A Few Recent Publications

Thank you to the editors of the following publications that have recently published my fiction and poetry!

The Wild Word: The poems "Pluto Speaks," "These Summer Nights," and "From the Imaginary Journals of Venetia Burney" can all be found by clicking here.

Fewer Than 500: My flash story "Entertaining Elephants" is the post for November 24, 2019.

Sparks of Calliope - A Journal of Poetic Observations: My sonnet, "Disgruntled Thoughts After a Fruitless Summer of Job-Hunting," is the post for November 22, 2019. "I Want to Speak Norwegian" is the post for November 10, 2019. You can click here and scroll down to find these poems.

Parting Is Such...

We've lived on the same street for 29 years. Same sidewalks and oak trees. Magnolia, plum, maple.

This is nice.

The hard thing about staying in one place for so long, though, is that most of the people around us don't stay. They need a bigger house or their rent is too high or they decide to try cohousing or move to Bali.

Which means that we, who are rooted here, are always saying goodbye and goodbye and goodbye.

The little house next door to us was just sold, and we parted with another set of neighbors. They weren't family or close friends. We never sipped cocoa together after raking leaves or toasted the new year in together. And yet we lived in such close proximity that their faces and voices and the bark of their dog (Tony!) and the color of their winter coats remain firmly present in our consciousness.

Maybe we'd all be surprised if we knew the effect we made on those around us. Here's an excerpt from an essay I wrote about another couple who once lived next door to us.*

Arcadia

When we met our new neighbors we couldn’t believe our good fortune. Allie and Jay were young and attractive, with sparkling personalities that filled the air with a champagne fizz.

Our family had lived in their house for ten years before we moved to the Victorian next door. We’d sung our babies to sleep there, and in its yard there grew the columbine, coneflowers and chrysanthemums we’d started from seeds, as well as the apple tree my grandmother had given us.

The embodiment of joie de vivre, Allie and Jay seemed to love the house too. They made wine from the grapes that grew along the fence and filled the rooms with books and thrift-store furniture as well as the many friends they entertained. Whether the occasion was a birthday or an evening of reading Tom Stoppard’s play Arcadia aloud, the sounds of their company – car doors opening and closing and hearty greetings and laughter – became as familiar as the horns of the trains that run just a few blocks away.

Although they both worked and went to school, they also made time for our children. Jay awed our son with stories about playing Bernardo in an amateur production of West Side Story, and our daughter, who rarely deigned to talk to adults, confided in Allie that her stern second grade teacher, Mrs. Young, pronounced her y’s as h’s.

“Mrs. Houng!” Allie laughed, and our daughter laughed with her.

The couple had a similar effect on my husband and me. We soon discovered they were also Jane Austen fans, and a neighborly “hello” in our driveways could turn into an energetic conversation about the likes of Mr. Darcy or Captain Wentworth.

At the peak of our friendship, Allie and Jay had us over for dinner. It was the beginning of autumn, but still warm enough to eat outside. They set a ping pong table decorated with white candles and grape vines on their brick patio, and as we ate herbed chicken and apple cake I knew we were in Arcadia.

Then one spring day our neighbors told us their news: Jay had been accepted by a medical school in another state. Even as they began packing, we already missed hearing Allie's stories about her beginning tap class and the sound of their party music dancing over the fence. We couldn't hold onto them, but we could hold onto the house. When we offered to buy it back to use as a rental, Allie and Jay gleefully started packing their books and booze and knickknacks.

They left on a July afternoon. Our stoic daughter insisted she wasn’t sad, while our son fought to keep his face composed as we watched the couple hop into their U-Haul, faces beaming with the thrill of a new adventure.

The next morning I opened the gate to their backyard. Since I hadn’t been there all spring, I was surprised by what I found. The grape vines grew unchecked, reaching for a telephone wire, while the asters I’d planted when our son was a baby were bursting like purple stars, and the branches of the apple tree were bowed with the weight of the most abundant crop of fruit I’d ever seen. Best of all, a large plot where we’d once grown tomatoes was now a sea of leafy vines, sprouting dozens of trumpet-shaped blossoms and green-striped pumpkins. Poking their heads up between the broad leaves were slender stalks of calendula topped with yellow-gold blooms, while tangled trails of orange and crimson nasturtiums wound around the edges of the garden and into the rosemary and lavender bushes my husband had put in years before.

I ached for Allie and Jay – because we’d longed to know them better and to be known by them. Still, I marveled at the riot of color we’d all created. Our neighbors' leaving had hurt more than our family wanted to admit, but how good it was to be alive and aware of the depths of our hearts.

*"Arcadia" first appeared in the 2010 TAWK Press anthology Seeds of....

The names "Allie" and "Jay" are pseudonyms.

Creative Nonfiction by Jan Rinehart

A Thing I Used to Do When I Was Little

by Jan Rinehart

My grandmother, 'Mom,' lived one block from our family home. To walk there alone was always permitted.

Mom raised hollyhocks and snapdragons in her flower bed on the east side of her home. As a child it seemed enormous, but in truth it was about 4' by 4'. As I sat on the ground I felt hidden.

I was a loner, so often wandered to Mom's special flower bed. There I would sit on the ground, hidden and make hollyhock dolls and puppy dogs from the snapdragons.

I could spend hours there as a small child, having tea parties, lengthy conversations and quiet moments with my friends, the hollyhock girls and their puppy dogs.

About the Author: 
Twenty-five years ago Jan Rinehart was accepted to participate in the Oregon Writing Project. She carried those skills to her classroom and taught beginning writing skills to many elementary students. Since then she has 'flirted' with personal writing but is now ready to 'commit' to daily writing. She has endless praise for the Women's Writing Group for the success she is feeling with writing today.

Poetry by Susie Donnelly

What the Mirror Does Not Show
by Susie Donnelly

I am a purple sharpie,
one shade in the sky
just before the green flash.
                                                             I am a single car garage
                                                             with no automatic
                                                             door opener.
                                                             
I am spooled
white thread wound tight,
waiting to mend.

                                                              I am a wooden clothes-pin

                                                              forgotten and grayed,
                                                              hanging useless
                                                              on the backyard line.
I am steaming
black coffee,
rich and acidic,
needing to cool.
                                                              I am a deck of cards,
                                                              worn with bent corners
                                                              and missing the king of hearts.
I am a foreign coin,
valued only in exotic places
with cobblestone streets
and mysterious words.
                                                              I am homemade cornbread
                                                              easily prepared but
                                                              grainy on the palate.
I am a forgotten crystal rosary,
coiled in a corner
of the bottom drawer.
                                                              I am a vine maple leaf
                                                              in chilly October,
                                                              clinging to the limb,
                                                              destined to fall.
I am the sounds
of three a.m.,
hushed, whispered
but always present.

   I am a shadow
   of yesterday’s child;
   a seed of tomorrow’s hope.

About the author: 

Susie Donnelly lives in SE Portland with her husband and their Goldendoodle. She has written poetry off and on (mostly off) for years.

Creative Nonfiction & Poetry by Judith Armatta

On Binaries

by Judith Armatta

He criticized my wearing black. Widow's weeds, he said, and I was only 22. No one close had died except my grandpa. I didn't see it that way. I could hide in black, be almost invisible. Hide an imperfect body. Black moods, not so much. 

At night, blackness revealed the stars’ sparkle, while cloaking wildness trying to live among us, also evil sneaking up.

Black was marshmallows too long in the fire. The bottom of a forgotten pan gone dry on the stove. It was berries in August with vanilla ice cream. And it was my friend’s perfect judo kick.

A Black Maria arriving in early morning brought terror to enemies of the state who disappeared.

My post op face turned black and scared the dentist and all the waiting patients.

Black for funerals, white for weddings and first communions. Chinese tradition requires white for mourning. I wore a black dress at my wedding. White whispered from underneath.

We contrast black with white and pronounce one bad, one good, stuck in binary thought. Black skin, white skin. Where does brown fit? Where beauty? Is not skin deep.

I had three cats, two white, one black. They were not binaries. They were complexities. A gray cat adopted us. The three others were prejudiced. They did not like him.

Black is the absence of . . . red, yellow, green, blue. Black absorbs.

After living eons in the light, we will all disappear into a black hole. Which could be another universe. Or nothing.

Chasing Words

by Judith Armatta

I used to put them in a jar
Uncommon words
Jimjams
Jiggery pokery
Crepuscular
Common and lovely words
Dusk
Courage
Star rain

Just now I went to take them out
Dusty, ignored for years
I shook out words
And a dead fly
More words
And a dead bee
I kept the bee

Snollygoster
Lycanthrope
Dysgenic


Solitude
Death
Joy


They fall out
Or I pull them out with tweezers
Until they all lay scattered on my desk

Is this where they’ve been hiding
As the white page looks at me
Empty
As my mind?


A jar of words
To make a story
Or a life

About the Author: 

Judith Armatta is a lawyer, journalist, and human-rights advocate who monitored the trial of Slobodan Milošević on behalf of the Coalition for International Justice. For over two decades, she has worked to increase awareness of and response to violence against women and children. Armatta currently consults and writes on international humanitarian, human rights, and U.S. Criminal Justice issues. Armatta’s book, Twilight of Impunity: the War Crimes Trial of Slobodan Milošević, was published in 2010 by Duke University Press. http://www.juditharmatta.com/

A Gesture

Here's a small, personal story: It was 2016, and we were in a vegetarian café in Eugene, Oregon, where my son was working on his M.A. in Journalism. He was telling us (his dad and me) how he felt about a controversial issue. I was so moved by the eloquence of his hand gestures - and how they mirrored the depths of his heart and mind - that I took this photo while I was listening to him.

Here's another story, one of worldwide significance: In 1970, West Germany's Chancellor Willy Brandt set a wreath on a memorial for Warsaw ghetto victims. And then, instead of making a speech, he knelt on the steps and bowed his head.

"I looked into the depths of German history, and, under the weight of the millions of those who were murdered, I simply did what men must do when words fail," he wrote in his memoir.*

What gestures - large or small - do you notice around you? A flip of hair. A pat on the head. A furtive exit. What do those actions have to say? Maybe they're the starting place for greater understanding. They could also be the springboard for a story or poem.




*Tyler Marshall, October 9, 1992, "Willy Brandt, Post WWII German Statesman, Dies," Los Angeles Times.

Wild Moon -- Poetry by Deborah Lee

Here's a poem by Deborah Lee that embraces the darkness of fall. To fully relish its rhythm, you might try reading it aloud.



Wild moon

       Brightsobright

       Backlighting massive evergreens, silent sentinels of the dark.

Aged hills watch, wise to our foolish ways
as we slowly devastate the earth.

The man in the moon laughs.

Someone howls.

Wings flap.

Blood oozes.

Wild, wild moon.

A stray Tom Waits lyric faintly wafts, "...never felt so alive or alone."

So goes the night.


About the author: Deborah Lee loves to sing, plays the guitar, and enjoys writing essays, songs, and memoir.  

Song for a Young Daughter

It's my daughter's birthday today! Here's a poem I wrote for her some time ago:

Song for a Young Daughter  

                                               (after Benjamin Péret)

Oh, my wild bird with the scarlet plume

my pirate strutting across the lawn                      
my grasshopper spitting on my palm
my paprika-scented lily floating in the pond,     
my bruised tune
my scowling moon                     
my da Vinci smile darkening on cue,
my carpenter pounding at a random hour
my spider’s eye
my parrot's bite
my labyrinth of love’s wings
my clinging monkey   
in the jungle where mosquitoes sing—
let me hold your hand
one minute more,
let me pull you close in my long arms.
For you I will learn to bake bread full of fruit,
for you I will knit sweaters
that cannot keep you warm.

"Song for a Young Daughter" was published in Sum Literary Journal.

Chasing Rabbits

Many thanks to the editors of Cloudbank for including my poem "Chasing Rabbits" in their latest issue! Since there was a printing error in the published version, I'm sharing the poem below. 

To read intriguing work by Andrea Hollander, Richard Jones, Paulann Petersen and many other poets and prose writers, you can purchase Cloudbank by clicking here.

Chasing Rabbits

1.

I chase a rabbit through the long wet grass.

For a moment I come so close I can almost feel

a breath of fur on my fingertips –

and then it springs again, and I’m after it,

my heart a fist pounding against

the door of my ribs.

  

2.

Oh, I have been bored for so long –

and now, finally,

this excitement.

  

3.

All year long I made toast

and washed dishes and watched steam rising from rooftops.

I sat on the faded couch and considered painting the peach wall white –

white like snow under a low winter sun –            

could its dim glow touch

the shadow inside?

I opened my purse and counted coins:

four dollars and fifty-three cents

in quarters, nickels and dimes –

enough to ride the train downtown,

but not enough to come home again.

  

4.

I don’t know the rabbit’s name.

Would it get my jokes?

Would it natter about carrots

and soccer fields and sunshine?

Are its dreams spiked with pitchfork tines?

5.

I don’t know if I’m good.

I don’t know if I’m awful.

Is there anything I’m not

scared of?

How many cruel bones

do I carry in my left

foot alone?

  

6.

Will the scars of my self-absorption

eventually cement each joint?

In a court of law, is a heart

steeped in ignorance

a solid defense?

And why chase rabbits?

(Is it worth analysis?)

  

7.

But oh, motion –

 8.

And oh, sweet teeth and tongue –

 9.

The taste of this moment –

a bliss multiplied

by none.

"Chasing Rabbits" was published in Cloudbank 13: Journal of Contemporary Writing.

No Problem -- Fiction by Ron Smith

There's an art to ignoring the elephant in the room. In this short story by Ron Smith, the characters do their best to pretend not to see what's right in front of them.

No Problem

By Ron Smith

If only Nell hadn’t answered the phone. We were expecting the Wolfowitzes, a nice couple from up the street, for dinner and cards. We had met them last summer at a neighborhood barbeque.

Alina Wolfowitz worked in the same building as my wife, and her husband Norm and I were Seahawk fans. They were fun.

I had the afternoon off and, sipping coffee in the kitchen with Nell, was about to cut the grass.

The phone rang. I’m superstitious about answering when expecting company.

“Don’t answer it,” I said, too late.

“Hello?” said Nell.

I tried to decipher the conversation by observing Nell’s “oohs, ahhs, um-hmmms,” the wan smiles and tightly pursed lips that alter her face when she is in conflict.

“Well, I don’t know,” she said. “Yes, yess… I suppose we could, yeah, no problem. Bring him over.”

The call ended.

“What?” I asked, my eyes widening.

“Not such a big deal,” she began. “That was Milly Campbell. She and Shep have a ski trip planned and the pet sitter cancelled at the last minute. I said we’d keep Leon for the weekend.”

Leon, the Campbells’ pet, is not a cat, dog or bird but an elephant, not full grown but no baby any more either.

“But Nell, we’re having company,” I protested. “It’ll be crowded. Why didn’t you refuse?”

“I wanted to,” Nell replied, “but Milly sounded desperate.”

“Why not the Smiths?” I asked. “They’re much closer to the Campbells than us.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “They’re busy or something.”

Before the company arrived, Nell, in the kitchen, busily stuffed peppers for dinner. Shep Campbell rang the doorbell. Leon, the elephant, stood behind him in the yard on a rope leash. Pulling and shoving, Shep and I barely got him through the front door. We led him to a spot where his head and trunk were in the dining room and his rear in the parlor. Shep tethered the rope and spread hay on the carpet.

“I sure appreciate you taking Leon on such short notice. I owe you one,” said Shep.

“No problem,” I replied, trying to sound like I meant it. Smells of the zoo overpowered the stuffed peppers baking in the kitchen.

When our guests arrived, I took their coats and sat them in the parlor.

“May I get either of you a drink?” I asked.

Side by side on the sofa, they stared at the beast but said nothing. Alina Wolfowitz assumed a jaunty, make-the-best-of-anything pose and Norm sneezed twice, perhaps beset by allergies.

“May I get either of you a drink?” I repeated. They both asked for bourbon. Doubles. While I mixed the drinks, Leon’s trunk, remarkably agile from the dining room, explored the air near Alina’s knees and skirt. She drew closer to her husband, crossed her ankles and complimented an ornate, gold leaf mirror on the opposite wall.

“Thank you,” I said. “It belonged to Nell’s folks.” I handed them their drinks and excused myself to check on Nell in the kitchen.

The stuffed peppers were delicious. Alina begged Nell to share the recipe. Norm and I discussed the Trail Blazer’s chances in the playoffs. We both agreed that Oklahoma point guard Russell Westbrook would be hard to restrain. As though he were defending the Blazers, Leon made a shrill trumpet typical of an elephant, sending bits of straw everywhere. Alina Wolfowitz smiled bravely but said nothing.

It’s lucky the card game after dinner was at the dining room table in proximity to the front of the elephant. During the third match, Leon did what such a creature must do, sooner or later. Eyes burned and noses curled. The smell nearly unbearable, with trowels and garbage bags, Norm and I silently cleaned up the mishap.

We resumed the game, spoke of gardens, football, homeless people and television but never once mentioned the elephant in the room. The Wolfowitzes excused themselves, maybe a bit early, but who can blame them? It was pretty crowded.

“What a day,” said Nell with a sigh. “Let’s call it quits. We can tidy up tomorrow.” We switched off lights and headed for bed.

About the author: Ron Smith has been playing drums and has been in bands for as long as he can remember. His attempts at songwriting led to prose. He loves reading fiction, history and biography and specializes in writing short fiction. His favorite book is Thomas Mann's Buddenbrooks. He shares a Woodstock cottage with several houseplants.

Poetry by Hariana Chilstrom

Sometimes writing inspiration is just a bus ride away. Thanks to Hariana Chilstrom for letting me share this thought-provoking piece. Like a bus, it starts in one place and takes us somewhere else.

Misanthropy Rides the Bus

by Hariana Chilstrom

Riding on the #14 bus

On my way home,

Chewing on my thoughts

About loud, smelly, pushy people,

My eyes suddenly closed.

And, like a big friendly black and tan dog

A question wandered into my mind:

“I wonder if I could love everyone on this bus?”

Well, I didn’t get an answer

But the question sure was interesting.

It opened up a space
I didn’t know was there.

It was like finding a hidden room

Empty and unused

In a house I thought I knew well.

Maybe I won’t rush to fill it,

With homilies and affirmations

But wait

To see what comes

To see what shows up

To see what 

Honestly wants to be there.

About the author: Hariana Chilstrom is a science educator and visual artist who is passionate about pollinators and other (mostly spineless) creatures. She has written for the Pacific Horticulture Journal, several natural history associations, and the Seattle Aquarium. Many of her current creative non-fiction pieces have been spawned by experiences on city buses.

Wild Things

Thank you to the editors of Sonic Boom for publishing two of my flash stories in their latest issue. My stories are on pages 34 - 36 and include "Hansel and Gretel and Johann" and "Hunter's Moon."

You can click here to read this issue, which is full of wildly creative poetry, fiction and visual art.

The Storm Within

Thank you to the editors of Inquietudes Literary Journal for including my poem "Blow, Winds" in their latest issue. You can read Issue 3: Spaces here.

The title "Blow, Winds" comes from King Lear. Thrown out by his scheming, power-hungry daughters and madly roaming the stormy heath, Lear rants,

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!

You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout

Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks!

                                                                 Act 3, Scene 2

As king, Lear has never been exposed to the elements in this way before. Now he's experiencing nature's indifference and also paying the price for favoring the daughters who've learned to flatter him. The pain he feels now is exacerbated by the knowledge that he brought it on himself.

If you live in the Portland area and would like to see a free production of Lear in a graveyard, Portland Actor's Ensemble's production of the play will continue at Lone Fir Cemetery, Thursday - Sunday through August 4 at 7 pm.

I Want to Speak Norwegian

My great-grandfather with my grandmother, brother and mother.

Like most of my poems, this one started as a freewrite.

When I was growing up, I loved hearing my grandmother talk about her Norwegian father. She couldn't stand her bullying older sisters (Tillie was the absolute worst), and she never told me much about her mother, who died young, but she adored her father. He died the same year I was born, but from my grandmother's stories, I felt like I knew this man who escorted two younger nephews to the U.S. and ended up staying here himself.

Writing from one of my own prompts in class (the assignment was to "translate" a Norwegian poem), I began facetiously with "I want to speak Norwegian" then ended up writing about this fabled family character, my great-grandfather, who I'd never met. I think most of my favorite pieces start this way. In the beginning, I have no idea where I'm headed, and, with luck, I can let the ink and creativity take the lead. If I’m even luckier, I'll end up with a poem that may have something to say to others, too. 

That’s what happened with “I Want to Speak Norwegian,” which recently earned a 3rd Honorable Mention in the Oregon Poetry Association’s “Poet’s Choice” category.

Here’s what the judge of the contest, John Sibley Williams, said about all of the six poems he selected:

“Given the wealth of incredible poems submitted to Poet’s Choice this year, selecting only six was a struggle. So many more deserve to be honored.

…All six of these profound, moving poems inspired me. They stimulated. They emphasized conversation over didacticism, allowing me to encounter them on my own terms. They all shocked me with their potent images and surprised me with their turns and transformations.

And they accomplished this via such diverse methods.”*

I’m  grateful to have my work included in this generous praise, but even more, I love that Williams acknowledges how many poems deserve to be honored.

As a creative writing teacher, I know there are legions of artists creating rich pieces that may or may not receive the attention they deserve. And yet every time my classes meet, the room hums with appreciation for the words of all the participants.

Now that the spring sessions of my classes have come to a close, I want to thank every one of my students for the depths of their creativity and courage. Their work enriches other lives, and, I hope, their own. And that, I believe, is the ultimate reward.

Cause for Celebration

Congratulations to J.R. Langston, who will be one of the featured readers at the Ooligan Press Writers of Color Spring Showcase on May 22!

I had the good fortune to meet Langston years ago at a class I was teaching at a community school and am thrilled about her well-deserved success.

If you'd like to attend the reading, here are the details:

Ooligan Press Writers of Color Spring Showcase
May 22, 7:00 pm
Literary Arts, 925 SW Washington
Free

The event will be hosted by Anis Mojgani, Literary Arts Board member, two-time National Poetry Slam Champion, winner of the International World Cup Poetry Slam, and multiple-time TEDx Speaker.

Featured readers include:

Rajesh Reddy
J.R. Langston
Genevieve Deguzman
Lily Lamadrid
Hannah Kim
Jennifer Perrine
Takashi L. Kendrick
Jessica Mehta
Jessica Cagle-Faber
Moxxy Rogers
Erica Compere

For more information about this or other Literary Arts events, click here.

Fact and Fiction

My parents in awe of their new son.

Many thanks to the publishers of Wordrunner for including two of my poems in their new echapbook, Upheavals, which you can read here.

One of the pieces is about a pregnant woman leaving her husband. Pure fiction. I call the woman "my grandmother" in this poem, but my grandmother never stormed out of the house flapping a dish towel. Or at least not that I know of.

The second poem is simply a list of details my mom has told me about my birth, including the popcorn she ate the evening before and my inability to breathe in the first moments after I was born. This is a factual piece, and yet I've added some details of my own. I don't know, for instance, what my dad was wearing that night, but I call it a "cranberry" cardigan because he always told me how over the moon he was to have a daughter as well as two sons, and I associate cranberries with celebrations - a family gathered around a table. Were my brothers really cold when they stood outside and waved to our mother, who was standing in a window? Who knows, but that image felt right to me.

As for the grandmother poem, my real grandmother was a tough, spirited lady, so maybe there's a hint of truth in this piece after all: An example of fact and fiction playing hide and seek between lines.

Stories, Poems & Prosecco

A few of my favorite writers.

My adult students recently gathered for a party.

What were we celebrating? The fact that each of them had written a story or poem or memoir in their own voice...and that they were willing to share it with us.

Each piece welcomed us into another world. A world where a woman wears red boots while pretending to dance with Robert Redford. Where another woman meets Elie Wiesel in a refugee camp. Where a Ukrainian man is on a plane full of Crimean Tatars returning home after being expelled by Stalin more than four decades before.

When I was a kid I felt special because I was a writer. I loved sitting cross-legged on my bed and pouring out ideas onto paper, then shaping them into a form that made me happy. I also loved the way my English teachers beamed approval at me.

Our party on March 16 was a celebration of both things - the private joy of expressing ourselves and the public pleasure of appreciation and applause. Writing is an act of power that can grow tenfold and more when we're heard by others. Truly a cause for celebration!

Lyric Fiction by Mona Stewart-Gettmann

"Snow White" has always been a rich story, thick with beauty and dread. In her new tale about the huntsman who was sent to murder Snow White, Mona Stewart-Gettmann creates a chilling and moving portrait of this unnamed character.

About the artist/author:  Mona Stewart-Gettmann cannot remember NOT drawing. She took art classes in college, and then writing came later. From reading lots of children's picture books, she's seen first-hand which ones children like.

A New Editing Class!

I'm excited to offer a new class for women this spring.

Here are the details:

Creative  * Editing * for Women

Explore ways of shaping your creative work into polished pieces through craft talks and honest, supportive feedback.

4 Tuesdays – April 9 & 23, May 14 & 28

10 a.m. – noon

All experience levels & genres welcome

Meets at Taborspace – 5541 SE Belmont

Over the course of 4 meetings, each participant will have the chance to

~ share at least 2 separate pieces with the group

    up to 5 pages of prose (double-spaced) or poetry (single-spaced)

~ receive written instructor feedback on one piece (up to 5 pages)

$80 for 4 meetings

Limit 8 participants

Preregistration required