Hello, readers. I’m very excited to reveal the cover of my new forthcoming book! Hot off the designer’s PC, here’s the front of The Places That Hold, my fifth collection.
This 81-page book contains some of my finest work yet, according to my fiercest critics (see also: wife and sons). I’ve had a great experience with EastOver Press, the publisher. They’re located out of Rochester, Mass., but the editor calls Speedwell, Tennessee home. This publication marks the first time I’ve ever received an advance for a book, and while it’s crass to discuss money matters, I can honestly say that receiving that check was both gratifying and validating for a small-town scribbler like me.
Perhaps what I’m most excited by is this book’s rare chemistry: It is a unique combination of fond reflection and tragic documentary. On the one hand, there are lots of poems about the beauty and history of my home state. But on the other, there is one whole chapter devoted to pieces inspired by the horrific events that took place at Dozier Reform School in the panhandle. The book is equal parts light and darkness, with poems that examine what it means to call somewhere home alongside those about alienation and abandonment. For those seeking the rural and the natural, you’ll find plenty of both here, but you’ll also find the noise and smell of cities like Tampa, St. Petersburg, and even Lisbon, Portugal. These “Places That Hold,” alongside others, create a book that is rich in imagery. These poems provide escape via captivity.
Keep your eyes on this site for further updates; as soon as The Places That Hold becomes available for purchase, I’ll provide the links and locations here. Thanks as always for supporting my work, and may your upcoming holiday season be the happiest yet.
Last New Year’s Eve, I took a night hike that turned scary. My boys, my wife, and I were at Pioneer Park in Zolfo Springs, and we weren’t quite ready to hit the hay, so we began walking. I brought along my Q-beam, a powerful handheld light that could shine the eyes of racoons, opossums, and other night creatures.
As we walked, we heard a shuffling in the high branches of nearby cypresses. Curious, I shone the bright light up into the dark boughs. Hundreds of buzzards were roosted there, and I had disrupted their beauty sleep. They swooped angrily from the trees, their oily wings and guttural calls combining in horrid cacophony above us. Their thick, putrid droppings spattered the ground. Both my sons thought the big birds were attacking us; in retrospect, they may have been right.
We retreated to camp. Tired from running and drained from an adrenaline dump, we all had a long and deep night’s sleep in our tent. The next morning over a campfire breakfast, we talked over the incident from the night before: Were the vultures merely moving from the discomfort of the light? Were they defending the roost? None of us knew for sure. But the lesson learned remains with us on every camping trip — Don’t wake the buzzards.
What, you may ask, does this story have to do with creative writing? Well, as an MFA student, I was often encouraged to write about the things that were most uncomfortable and disruptive. “Dig into your deepest secrets and horrible moments,” the advice went, and many young writers did exactly that, producing poems and stories about the most horrific traumas and ugliest family secrets you can imagine.
But we are now living in an age where those kinds of experiences flood the Internet and all other forms of media. If one expects to be read or heard, there needs to be some kind of wound or tribulation involved. It’s exhausting, and it’s warping the upcoming generation. We now have boys and girls who consider emotional damage the norm, and if someone isn’t professing a psychological condition, they become the outcast. I say enough.
There is a reason that Billy Collins and the late Mary Oliver are best-selling poets: Their work often explores the everyday, the pleasant, and the (heaven forbid) accessible. People are tired of reading about degradation and dismay, and poetry that continues to explore darkness only reaffirms what non-readers of poetry already thought — Poetry is some exclusive, deeply morose art form that only eccentrics and humanities majors can “get.”
It’s time to stop disturbing the vultures, writers. Our potential audience is waning like never before because they’re done with all the negativity, the political diatribes, and the recounting of grievous injustices. Should our poetry become all sunshine and daisies? No. Is there a time and place where unkind or ugly words must be shared? Yes. But we have already overextended that period, and it’s time to give readers some joy, some light, and some of what the Romantics would celebrate — poetry that glorifies nature, humankind’s connection to it, and life at large.
We need more odes, and less of the odious. Poetry will thrive with the masses again when we begin to remember the words of the apostle Paul: “Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable–if anything is excellent or praiseworthy–think about such things.” It’s high time that our words gave people the impressions and sensations of positivity. Now more than ever, we need poems that are lights. And we need those lights to shine on something other than the “buzzards” of our shared humanity.
I know it’s been a while since I updated this blog, and for that, my audience, I sincerely apologize. Truth is, there hasn’t been much to report. But that’s about to change…
Earlier this week, I received the good news that my fifth collection of poems, The Places That Hold, will come out in spring of next year. EastOver Press, a relatively new producer of fine literature, will be its publisher, and I couldn’t be more pleased. They’ve done fine work for fellow poets like Sylvia Woods, and this book deserves a publisher who gives careful attention and craft to the sacred act of bookmaking. Too many small publishers today are fly-by-night, single-person operations that are more interested in money than art. I can honestly say that EastOver Press defies that trend, and I’m pleased to be associated with them.
Also, Cutleaf Journal just published several poems of mine. Here’s the link. These new ones take a hard look at our sometimes conflicted relationship with place; I suspect everyone faces that complex feeling about location and its emotional resonance sooner or later.
As more developments arise, I’ll be sure to announce them. I’m looking forward to revealing the cover of the new book in months ahead, and I’m eager to drop a few hints about its interior, as well. For now, you can get a sneak peek of some of its poems by visiting the Cutleaf Journal link I’ve included here. Thanks for reading!
Recently, I was honored to receive a lovely recognition: The Sidney Lanier Poetry Prize. The contest, hosted by the Sidney Lanier Memorial Library in North Carolina, was judged by former North Carolina Poet Laureate Cathy Smith Bowers, who read my first-place poem during a Zoom-based awards ceremony earlier this week. You can read about the award and view my poem here: https://thelanierlibrary.org/upcoming-events/sidney-lanier-poetry/
I am thrilled and excited by this achievement, just as I was when I was a poetry “newbie” seeking to stake my claim in the literary landscape of our country. I know the prize probably won’t make national headlines or secure me a six-figure advance on a book deal from Norton, but every time my work manages to get a little attention, it’s a nice reminder that I’m doing something right. I’m sure it’s the same for artists or creators of any type.
Lots of novice poets get very intense about winning contests; they pay obscene entry fees, look for legitimate-sounding competitions that promise “publication” or big monetary awards, and they think that if only they can win, their struggle for literary acclaim will at last be over. I know this because I did it, too. Truth is, there’s always a bigger award. Even Pulitzer and Nobel winners will tell you: Once you’ve got the thing, you’ve got it. You take it for granted after a while, even as rising writers grit their teeth and sweat over such matters, grinding their pencil leads into ugly nubs or mercilessly pounding their poor, abused keyboards.
This isn’t to say that awards don’t matter; certainly there are some that can ensure future prosperity and opportunity for those of us in writer-land. But to fret over which prize we might win or lose? That’s a surefire way to inhibit creative flow. The author banging out words with a mindset fixated on ribbons or trophies is a typesetter, not a writer. “If I just arrange these artfully glamorous adjectives in a certain way, I can be sure to impress the judges,” they tell themselves, all the while sacrificing authenticity.
There are those who will say that art should never be about competition, that the two notions are diametrically opposed. They say that there can be no truly fair criteria for contests since artistic taste is subjective. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder” and so forth. I won’t go so far as to endorse their argument. For as long as humans have existed, we have competed, even in abstract matters. To throw away literary contests would be a foolish refusal to acknowledge our humanity. But that doesn’t mean we need to prioritize contests over the truer, nobler task of creating. Writers write, above all else. In the words of Faulkner, “Don’t be a writer; be writing.”
The other truth that new writers are sometimes unprepared for is the extraordinary number of losses one must endure for each win. Every time a poet or prose writer achieves some prize, you can bet that there are huge strings and stacks of losing entries that preceded victory. Even my friends who are considered “name-brand” poets acknowledge that losing is a far larger part of lit-biz than winning. The old adage about “taking your lumps” is as true in writing as it is in sports, performance, or business. Everybody pays their dues.
I neither discourage nor encourage entry into poetry contests. I think that each person must decide whether such an act is worth the time, resources, and effort invested. For some, competition is a motivator, and for others, it means anxiety. In a culture that embraces the idea “You miss 100 percent of the shots you don’t take,” there remain individuals who are happier refraining from shooting altogether. Good for them; not entering is as much a willful act as entering.
For those of us who keep submitting our stuff to competitions large and small, keeping a balanced perspective is crucial. I appreciate the recognition of this latest award, and I’m honored by it, as well. And like so many other people, I like to win. However, I’ve also done this long enough to know that achievement and accomplishment only happen via work. And the work must go on.
As the rest of the country celebrates the “end in sight” for coronavirus, my family gets to encounter a new challenge from it. Earlier this month, on the fifth to be exact (my late stepdad’s birthday, as luck would have it), I was informed that my university was laying me off with no prospective date for rehire or return. After four and a half years of teaching, writing, and positively impacting the lives of adult learners, a virus ended my job. The explanation: Student enrollment declined, admissions decreased, and retention was lower because of COVID-19. Cutbacks had to be made, and I was one of them. Other faculty members had rank and seniority, so here we are. One chapter abruptly ended.
If you’ve learned anything from my previous posts, however, it’s probably this: I am uniquely blessed with an ability to bounce back from obstacles in darn-near record time. The same day my layoff took effect, I received a phone call from a private school near my home. The principal requested that I come teach for them in the 2021-2022 school year, and I gladly accepted. The terms were good, and the environment is ideal for my unique brand of literary pedagogy. Granted, I’ll have a few months to “struggle” before my new gig takes effect, but there is hope waiting at the end of summer.
My situation is far better than some others. There are people who have no idea when or if they’ll return to work, and I’m sensitive to that. In the meantime, though, I’m devoting myself to grand plans for the school year yet to come. Part of this grand plan involves getting my students certain supplies I’d like them to have in the year ahead. Here is where you come in, dear reader:
I’m going to be teaching high school English to roughly 85 students. As part of this assignment, I’d like each of my students to have a Rocketbook reusable notebook. For those unfamiliar, a Rocketbook allows the user to simply wipe off previous writings after they’ve been used, submitted, or captured via phone or tablet. What does this mean? A single Rocketbook will last my students all year and enable us to do project work, interactive literature circles, and a wide variety of other tasks that plain paper and pen just won’t. Students can even submit their handwritten items to different email inboxes, making grading and organization a breeze.
Any assistance that you can provide is much, much appreciated. Even if COVID-19 threw me a curveball, I intend to throw one right back at it by resuming excellent instruction as soon as possible. Your contribution will allow my kids to thrive and grow in the brighter days ahead. Thanks for reading and thanks for giving!
What can we do to ensure that 2021 isn’t just a 2020 redux? There are plenty of actions that have nothing at all to do with masks, social distance, or near-obsessive handwashing. Supporting those who create and facilitate culture and helping nonprofits that have suffered are just a couple of ways we can begin the return to something like normal.
Small presses and their authors have been profoundly and negatively affected by the COVID pandemic. Cancelled author events, fewer sales opportunities, and closed venues have all created major deficits for those who keep original thought alive and well. Yes, even your loyal host has been impacted. It isn’t often I use my website and blog for overt sales messages, but you know the old saying about desperate times…
A purchase or two of this book (visit the link above) will help begin the restoration. It may seem like a strange bit of logic to prescribe buying poetry to overcome a crisis like this one, but here’s the truth: A moment spent reading poetry is a moment spent without present worries. Poetry transports us to a different place and time mentally. It can allow us to breathe air unencumbered by danger, visit maskless friends and neighbors, and feel genuinely connected in ways we’ve so sorely missed. If you’re seeking that connectedness, poetry (and especially THIS poetry) is the answer.
Next, consider year-end giving to a worthy nonprofit. Arts nonprofits have faced an especially horrible setback. The small cultural center where I give workshops has had to reduce programming and opportunities while moving most events online. While this isn’t terribly different than businesses and schools “going virtual,” moving to the online platform completely negated the famous hands-on approach that Firehouse Cultural Arts Center classes are famous for. As we begin to mitigate the damage of 2020, I would ask that you give generously to this cause. The link to do so is below:
If we are to do better and see a light at the end of this terrible tunnel, we must begin by supporting those causes and ideas that would ordinarily receive our favor. Helping writers, small presses, and arts nonprofits is a great way to start overcoming a bleak period.
Victory hinges on so many things: precautions, herd immunity, and even an eventual cure. But if we desire to regain that missing piece of shared human experience, we should prove that with actions: Contributing to the humanities rolls out the welcome mat to a new, brighter, and healthier era. Please purchase and give today. A new year awaits.
This book is what I would call my magnum opus — It is the most complete representation of my work. Its poems range from the formal to the comical and all points in between. If you love Old Florida, boyhood mischief, and well-crafted poetry about real people and places, this is the book for you. Literary enough for English majors, but practical enough for the rest of us, too. A great gift for the reader in your life.
What I really want for Christmas this year is for people to purchase my 2014 collection, Middle Class American Proverb. It’s a great way for them to prepare for my forthcoming collection which I haven’t announced yet (hint, hint). I know a lot of my friends and family already have Middle Class American Proverb, but it would be great if some more strangers (friends I haven’t met) would buy this book. I’d also be elated if some of my loyal readers bought this collection for their own friends or family members. If they buy it from some other website, they’ll have to pay nearly $20 for it (or more!), but if they get it directly from me, I can make them a deal and get it to them for only $15.
It’s been a tough year, Santa. COVID-19 and other major crises have hit us hard. We could all use a little something extra in our stocking, and if you’ll just get a few people to purchase this book of mine, I’d be incredibly grateful. You know I don’t like asking people for money. So here’s hoping that you can make this one wish come true; I’m counting on you, big guy.
If you read my post from earlier this week, you know that my recent writing of persona poetry has caused me to think more closely about some of the identities I’ve adopted over the years. Today I’m taking a look at another one — the stereotypical professor.
There was a time in my academic career that I believed I had to fit a certain mold (and a pretty old one at that): the sweater-wearing, overtly studious, and incredibly stodgy pedagogue. You know the type — that old, bald white guy who has breathed too deeply the rarefied air of higher education too long and is now utterly disconnected from average reality. Let’s call him Professor Highenmighty.
A far cry from “Bubba” of last post’s fame, this guy was so deeply impressed by his own credentials that he conducted class as if he were Socrates and Jesus rolled into one. Listen up, mere peons, for the fount of all knowledge is about to spew forth.Have you not noticed my scholarly looking attire? Have you not observed my air of sophisticated erudition? You should.
Granted, I’d done pretty well for myself. Not everyone from my humble beginnings secures two graduate-level degrees, publishes books of poetry, or wins hoity-toity literary awards. Still, I had no real justification for becoming Professor Highenmighty — I had just fulfilled the potential that people nearest me knew I had all along, and what’s more, I had done so later than I should have. Nonetheless, here I was — Mister Intellectual, ready to look indifferently down my nose at lesser mortals, and that meant just about everybody in my usual sphere. What an ass.
What got rid of Professor Highenmighty? As is usually the case, an encounter with someone (or several someones) smarter. Comeuppance is usually the cure for excessive ego, and this time was no different:
My day job was teaching impressively gifted kids in high school the various facets of creative writing. These students were smarter, more talented, and more motivated than I ever could have been at their age. I was stunned by their intelligence, and their regular demonstrations of innovation and originality were a reminder of the shiftless sloth I’d been. When I was their age, I had specialized in invisibility. In contrast, they put their brilliance on display daily, secure in their giftedness and their place as young artists. Some of their poise was certainly artificial, but still, their native ability was undeniable. Outsmarted by teenagers, Professor Highenmighty quickly became a thing of the past. Humility, thy name is youth.
If this were a fable or a folk tale, I suppose a moral or a lesson would go here at the end. Like all accomplishments, degrees gather dust. After a while, they’re taken for granted, and it’s perfectly possible to become an educated idiot. Maya Angelou is quoted as having said, “Nobody cares how much you know until they know how much you care.” I think that’s a good line to take away from this post. As I prepare for the next stage in my career and learning, I’ll do my best to keep Professor Highenmighty extinct. After all, there’s always somebody smarter.
Lately, I’ve been writing a lot of persona poetry — that magical brand of literary method acting wherein I adopt the voice and features of another person (or animal, or tree, or whatever) and write poems from their perspectives. It’s a lot of fun, wearing a mask of sorts, and I can see why my oldest son so badly wants to be a theater major in college.
But this walking about in others’ skin has had another effect on me. It has caused me to reflect upon times in my life where I’ve decided on identities that were, shall we say, less than authentic. As an undergraduate, I occupied the “poor, dumb country boy” role quite well. This persona gave my professors the impression I was a small-town hick that couldn’t possibly pass their classes. In some cases, it gave me an easy out when a class required too much effort on my part: “Dr. Willard, I’m sorry, but I’m just a poor, dumb country boy, and I don’t get a thing about physical science. Can I just get my D and go?” Other times, I loved shocking professors who’d jumped to conclusions. Sometimes I made A’s, and other times I’d posit something into class discussion that was unexpectedly profound or showed great insight. Their facial expressions were dumbstruck and priceless, and this was part of the thrill.
My parents and grandparents would have been horrified by this acting on my part; they’d reared me to be genteel, cultured, refined, and above all, honest. I’d had a great deal of training despite my rural roots, from piano and classical guitar lessons to extensive travel opportunities. I knew all too well which fork to use at formal dinners and how to comport myself in a variety of diverse social circumstances. So for me to effect this ill-bred image was anathema to my upbringing. Like so many kids in college, I was finding myself by being anyone but myself. “Bubba” had it better and easier — nobody expected him to do much, and when he did, he was more heavily rewarded than his peers whose intelligence was taken for granted.
The habit of playing the poor, dumb country boy followed me into my young professional life, though. He became a scapegoat for my errors (or early adulthood laziness) in much the same way that my imaginary friends in childhood had. Couldn’t find the location of the press conference? “Bubba” to the rescue — he (I) was just too ignorant to locate it. Didn’t hand in a lesson plan? Well, in Hardup County, we never knew nothin’ bout no lesson plans or gradebooks. And so forth. I became so adept at this performance that slowly, almost unnoticeably, my persona was taking over. I began to chew tobacco, thicken my dialect, and walk with a gait that could only be described as an aimless amble. “Bubba” was consuming me.
This persona worked fairly well until I earned too many degrees. People generally stop believing you’re a backwater hillbilly once you’ve acquired a certain level of education. It’s hard to get labeled a redneck when multiple graduate-level diplomas are hanging on the wall behind you. So I’ve had to retire him, especially now, as I begin applying to doctoral programs. Sorry, Bubba, you’ll have to be put out to pasture, to use one of your colloquialisms. Thanks for your service, but like an outgrown security blanket, you need to be packed up. I’m closing the lid on the trunk of my personal history, and hopefully the stale cedar air will be too much for you. It’s time to live earnestly.