When my first book was published (Hunger in the First Person Singular), Isaac wrote a preface for it.  He said, in it, “…these stories immerse us in a very private world, that of a woman unsatisfied with the relations she establishes and, even worse, with her behavior in them. . . .exposing the dramatic and touching complexities of today’s liberated woman.”

So I saw myself and my stories through the eyes of someone from another culture…and someone who was obviously satisfied with the relations he had established.  And I am sure his behaviour in them was essentially loving and gracious and generous.  As he was to me.

Regarding my subsequent novel, Journey From the Keep of Bones, he wrote: 

 “Having had the fortune of living for a while in New Mexico, where nature overwhelms and, most strangely, compels one to ascertain the presence of one's soul, I was flabbergasted by Michelle Miller Allen's uncanny new novel. She manages to blend the farthest past, probably not real, with the anguished present, too real as to be desperate. No wonder that the desert where the characters' imaginations erupt like volcanos, is called Ojo de Sombras, 'Eye of Shadows.' Miller Allen possesses that eye and keeps the reader enthralled by the vastness that human nature can attain.”

From the last interview with Isaac, by Milagros Socorro:

“I ask him about failure. He put the thought aside without fuzz. “I believe I never failed. I couldn’t because I love to write. And take my vodka”.

-What would you say to young people- I asked him knowing it was a stupid question, but it is a last question. I know I will not see him again.

-I would say- he answers without hesitation-: forget about yourself and write two hours.”

http://milagrossocorro.com/2013/03/isaac-the-last-interview/

What Isaac said, “forget about yourself and write two hours”…such a simple legacy but so profound.  Because truly that is what writing is all about.  Forgetting about yourself.  And WRITING.

I’m not sure my dream was exactly correct.  It was not myself who was the Owl.  It was Isaac.

Wherever he is…I do hope he is being treated like the royalty he is.  And as he would wish to be treated.

For more information about this brilliant writer and human being:

http://www.thefreelibrary.com/Isaac+Chocron%3A+Tap+Dancing+Until+the+End.-a061026260

Irrepressible Life, Crossing Genres and Female Poets

Mixing up Your Genres?

At a recent Indie Writers meeting in Glasgow, we were discussing how to market your work if you have written or write in more than one genre - for example if you write both for adults and for children (hello, JKR!), or if you write crime fiction and also erotica or self help, etc.  The old school wisdom was “stick to one genre”…or use pseudonyms for different ones…

But I, the maverick I have always been, don’t agree.  Of course it can make it trickier to build your audience but…why not multiple audiences?  And it harkens back to my early days in training as a writer at universities when you were told you MUST choose one genre (“Are you a poet?  A short story writer?  A novelist?  A playwright?  CHOOSE!!”)

Which reminds me of the first writing workshop I ever attended, back in the late 60s, where I was the only female in the room and one of the (up and coming) male poets smirked at my poem being passed around the circle and said, in the most dismissive tone, “I just don’t relate to female poetry.”  (He didn't even bother to read it, just passed it to the guy on his left.)  We hadn’t yet gotten them to call us Women…and he was decidedly someone who was going to need some serious Awareness Raising.  I’m sure, in time, he did get it, no doubt some feminist woman or other set him straight…

Maverick Freedom!

Anyway, once told my poetry was “female”, it didn’t seem to matter much what genre I chose, it gave me a sense of freedom to be labelled an inconsequential maverick from the get-go, so I could go experiment with whatever I wished!  It only spurred my muse more furiously when, next, my writing was described as “…so strong, I thought a man wrote it”.

So I did experiment.   I have been, at various turns, a poet, a short story writer, a novelist, a non fiction writer and a playwright.  From each genre I have pulled skills and methods so that my characters and scenes are lit as on a stage, poetry skips along in my prose, and I have dared to mix it up with fact and fiction with great abandon.

Now I have dared to blend the Paranormal, New Age and Murder in my upcoming book Guardian of the Dark School.  And I will be publishing a children’s book this year as well.

Still Ranting After All These Years…

Anyway (pardon my unexpected rant), my two cents worth at this recent Glasgow meeting was that if one could find one reoccurring element that linked all their work together, no matter the genres or audiences, and find a tag line to use in self marketing that revolved around that element…maybe that would help?  

You know, for example, if you were writing about a reoccurring character who appeared in your poetry, fiction, plays and even your Tweets…say, a guy who lived in the French Quarter, smoked brown clove cigarettes, wore a beret and professed that he could not relate to female poetry…you could say your theme was “The Female Novelist who Writes about Men Who Can’t Relate to Female Poetry”. 

Not that it would bring you a lot of readers…but just by way of example…

(In fairness, to tie a bow on that rant, over the decades I have thankfully met many men who appreciate Women’s writing and who, like me, actually don’t even bother to differentiate between Men’s and Women’s writing…just as long as it’s Good writing.  Though I was startled to read somewhere on the BBC news, when I moved to Scotland in 2005, that no man would be caught dead on a beach holiday, lying in the sun reading a book written by a woman!) 

The Green Man

So I came home from the Indie Writers meeting and sat down and wondered, “Ok, easy to give advice…so what is MY reoccurring theme?  In the plays, novella, novels, poetry, now even in the murder mystery…even in the children’s book?”

And there it was:  the “supernatural” or “paranormal” or…”spiritual” or…to be very specific…The Green Man.

I have explored various faith and myth systems and, over time, the one that has most appealed to my sense of imagination, mystery and wonder is the regenerative figure of the Green Man.  He began to creep into my books…after a series of other kinds of nebulous figures (for example, a ghostly bonsai gardener…a spider woman…a beloved dream character called Motorcycle Woman…) played out their roles in my plays and novella and novels…but I seem to have fixated on the Green Man for the past 15 years.  There is so much richness in the image, it/he speaks to me both as a writer and an environmental activist.  He is also an important element in the name of my publishing company, Green Phoenix Productions.  If you look at the logo, the feathers of the phoenix are actually leaves…   

The Green Man is simply defined by William Anderson:

“The Green Man signifies irrepressible life.  Once he has come into your awareness, you will find him speaking to you wherever you go.  He is an image from the depths of prehistory: he appears and seems to die and then comes again after long forgettings at many periods in the past two thousand years…In all his appearances he is an image of renewal and rebirth.”

From:  Green Man:  The Archetype of our Oneness with the Earth.  By William Anderson with photography by Clive Hicks. (HarperCollins 1990, ISBN  0—06-250077-S).  Really it might be the first of such books, and now there are many, many more.

I was also excited, in the early 2000s, to find a website by a UK sculpture artist and Green Man aficionado, Simon Todd, in which he had researched and discovered that almost every country on the planet had some form of a Green Man.  I don’t know if that website still exists, I have had trouble finding it again, hope at least he kept the amazing list of them. 

My mental image of the Green Man is now so specific, that I have had to be careful that I haven’t duplicated the description of him in my murder mystery with my description of him in the children’s book…it’s on my “editing to do list” before finally clicking that “Publish” button for Kindle this spring/summer.   

Regeneration...

It certainly isn’t a religion for me, I don’t have one…but when I tap into the spirit and potential of the Green Man, things begin to happen in my life that feel magical.  Synchronicities, doors opening, other people who know him…rustlings in the leaves where I walk…regeneration at every level.  Regeneration of our local river through environmental clean ups…regeneration of my own creative spirit through the new self publishing adventure…regenerative relationships with those people in my life who continually recreate themselves anew…

So if there is a common theme in my writing at this point, it is he.  Now to figure out my tag line.  I’ll put it on this blog when I do.

PS:  Just to see if I can, I am also writing a traditional murder mystery that has NO supernatural element and NO Green Man…hmmm, although one of the characters might at least wear a Green Man t-shirt in a pivotal scene.  Just a nod to the old man, eh?  That one is entitled Rough Courtship, it takes place in Scotland, and I hope to publish it before Christmas 2014.

Happy writing/reading and I hope you meet a few of his incarnations along the way.  His address is:  Google: Green Man.  He also resides at Google Images:  Green Man.

  

Image:  Spirit Tree by Quicky, Courtesy of Shutterstock (c) 2013

El Rio de Animas Perdidas...

GUARDIAN OF THE DARK SCHOOL, A Mystery

To be published in Spring 2014 by 

Green Phoenix Productions

Set in the dark woods of a remote estate in the mountains of Northern New Mexico, it is 1993, the 14th year of the annual Liam Fagan Residency Prize for Emerging Poets. Fiona, a young MFA poet from Baltimore, is this year's winner. She arrives at the Fagans' rambling and lavish adobe hacienda, the hallways of which are filled with eerie carved Green Man masks, to find an ambiguous host and hostess and surly groundskeeper, who are reluctant to discuss the history of a poet who disappeared there 14 years ago. 

Fiona decides not to stay, sensing trouble...but in the local village meets last year's prize winner, Raven, who seems bitter about her own disturbing ritualistic experiences at the Fagan estate. Fiona, now intrigued and feeling braver in Raven's feisty company, reluctantly agrees to stay and team up to find out what happened to the missing poet. With the help of Hank, an aging and cantankerous gumshoe from Durango, Colorado, the two poets find themselves led deeper and deeper into the woods and some sinister goings on. The lurking presence of someone in the woods - is it the mythological Green Man? -- and a hypnotic spell of Eros form the compelling backdrop to their disconcerting adventures. 

And then...things get decidedly darker. 

EXCERPT:

from CHAPTER 18: Chivalry 

Michelle MillerAllen (c) 2014

September 16, 1993 – Durango, Colorado

        Hank Walker squirted a blast of Vitamin B under his tongue, and sat staring at the last message he’d sent to the Irish student writer at University College Galway.  What time was it there?  He counted on his mental fingers...about nine-thirty in the evening.  Hopefully not too late for a literature major to be checking his email in the student computer center on a week-day night.   

Hank was seriously craving his second daily cigarette, for which he was now about a half hour late.  This was not a good thing.  There was a certain amount of superstition attached to the timing of his two daily smokes: as long as he stuck religiously to the schedule, he told himself, he wouldn’t slip up.  He was only three weeks away from his long-term goal of going down to one-a-day.  This was not the time to be getting sloppy.  He had slipped up once this week, during a telephone conversation with Raven -- lit up before he realized what he was doing.  Stubbed it out after one puff.  Meanwhile, he hadn’t missed his two o’clock back-door ritual in six months. 

     But, he mused, the nicotine recovery market was missing a big clue: searching computer bulletin boards and libraries was damned compelling!   If you could cure the heroin habit by substituting methadone, why not the cigarette habit by substituting compu-net sessions?  Or, better still, this new internet stuff.  He was in the middle of a transition -- in his jargon, his thinking and computer browsing habits -- from the ‘compu-net’ mentality to the ‘Internet’ mentality.  Hank Walker tried to keep up with all this, realized that it was the wave of the here-and-now future for a private investigator.  He drew a skull and crossbones on one of his little pink Post-it notes and stuck it to the frame of the computer screen.  Not in reference to his idea, but to remind himself about one more item he should check in his research today.

       He went outside for the smoke, leaving the back door open in case the phone rang, and stared out at the La Plata Mountains.  They stood up to their name today.  It had rained this morning and the rocks still glistened silver in the sunlight.  He’d not put on his jacket, so he shivered through the whole ordeal -- the smell of snow was in the air.  Another part of his ritual, to make the smoke as physically uncomfortable as possible.   He’d told himself it was the relative boredom of his current life that kept him smoking. 

      He’d been widowed four years, had no offspring and no dating life.  He’d paid off the house -- a humble 1970's wood structure on two and a half acres -- with his wife’s insurance money.    His cases were almost entirely from the two big insurance companies out of Denver, with the occasional local process service for dead-beat dads on the lam from other jurisdictions.  He supposed he’d reached the burn-out stage long ago and was just going through the motions for sake of a pay check here and there.

     Yet here he was, less than nine days into what looked like a piece of cherry pie ala mode compared to his usual stale Danish – this business of reopening the Devlin case.  It wasn’t so much that Raven and Fiona had presented him with any new evidence.  But their intuitive approach to the subject, their passion – for life, for poetry, for righting the world’s wrongs – their wound-up, angry, sultry, hot female energy – that had him a bit stirred up.  Poets, he chuckled to himself.  Who would have thought a couple of poets from the hills of Northern New Mexico would have been in the crystal ball of his immediate future? 

       Having met them also stirred up something else.  A memory of who he was during the Devlin investigation.  Someone he hadn’t been since then, that was for sure.  Someone who could feel that little catch in the chest, that little thrill-chill down in the gut, when he got close to a hidden truth.  When he, Hank Walker, was about to become the guy who figured it all out. 

       But the guy who had investigated Aisling Devlin’s disappearance and the guy who was waiting for email from Ireland this afternoon were quite different people.    These days, as he took his usual Sunday stroll along the Animas River (his version of church services), where he’d sprinkled Loraine’s ashes back in ‘89, he often speculated that it was appropriate he lived here.  For those who knew and cared, the river was really called El Rio de Animas Perdidas – the river of lost souls.  That’s how he’d come to feel, between losing Aisling Devlin’s case, and then losing Loraine.

    Until the Devlin case, Hank had always fancied himself a pretty good detective -- thorough, tenacious, shrewd.  And, yes, intuitive, that most important quality that Raven Shane Cordova and Fiona Kelly had plenty of.  When he had come up against a brick wall on the Devlin case, he had lost a piece of his edge and, therefore, some of his confidence.  Maybe that was why he’d taken on more insurance fraud cases.  More of a sense of control? 

      There had been that car, left right there at Link’s gas station like an Easter bunny basket of brightly painted clues.  But they led nowhere. . . .That whole New Mexico mountain village was full of characters worth checking out.  But they all had alibis for the time frame of Aisling’s Colorado disappearance, and, being a small village where everyone knew when you took your last pee and what you had for breakfast last Sunday...every alibi was fully verifiable. 

      Hank had closed that file with anguish and reluctance.  He tried to tell himself Aisling had decided to disappear for reasons known only to her.  That she had come to no harm.  What the hell, he’d told himself, might as well paint an ending he could live with, since reality wasn’t coughing one up. 

    This week’s discoveries were ringing a lot of those old bells again.  This last communication from the Galway student should be the last piece of the day’s puzzle.  Where was Chahil O’Shea, the 1986 Fagan poet?  Hank had emailed a couple of writers he’d found through the Irish/American bulletin board Raven’s Dublin contact had sent.  Yesterday the Galway student responded, and said he had two of O’Shea’s books from the 1980s in his personal library.  He said O’Shea wasn’t a very important Irish writer, but was listed in the course syllabus of one of his literature professors because the professor actually knew him, and because O’Shea was part of a particular movement from the 1980's. O’Shea had been in a lot of anthologies from that decade.  However, once the poet left for America in 1985, the publication trail seemed to fade out and the student hadn’t heard anything about him in recent years.  The student said he’d check with his professor and get back to Hank.  This morning’s message was that others were looking for O’Shea also.  “Who and why?” had been Hank’s question.

     Through the open basement door, Hank heard the cheerful tone and static that indicated that he’d been bumped off line and was about to be reconnected.  He crushed out his cigarette – nothing left but the filter -- and carried it back down the steps inside to the ashtray.  He heard the cheerful announcement of “incoming mail.”

The student said his professor would himself be very interested to know where O’Shea was located: 

       “Some years back, a letter was sent to O’Shea in America from the publisher of his last book -- a friend of my professor’s, that is, Prof. McNiff  -- offering a contract to do some Gaelic translations of certain Irish/American poets residing in the United States.  O’Shea responded that he was definitely interested, returned the contract with his signature, and wrote that he would be coming back to Ireland for a visit in the early spring of 1987, and would bring some drafts then.  In response, a small advance was sent by the publisher, in the form of an international money order. . . . It has never been cashed and the publisher has not heard from O’Shea again.  It all seems very much out of character, says Prof. McNiff. . . Prof. McNiff says O’Shea was thought to be an honorable man who kept his word and wouldn’t take a signed contract lightly, but seven years is a long time to not hear anything.  Let me know if I can help otherwise.”

       Hank leaned back in his chair, staring at the word “seven” on the screen.  He’d seen references to the importance of the number seven on the pagan bulletin boards.  Seven days a week.  The seven seals.  Seven planets, seven wonders of the world.  Seventh son of seventh son.  Seven year itch.  The body even changed every seven years, at the cellular level, so he’d read in Scientific American.  The pagans said seven year cycles were magical.  Number seven was obviously important and mysterious, for reasons beyond his understanding.  Hawthorne’s courthouse record dated back to 1972.  Aisling Devlin disappeared in 1979.  Now it was clear that Chahil O’Shea disappeared in 1986.  

       Seven years apart, each event.

COVER:  Lyle Miller (c) 2014, May not be reproduced without Author's permission. 

[Guardian of the Dark School will be published this Spring by Green Phoenix Productions, www.greenphoenixproductions.org.  Announcements of publication date and availability of Kindle and Print-On-Demand copies will be made here shortly.]

Intellectual Freedom...and Doing the Numbers...

Whilst indie publishing has the eyes of the world upon it, it is gratifying to find a respected institution ready to support the concept.  A recent announcement by Warnborough College has caught my attention.  This is in reference to their "2014 Warnborough College Second Annual Fine Arts and Art History Conference” (WCCA) taking place 19th-21st August 2014 in Canterbury, England.  The theme is Culture…Time…and Passion: 

"The Fibres of Art. Art isn’t created or developed in a vacuum," reads their publicity on this event.  "Every work of art (in all its forms) in some way reflects the culture—the world—of its creation. In some cases, the arts have even helped to define it. Culture and passion are where great art begins--and art is where worlds and passions collide! Masterworks survive time and cross cultural boundaries, in part because of the compelling passion they embody. How art is understood by future generations is often quite different from what its creators may have intended—but still it remains, and we remain passionate about it. That’s what makes art so exciting!"

Their call to indie publishers is as follows:

CALL FOR INDIE AUTHORS – There will be a café evening, featuring readings, book signing, and sales. This is open to “indie” (independently published) authors who have self-published (or will publish) a work independently, or through a small independent press, by the time of the event.  Your book does not necessarily need to overtly address the theme. All genres are welcome, however emphasis will be placed on fiction. Featured authors will each read an excerpt from their book (for about 10 minutes)—and will sign books during the event. Warnborough College will earn a 20% commission on all books sold at the event. Contributing authors will be responsible for getting their books to the conference. All authors interested in participating should Conference Director Jill Kiefer by 1 April 2014. A brief bio and final confirmation of your attendance must be received on or before 31 May 2014. The name and a brief summary of your book must be emailed to: jkiefer@warnborough.edu.

Intellectual Freedom...and Doing the Numbers...

As I do my share of Googling on the topic of indie publishing, I am also encouraged to see that highly respected companies, businesses and book sellers are getting behind indie authors and putting their name right on the cover.  

For example, a well-loved bookstore (I'd be willing to say one of the best on the planet), The Tattered Cover Bookstore in Denver, Colorado, has opened a branch of self publishing, and books by their indie authors are making the news. The Tattered Cover is a leading indie bookstore (40 years) which traditionally fills its multi-leveled lovely old building with not only mainstream publishing but small literary press works...so to see that it is now encouraging self-publication as well -- is thought provoking indeed.  http://www.tatteredcover.com  But then, if you read about its owner...you may not be surprised:

"Owner Joyce Meskis is one of the great guiding forces of independent bookselling in the country and a stubborn advocate for the rights of readers, literacy and free expression in America. She is the recipient of many prestigious awards for intellectual freedom including the William J. Brennan, Jr. Award for the Protection of Free Expression given by the Thomas Jefferson Center in Washington D.C.; the PEN/Newman First Amendment Award from the PEN American Center in New York; The Privacy International Brandeis Award; the 

American Library Association Award for Free Expression; and The Author’s Guild of America Award for Distinguished Service to the Literary Community. She is also the recipient of the distinguished Service Award for outstanding Achievement and Exceptional Service to the Denver Metropolitan Area from the University of Colorado Board of Regents. Joyce is the founder of the Colorado Freedom of Expression Foundation, and she is currently the director of the Publishing Institute at The University of Denver." 

Independent booksellers have been learning to adapt in order to survive the mammoth bookstore chains in America for some time.  It makes sense that the successful ones would see the wisdom in indie publishing as well.  Clearly there is a lucrative aspect to indie publishing...if prestigious and forward-thinking companies are getting on board, they obviously have done the numbers before making that choice.  Alongside weighing the social, cultural and ethical benefits...could it be that for once the right thing is also the financially intelligent thing?

One thing I also like seeing:  emails from Amazon in my in box that show me books in the genres in which I am interested -- indie writers alongside big name mainstream writers, all on the same advertisement.  With no dividing line down the page.  

These are challenging but very exciting times for writers.  I am most interested to see where it is all going...and excited to be coming on board, myself.

The Love of Something

Spend the day with yourself.

Let nothing distract you.

A poem emerges so young and so old

You can’t know how long

It has lived in you.

~ Sophia Del Mello Breynor

I wish to thank everyone who took part in our Green Phoenix Creative Writing Workshop on 2^nd March at Bulliondale Cottage in Avonbridge.  In every way it was a very special day for me --- to be giving the workshop in Jenny & Colin’s lovely setting that is so nurturing, peaceful, cozy and yet spacious (allowing thoughts to fly like birds to the ceiling).  

To have both old friends and new ones gathered around to help me “de-rust” my workshop tools.  

To reclaim some parts of my creative self that had been languishing.  

To renew my faith in creativity, that healing and regenerating tool, by watching it work its magic in those present.  

To share in the warm excitement in the eyes of each who attended, as they opened doors that may have been stuck.  

Or who simply used the day as a safe haven to play with words.  (Very powerful toys!)

It was clear from the interesting dialogue during the afternoon that everyone present had a love of the creative process, a need for it in their lives or, at the very least, a respect and acknowledgement of its importance.

“It is the love of something, having so much love for something—whether a person, a word, an image, an idea, the land, or humanity—that all that can be done with the overflow is to create,” writes Clarissa Pinkola-Estes in Women Who Run With the Wolves.  “It is not a matter of wanting to, not a singular act of will; one solely must.”

Gathering around a fire on the cozy sofas and chairs at Bulliondale Cottage was the absolutely right intimate setting for our day’s tasks.  I also acknowledge the powerful work of Dr Jeffrey Thompson who created the Alpha Relaxation System from The Relaxation Company (www.relaxationco.com).  We used his Alpha Program 1, “Deep Relaxation” during our “Muse in the Forest” guided meditation, and some of the comments after the workshop were that they would have been happy to have his CD playing in the background the whole afternoon, not just for the meditation.  Duly noted!  I agree, what he has created really does work to both relax and energize you at the same time. Magic!  Well, psycho-acoustics actually, but…still magic.

And speaking of magic, there is nothing so powerful as a room full of creative minds, working together and in solitude with the written word.  I loved a moment when I looked around and saw/heard the focused scratching of pens and tapping of keys.  Sadly, working within a time frame, we had to stop writing at the end and most everyone said “awwwww!” as they wanted to keep on writing.  Judging by the comments and feedback, the idea of a future retreat (perhaps a Friday overnight and Saturday, or a weekend) where we can mix it up with trainings, tai chi, workshops and more extended solo writing time is a good idea.  We are certainly putting our minds to work on that and will let you know when we come up with a definite plan and next event.

Thank you, Jenny, for talking with us about “listening”, thank everyone who attended for being open and sharing your experiences and thoughts…and  thanks to Jenny, Colin and Kim for the three hour (!) debrief babble after the workshop!   

If anyone would like to discuss the possibility of hosting a Green Phoenix Creative Writing Workshop elsewhere in Scotland, please get in touch so we can see what’s possible.    

HAPPY WRITING EVERYONE! 

ROAD TRIP

On this typically rainy, windy Scottish evening, I have wrapped in a blanket on the sofa with the dogs snoring nearby.  I have put a CD on low, lit some candles and am settled in for a few chapters of Twyla Tharp’s The Creative Habit.  The CD is Seal’s “Seal IV” which I haven’t listened to in a few years because, simply, I couldn’t find it after I moved into this house.  Searching for something else in an unpacked box today, I found a CD carrier which had Seal and all the other CDs which I thought I had lost – everything from Patrick Bernard to The Blue Nile. 

White Line Fever

Just as I come to a passage in Tharp’s book about memory, a mood tone sets  in, from Seal’s music, and suddenly I’m back in the USA, driving down a full-moon highway somewhere between Denver and Upper Michigan in my white Jeep.  It’s a hot summer night and the air conditioner in the car is set on high.  Seal is on full tilt (“We’ve got to keep this world together got to keep it moving straight…”) my blues-sensitive dog Shaka croons to the music in the passenger seat, and I am buzzing with being alive and free.  I feel elated from the full moon energy, an overload of caffeine and a touch of what truckers call “white line fever”.  I have been, by this time, driving about 11 hours straight and am wide awake, not ready to stop.

***

This trip took place during a period of grieving for my husband, who had died the previous year.  A road trip was something I felt I needed, to help shake me out of the reclusive mode which had begun to frame my days.  I didn’t really want to get out and socialise – I hadn’t answered the phone in months - but I needed to get out of the world we had created together and which I now inhabited like a ghost.

A road trip was also something I had wanted to do since my twenties.  In fact, in my novel (Journey From the Keep of Bones) which came out the same year as this trip (written four years earlier), I sent a couple of my characters on my fantasy road trip, along part of Route 66, as a way of fulfilling my own desire.

Now I was actually doing it! It wasn’t all along Route 66, but it was old highways and new interstates, the traffic flowed easily - and I was free.  Grief-crying part of the way and singing part of the way, moving with whatever mood the highway took me through.  I had a vague itinerary, a road atlas and no deadlines.  I was also working on a book at the time, so recorded my thoughts and drafted passages into a miniature dictaphone as I drove along.

I simply went from moment to moment, whim to whim on that trip.  For example, one day I suddenly had a hankering to hear some Frank Sinatra.  I have no idea where that came from, he wasn’t one of my favourites but…I pulled into a Wal-Mart and ran in and bought a couple of his CDs.  For the rest of my 18-day journey, I rotated three artists on the CD player:  Seal, Sinatra and Annie Lennox. 

Human and Canine Memories 

The Seal CD has obviously imprinted that trip into the folds of my memory.  The beat of that music is conducive to driving, his voice compelling, the lyrics weave stories.  Tonight I hear certain phrases of his music, certain notes, transitions, one lyric – and I am transported, back in the Jeep, back on the road. 

Seal sings “Uh! Let me roll!” and his music gives me a sensory recollection of a moment – pulling into a drive-through window for a coffee, the smell of it filling the car.  The anticipatory silence between two songs makes me suddenly recall stopping to let Shaka out to pee at a funky gas station in the middle of nowhere on the return trip home.  He begins to bark and excitedly scans the place as we pulled in, and I realise he is remembering that we stopped here almost three weeks prior, at the start of our trip.  He met another dog that day, had an enthused canine encounter.  He’s hoping to meet that dog again. 

Seal sings “love is what I need to help me know my name…” and I marvel at the lovely old covered bridges as I drive through Iowa.  I recall thinking that someone should make a movie about the area -- and then I am speeding past a sign informing me that these are “The Bridges of Madison County”.  Clint Eastwood already had that idea.

I stayed at several motels during the trip but I only remember two.  One was found late at night on the outskirts of Milwaukee near the airport.  It was cheap, the walls were thin, the room miniscule and thread-bare.  I walked a few blocks and found a bar that served hamburgers and bought a couple for myself and Shaka.  Back in the motel room we curled up on the bed together and ate them out of a brown paper sack.  I can still remember the mustard, pickles and onions, and how I deposited the wrappings in a garbage can in the lobby, so the smell of onions wouldn’t disturb our sleep. 

Edgy Motels

I puzzle over why I remember that particular evening in the Milwaukee motel.  It has something to do with the feeling of freedom and anonymity.  Such a funky, edgy place to stay, even the watering hole was questionable, judging by the hunched-over characters planted on the bar stools.  Neither were places I would go into, in my ordinary life.  But I could allow myself to do so on this adventure which was all about spontaneity.

I also remember it because I was so proud of having driven into that city late at night without getting confused or lost, and finding a place to stay, all on my own impetus.  Big city driving was something I dreaded, and this road trip forced me to push through that anxiety a few times, for the sake of the journey.  The whole trip was magical - no problems, no car trouble, just smooth long distance driving in musical solitude with one of the best canine companions I have ever had.  (And, I found out later when I phoned my father at the end of my trip, he was back at home quietly praying rosaries for my safe journey but never letting on that he was worried.)

The second motel I recall was the one in Boulder, the alleged last night of my trip before heading back to New Mexico.  Although this one was very well-appointed, in a peaceful residential area with lots of trees, it also had its own edginess - emotionally.  I ended up having to stay there for two nights, as an unexpected bout of grief overtook me at the realisation that my "18-days-of-freedom" was coming to an end, that I was going back home to a house full of memories of my husband and our life together, a life I was going to have to disassemble if I was going to move forward.  I couldn’t yet face that, and felt too distraught to drive.  So I called the front desk and reserved an extra night.  Spent the day in the room, busying myself with transcribing my recordings into my laptop, only leaving a few times to walk Shaka around the premises.  Pulled myself together and drove home the next day.   

***

Back to the sofa in Scotland, with Rebus and Hadley – the snoring dogs of my current life - curled around my feet. They haven’t even noticed I was away.

Where had I left off?  I rediscover my place on the page:

“Creativity is more about taking the facts, fictions and feelings we store away and finding new ways to connect them. . . .You remember much more than you may think you do, in ways you haven’t considered…” (The Creative Habit, Twyla Tharp).

I highly recommend taking any road trip you have always wanted to take.  Mine was eleven years ago and I still count it as one of the best adventures I have ever had.  Thanks to Seal, one not easily forgotten.

Highway Photo Supplied by FreeFoto.com (c) www.FreeFoto.com 

THE ONLY THING! Notices from Indie Authors Scotland

Greetings Friends & Readers,

Guest Blog at Sinclair Macleod's

I'm so pleased to be a Guest Blogger as of today (17th February) at Scottish crime writer, Sinclair Macleod's blog: 

Sinclair Macleod's Blog

Please go check out my thoughts on places I have written, entitled GETTING TO THE ONLY THING, and check out Sinclair, his own very interesting blogs on such topics as Classic Soul Revival, how to get the closest shave and the how-to's of self publishing...and his crime noir series starring The Reluctant Detective.  I am very interested in the reluctance of his detective, by the way, because I am an avid fan of Christopher Vogler's Jungian-based book, "The Writer's Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers", which is about the Hero's Journey, for life and for writers...and one of the themes he discusses is a form of reluctant hero, attempting to refuse the call...so what Sinclair is doing with his hero is part of a very interesting tradition...

But not to get off track!  

Self Publishing Survey & Prize Drawing from INDIE AUTHORS SCOTLAND

Another important notice is that Indie Authors Scotland is asking writers (both published, unpublished, commercially or small-press published and indie/self published) to help by filling out their survey.  IAS is doing a bit of research on current attitudes toward self-publishing...so you could help if you have a few short moments to answer the survey questions.  And ALL writers are invited, "both sides of the pond" or wherever you live on the planet.  They are offering a prize to the participants, a chance to win a place on their Self Publish and Sell Bookcamp worth £297.  As the course is done on line, this is a fantastic offer for any writer anywhere who plans to self publish. 

From Kim Macleod's survey call: 

We'd love to hear what you think about self publishing. What questions do you have? 

You probably know already that Sinclair and I are really passionate about self publishing. We want to know what you think about it - whether you love it, don't understand it or think it's too complicated. The survey will only take a couple of minutes of your time and will really help us to know what future training opportunities and support that we can provide to make the process as simple as possible for you. We will be arranging a webinar event to answer the questions posed too - so this is your chance to get answers to your questions.

Please share with any writer friends.

https://www.surveymonkey.com/s/L76YG5L

What is Bookcamp training?

Our Bookcamp is a six module online course that covers every aspect of self publishing, from creating your ebook through to marketing and selling.  It's totally flexible and supported by both Sinclair and I so you can learn at your own pace. 

Our latest recruit to the Bookcamp - Michelle Miller Allen, who is planning to publish her book Guardian of the Dark School in Spring 2014 had this to say:  "This course is the exact right balance of user friendly technical information and personalised/customised coaching.  Everything about the course works, for me -- accessible, on your own time frame, you can revisit modules as and when you need them again, nothing was really difficult because the coaches Kim and Sinclair were always 'on call' if you hit a gliche.  It is extremely good value for money and nothing short of revitalising my creative work and writing life."

We are delighted at the progress Michelle is making with her book and so looking forward to her book launch.  This could be you next - so go on complete our survey and enter the FREE Prize Draw.

Meetups

We meet once a month in Glasgow.  For more information on venue and dates, you can contact us through  www.indieauthorsscotland.co.uk   

Facebook Page

Have you liked our Indie Author Scotland facebook page yet?  Please do and share info about your books, any events you have or ask us a question. 

Thanks,

Kim Macleod