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NewTown Writers
NewTown also offers workshops for local writers and sponsors literary events.
Nick Antosca
"Movies and Kids", winner of the 2004 fiction contest from Painted Bride Quarterly, is a brilliant, disturbing story that could have been written by Shirley Jackson or Patricia Highsmith.
Night Fire
By Sheryl Clough
—inspired by a WWII spotter's cabin at Banba's Crown, Malin Head, County Donegal
The North Atlantic chops at the green shore
with white-edged knife blades. On the grass
far below, remains of chalk spell 'EIRE', marks
left by a hopeful people in that time of bombs.
On this wind strewn cliff still stands a concrete
spotter's hut. Inside the soot-black walls, small
traces remain of those who watched, huddled by night
around a feeble fire, longing for home, steamed
brown bread, flannel sheets. What thoughts chased
them, as engine roars graced the storm clouds?
Imagine a youth in a leather jacket, holding hands
clapped over his ears. So lately he held hands
with a hometown girl, their whispers stretching
long into the night. What plans they made! And
then the War, rending the gossamer dream fabric
as shrapnel rends flesh. He protects his ears, for
what else is under his control, pierced as he is
by shrieking propellers, by fear, by the ultimate
knowledge that only Providence can keep him alive,
suspended above the chalk, below the dark.
This poem first appeared in the anthology Embers and Flames (Outrider Press, 2015).
Night of Sky and East vs. West
NIGHT OF SKY by Changming Yuan
night of sky in the sea, bursting
with clouds and whales and chrysanthemums
night of sky in my mind—flat
when my meditative spirit stays still
among shapes and sounds, like a lotus-eater
night of sky in the sky, deep night
when my imaginings are starfish finding themselves
swimming closer to the carrel tree, to their nests
Copyright 2010 by Changming Yuan; originally published in Sea Stories
EAST VS. WEST by Changming Yuan
breaking, broken
bare bricks on the Berlin Wall
collected from the ruins
to build a transparent bridge
between the past and the future
broken, breaking
earthen bricks for Badalin Ridge
baked in a dragon fire
to repair and strengthen the long wall
separating the prairies farther from the gobi
Copyright 2010 by Changming Yuan; originally published in Hando No Kuzushi
Critique by Tracy Koretsky
In last month's Critique Corner, I made this fairly audacious statement: "Even more than repetition, rhythm, or rhyme, it is metaphor that distinguishes poetry from every other type of writing." I say audacious because, from the bulk of our mail here at Winning Writers, it is clear that most emerging writers believe that poetry equals repetition, either of sound—in other words, rhyme—or as phrase. This is a misconception.
What is true is that, while metaphor is the logic of poetry—its way of thinking, if you will—repetition is its most powerful device. Surely, that explains why it is immediately noticed and most frequently emulated. But, as with anything powerful, repetition must be handled with care.
One poet who does so artfully is Canadian Changming Yuan, author of Chansons of a Chinaman (Leaf Garden Press, 2009) and Politics and Poetics (Lambert Academic Publishing, 2009), a widely-published writer who, this month, has contributed two poems organized by repetition for us to compare and contrast.
Let's begin with what these poems don't do. They do not repeat the phrase without evolution in meaning. This is the single most common error emerging poets make.
Repetition of a phrase only works when the phrase morphs or takes on shades. This may be achieved as a change in context, as we will see in Yuan's poems, or through grammar, as we saw in Janet Butler's triolet, "Design", featured in the November 2009 Critique Corner. In some cases, the repeated phrase can drive the narrative, as in the "six hundred" from Tennyson's famous poem "The Charge of the Light Brigade" . No matter how it is applied, what is essential to understand is that effective repetition is not static. Misused it can easily overwhelm a poem, render it predictable and soon, dull.
One way that all of these poems evolve their repetitions is through variation. The phrases are not repeated strictly, though enough elements are retained to make the pattern obvious. It is not always necessary to vary the repetition of a phrase, though a great deal—possibly the majority—of well-made, repetition-reliant contemporary poems do. Such variance surprises the ear and holds the reader's interest.
Moving a poem that relies upon strict repetition is much harder to do (and impressive when it happens). One tip: keep the poem short. If you have a many-stanzaed poem built around an exact repetition, consider breaking it into several differently-titled short poems.
Notice the length of Yuan's poems. Notice too, that in "Night of Sky", Yuan does not attempt to extend a single meaning through every repetition of the phrase. Rather, he uses the phrase to organize three distinct metaphors.
Only the initial words are repeated, that is "night of sky in..." Yuan then creates a pattern with the remainder. That is, in the first and third stanzas, the phrase is completed by the definite article "the" followed by a single syllable word beginning with the letter "s". Each is completed by a comma plus a two-syllable word.
The similarity in the construction of these two lines form a bookend surrounding the more greatly varied second stanza in which the phrase is followed by a personal pronoun, a dash (a longer pause than a comma) and a single-syllable word, as if the extra pause given to the dash accounts for the rhythmic beat given to a syllable. Observe that the noun following the phrase in stanzas one and three uses a long vowel, whereas the second stanza uses a soft one.
To further fulfill this graceful balance, Yuan's final repetition of the phrase in stanza three repeats twice within itself by beginning and ending the line with "night", as well as his almost hypnotic use of "sky in the sky". This line is an excellent demonstration of one of the chief functions of repetition—strong emphasis. To modify "night" with "deep night" is simple, stirring, and universally affecting.
Taken as a whole, however, the poem proves the true power of repetition: music. Read the poem aloud and you are practically singing. The ear will always respond to pattern.
I could continue to discuss this fine piece: its careful sound correspondences that lead to more music; the way it moves from its metaphoric framework into the personal, finally bringing the two together in its resolution; how its metaphors are extended through the use of a diction family—but as this is an essay dedicated to the use of repetition, I will instead turn our attention now to "East vs. West".
Here repetition is used to organize a comparison. What one notices first and foremost is the initial phrase and its inversion. However, a bit of deeper analysis reveals that the grammatical structures of the two stanzas are just about identical—a more nuanced method of repetition. Notice that in each stanza the fourth line begins with "to", that "bricks" is the second word of each second line. The effort to parallel the two walls is supported by these choices and made obvious. Too obvious, in my personal opinion. Repetition is, after all, a powerful device—always noticeable. Used here, where it is not meant to "sing", it feels, to me, a bit forced, or at the very least, intellectual as opposed to musical.
That said, creating a parallel grammatical structure is a compelling way to imbue a poem with dignity. Far more subtle than strict phrase repetition, it nevertheless reinforces meaning in much the same way. If you have a poem that uses strict repetition, one way you might consider revising is to create many fewer resoundings of the phrase, and more grammatical parallelism.
In the case of "East vs. West", one revision might be to cut the first line of each stanza or to leave only one of the two closely-related words, perhaps a different one in each. I suspect the poet might believe that much of the art of the piece is bound in the fine distinction between the two forms of the word, but the effect upon the reader is to command so much attention to their parsing that the rest of the poem is slighted.
So strong is repetition that it can easily overpower a poem. Even just the use of the word in a different form is enough to alert the reader to pattern. Respect repetition and your poems will be elegant and memorable.
Where could poems like "Night of Sky" and "East vs. West" be submitted? The following contests may be of interest:
Wild Leaf Press Annual Poetry Contest
Entries must be received by April 30
Small press based in New Haven offers prizes up to $1,000 and publication in annual anthology for unpublished poems
Writer's Digest Annual Writing Competition
Postmark Deadline: May 2
Competitive contest for poetry and several prose genres from Writer's Digest, a leading publisher of directories and advice books for writers; top prize across all genres is $3,000, plus prizes up to $1,000 in each genre
Poetry on the Lake Competition
Postmark Deadline: May 15
Prizes up to $400 for unpublished poems, sponsored by the annual 3-day Poetry on the Lake festival on Lake Orta in Italy; 2011 suggested theme is "Stone"
These poems and critique appeared in the April 2011 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
Night Talks
By Terri Kirby Erickson
When one would wake in the night, the other
followed. Then, in their bed, next to their window
that was always open, my mother and father
would talk to the sound of cars going by,
the hum of streetlights, the occasional bark
of a neighbor's dog. They spoke of high school
dances, family vacations, raising children,
being grandparents. And their faces, soft
with age and sleep, were hidden in the dark,
so they could speak at last of their lost son,
without any need to shield each other from
that pain. It must have been a relief to unpack
the shared sadness they courageously carried,
to put it down, if only for an hour. It was like
I could hear them from my own bed
across town, as I slipped into a deeper sleep,
reassured and comforted by their beloved
familiar voices echoing among the stars.
First published in ONE ART Poetry Journal
Nixon Under the Bodhi Tree and Other Works of Buddhist Fiction
Innovative collection of short stories that integrate Buddhist precepts into contemporary settings. Some of the pieces use form as well as content to explore Buddhist concerns with present awareness and change.
No Ashes in the Fire
By Darnell L. Moore. This passionate, eye-opening memoir chronicles the author's coming of age as a black gay man in Camden, NJ, his activism with the Movement for Black Lives, and his maturing understanding of his parents' troubled marriage. Moore places his personal story in the context of structural oppression in Camden's history, and shows the extraordinary resilience and devotion of black families under pressure.
No Loneliness
A sacred quiet permeates this debut poetry collection, winner of the 2009 FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize. Abandoned barns are Cone's churches; the steady rhythms of farm work, his liturgy. The birth of a daughter is both miracle and memento mori, a sweet paradox held together in an extended lyric poem that envisions poetry as a transmission of love across generations.
No RSVP
He won't worry about how to help,
what tie to wear with which shirt color,
how center pieces fit with dishware,
if gifts might be necessary. She
doesn't care in which chair he may sit,
should a gravy spill blot his clothing,
if such worry's worth it. Thoughtlessly
guests resume games throughout the evening,
take dessert, crumbs dropping to carpet,
during her home vigil. Still she
did plan space for him in an event
knocks upon her door materialize,
should it freeze in hell. He looked a damn fool
lying in sand without a face, breath-
less, with arm and leg remaining, no,
not even requesting vacation,
leaving quite unannounced. What matters
to anybody; who now could care?
In spite, he should've shown! For she, sweet
hostess, shall greet no gentle-caller,
table-head, soldier, friend nor lover.
Copyright 2006 by Ron Dean
Critique by Jendi Reiter
This month's critique poem, Ron Dean's "No RSVP", subtly employs irony and misdirection to channel our outrage at the intrusion of violent death into our carefully constructed lives. By pretending that a dinner-party faux pas is the most important thing about this soldier's absence, the poem mocks the narcissism and misplaced priorities that permit war to continue.
"No RSVP" reminded me of a famous war poem, Arthur Rimbaud's "Le Dormeur du Val" (English translation). Both poems set a scene that initially appears benign, to heighten the reader's shock and sense of wrongness when death breaks in. We're tricked into complaining against the writer for ruining a pretty picture, only to realize that we may be perpetuating ugliness by refusing to see it.
Social conventions in "No RSVP" are untrustworthy, inadequate to bear direct conversation about the hostess' loss. At first, we think we're hearing about a well-adjusted couple who are above arguing about trivia such as place settings and gravy spills. How gracious they are to one another, we might say. But these opening lines were meant sarcastically, and like strangers at a party, we were not "insiders" enough to understand the story beneath the story. Of course they can't worry about these things—he is dead, and she will never see him at her table again. What seemed like evidence of their freedom is actually a sign of their powerlessness.
The poem mocks human attempts at graciousness and order, even going so far as to call the young man undignified in death ("He looked a damn fool/lying in sand without a face")—perhaps a dark pun on "loss of face" as a term for a social gaffe. Yet I never felt the author was being mean-spirited. Rather, he gives voice to our feelings of frustration, humiliation and helplessness before death's lack of care for what we treasure.
Whether or not the guests are truly thoughtless, the bereaved hostess cannot help resenting them for being absorbed in life's ordinary details, which the soldier's death has put into such stark perspective for her. She is angry at him, too, for dying without even a chance to say goodbye. As a description of this lack of closure, the ironic understatement of the phrase "no RSVP" harshly reminds us that we are not entitled to any advance notice from the Grim Reaper. On one level, we know it is absurd to be offended that death sets no value on our lives and loves, but on another level, we cannot shake the feeling that they nonetheless have infinite value. "What matters/to anybody; who now could care?//In spite, he should've shown!"
I liked the courtly, old-fashioned cadence and vocabulary of the last lines ("sweet hostess"... "gentle-caller"... "friend nor lover"). It was like an acknowledgment that the rituals of civilization, however insufficient to save our lives, are still worthwhile to help us make sense of our losses. The tenderness of these lines also softened what could otherwise have been too cynical a poem.
Where could a poem like "No RSVP" be submitted? These upcoming contests may be of interest:
GSU Review Annual Writing Contest
Postmark Deadline: March 4
Recommended contest from Georgia State University offers $1,000 each for poetry and fiction; prestigious judges. Email Jody Brooks for details
Florida Review Editors' Awards
Postmark Deadline: March 15
Prizes of $1,000 each for poetry, fiction and essays from a well-regarded journal; note new deadline (formerly February 15)
National Federation of State Poetry Societies Awards
Postmark Deadline: March 15
Prizes from $25 to $1,500 in 50 contest categories, including open-theme awards
This poem and critique appeared in the February 2006 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
No Salvage
The first time I married
we lived in the woods,
a spot clear enough
for a sixty foot trailer.
At night, we heard
bobcats scream. Our lab,
Sonia, whimpered, took refuge
in a break in the underpinning.
My husband shot targets
from the back door. I tried once,
the recoil of the .357 magnum
pushing my arm past my ear
like a starting gun.
Later, ducking thrown dishes, I ran,
watched from the Home Stretch Inn
as a wrecker hauled the steel trap away,
the frame sprung in the middle,
both sides pulled apart.
Copyright 2010 by Barb McMakin
Critique by Tracy Koretsky
"If you don't know where you are, you don't know who you are," wrote that famous poet from Kentucky, the conservationist and contemporary transcendentalist, Wendell Berry. He was referring to the powerfully—even viscerally—expressive, if hard to define, quality that poets refer to as "a sense of place."
This month Critique Corner will look at a fine example of how a new Kentucky poet, Barb McMakin, has evoked that quality in "No Salvage", part of her just-released collection Digging Bones from Finishing Line Press.
"No Salvage" is a compact piece, fewer than a hundred words. From them, three images evoke a sense of place. Each earns its keep.
Most of the first stanza is given to "woods/a spot clear enough/ for a sixty foot trailer" establishing the importance of place in this poem. It is a pellucid description. It gives enough information for almost any reader to conjure a picture. For an American, the word "trailer" carries connotations of class and transience. It is a laden word.
Later she uses the proper noun, "The Home Stretch Inn". This is a clearly readable regionalism for a certain sort of roadside bar/motel near a woods in that part of the U.S.A. But this is a poem, so diction counts more than specifics. McMakin could have chosen any name. With "Home Stretch Inn" she contrasts "home" to "trailer", while at the same time, the phrase "home stretch"—the last leg of a race—makes a sort of witty rejoinder to the starting gun in the previous stanza.
Bobcat is another regionalism; the same cat is called wildcat or lynx elsewhere. While Kentucky's "Bob" screams, the more exotically named "Sonia" whimpers, providing an audio track for the reader's sense of place. Sonia is a symbol for what this couple shares, as she seeks safety within this frightening setting beneath the "break in the underpinning".
This is muscular writing: words chosen to do more than one thing. McMakin has multiple reasons to support every detail selected that also pertains to scene. Each contributes thematically. Each contributes to the poem's coherence. There is nothing esoteric about them; they are not named flora or proper nouns. She does not list. Her choices are more subtle and far more integral to the poem as a whole.
Toward revision I would suggest a reconsideration of the line breaking. One method to test whether a poem might not be achieving its most effective line breaks is to look at the words that begin all the lines and also those that end them. Are all the power words—the verbs and nouns—at one end or the other? Same question for the supporting words, prepositions, for example.
"No Salvage" provides a strong model of diction chosen to operate on a number of levels. Perhaps there are some line breaks that might do the same.
Take line seven. If it ended with "in," McMakin could underscore the repetition of two final lines of the second stanza. The refrain of "in, in, in" is already present. Reinforcing it could be a choice.
More importantly though, line breaks can be exploited to heighten drama or suspense. What if the line ended with "shot"? Or "ducking"? Then, for the briefest pause, the reader would ask, "Shot what?" "Ducked what?" This is the suspension and resolution discussed in the April 15, 2010 Critique Corner as the function of the third line of a haiku.
Another way a line break can operate expressively is by changing the tone. If line ten ended in "tried", you might not only have suspense as in the previous examples, but also the emotional implication of resignation.
While these might or might not affect one's reading, what is indisputable is that this author was able to make every word count in this unsettling poem.
Where could a poem like "No Salvage" be submitted? The following contests may be of interest:
Kentucky State Poetry Society Contests
Postmark Deadline: June 30
Local poetry society offers prizes up to $100 in open category, plus smaller prizes for poems with various themes and styles, including formal poetry and humor
Narrative Magazine Annual Poetry Contest
Entries must be received by July 18
Competitive award offers prizes up to $1,500 plus publication in this high-profile print and online journal of narrative poetry and prose
Naugatuck River Review Narrative Poetry Contest
Entries must be received by September 1; don't enter before July 1
Well-regarded journal of narrative poetry offers prizes up to $1,000 plus publication for winner and numerous runners-up; enter online only
These poems and critique appeared in the June 2010 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
No Sweeter Fat
The briny tastes and stormy weathers of the Pacific Northwest permeate this first poetry collection, voiced by a woman whose appetites for food and love are more than the world allows. These poems speak honestly of loneliness and pleasure. Winner of the 2006 Autumn House Press Poetry Contest.
Nobody’s Mother
This award-winning author's autobiography in verse is narrated in a likeable voice that will resonate with a wide audience. Themes include feminism, aging, the complexity of mother-daughter relationships, and nostalgia for Jewish culture along with a critique of its patriarchal and warlike aspects. Along the way, Newman offers such delights as an ode to the now-shuttered Second Avenue Deli, and a playfully erotic exploration of middle-aged love.
Nolo Press Information on Trademarks & Copyrights
Articles on copyright basics, plus how to get maximum protection from the federal copyright laws. Learn the difference between trademarks and copyrights.
Noname Book Club
Noname Book Club is an online and in-person community dedicated to uplifting POC voices. Each month they discuss two books written by authors of color, and send copies to incarcerated comrades through their Prison Program. They make their book picks available to local libraries so that the club can be financially accessible.
Nonsense Lit
Portal devoted to nonsense literature includes links to classic humor from Edward Lear, Lewis Carroll, and Punch magazine, as well as contemporary work.
North Central Review
Deadlines are February 15 and October 15 annually. Students may submit up to 5 poems and 2 pieces of prose per issue. No piece should exceed 5,000 words in length. Include proof of undergraduate status (.edu email address or photocopied student ID without number). Online entries accepted.
Northern Public Radio Book Series
This book review series is broadcast on WNIJ and WNIU, the public radio station affiliated with Northern Illinois University. The website includes book reviews and audio clips of author readings and interviews.
Not Akhmatova
By Noah Berlatsky. Playful and musical, yet weighty with paradox, this collection pairs freewheeling translations of Russian-Jewish poet Anna Akhmatova and original poems that respond to the fraught question of Jewish loyalties in the diaspora. Berlatsky shows that one doesn't have to believe in God to argue with Him. In these pages, Akhmatova is both present and absent, a figure who epitomizes her people's persecuted dead. The shape of that absence has sometimes seemed to bend Jewish identity around it like a black hole. Berlatsky recognizes that gravitational pull even as he resists it. This serious project is leavened by wry aphorisms about the ephemeral nature of poetry, and indeed life itself—a pessimistic, wisecracking sense of humor that situates Berlatsky firmly within the Judaism with which he wrestles.
Notable Online at The Rumpus
Due to the coronavirus, most literary events and book launches moved online in 2020. Literary journal The Rumpus now offers this weekly calendar of noteworthy online literary events. To submit your event for consideration, contact notableNYC@therumpus.net. In the subject line of the email, please include the event's date. Please include the virtual platform, time zone, and a link to the event information in the body of your email.
Note to Self III
Why does the sky steal
my grave mood
like a copycat?
Like a confused maiden that gets all heedless
it loses its possessions and lets them fall to the earth.
With same look as beauteously sparkling diamonds
but all useless still—
for when I stretch out my hand they melt on the surface
like common water.
So, tell me sky:
you, that you are our guardian,
did you come to scorn mankind?
The
tip-tip-tapping
of its precious tears
erodes my mind.
There I see them—
they crash against the ground just like
a shy devotee would do against its crush
to have a chance to touch them and be noticed.
How foolish those raindrops are!
Slapping against my coat, clutching, pulling,
as though they want to say
"take me, take me"
—reminding of a whore.
Why do I seek their company still?
That they are a dear companion to my teardrops
—is not the reason.
But that I hope their slaps will give me some of your essence.
Yes, we are far apart.
But we breathe
under the same sky—
it's mere an effort to have you physically.
All day I hear your voice—
oh, may those raindrops bring me the feeling of your skin
and the wild wind present me your smell!
I understand that I am as silly as the raindrops.
But at least
this way
I'll never forget that I wait for you.
Copyright 2008 by A.J.R. Hewitt
Critique by Jendi Reiter
This month's critique poem comes to us from German poet A.J.R. Hewitt. I chose "Note to Self III" for its apt metaphors and gentle lyricism. The restrained pacing of this wistful love poem allows Hewitt to succeed with a theme that could easily shade into sentimentality.
Hewitt piques the reader's interest by posing a question ("Why does the sky steal/my grave mood/like a copycat?") and reveals the answer gradually, through images of loss and transient beauty that awaken a sympathetic recognition in the reader long before the narrator reveals her own story. This is in contrast to a mistake often made by beginning lyric poets, who state their emotions at the outset as a substitute for creating a common ground of feeling with the reader. We can be moved by a poem about a familiar experience, even one that uses well-worn comparisons (raindrops/romantic tears), to the extent that the imagery stirs our own memories of such an experience before the author tells us how to feel.
Hewitt accomplishes this with two winsome extended metaphors. First she compares the sky to a "confused maiden" that "loses its possessions and lets them fall to the earth". Her jewels, perhaps her beauty and purity, vanish like raindrops. One sympathizes with the artlessness and lost innocence of this character, more than if the narrator identified it as herself from the beginning, because the "maiden's" lack of self-awareness contrasts poignantly with the tragedy we foresee. In the next stanza, Hewitt compares the rain to a "shy devotee" losing herself in an attempt to touch her beloved, the earth.
The poem counterbalances this pathos with the narrator's self-criticism, preempting the reader's potential mockery of her romantic melodrama. The same sensations are replayed with a wiser, more cynical interpretation. Perhaps seeing herself through the eyes of the lover who rejected her, she suddenly disdains the persistent rain: "Slapping against my coat, clutching, pulling,/as though they want to say/'take me, take me'/—reminding of a whore."
In the next stanza, whether wisely or unwisely, the narrator is able to integrate even this negative judgment into a love that continues unabated. At last revealing her reason for identifying with the rainy weather, she says of the raindrops, "I hope their slaps will give me some of your essence". The word "slaps" introduces a darker note, suggesting to me that an infatuation like this can slide into the dangerous self-delusion that prefers abusive contact to none at all. Hewitt leaves that potentiality unrealized, but lingering, at the end of the poem, where the narrator is still dreaming that her beloved will acknowledge the connection they share.
Thus, what seems like a simple traditional love poem is actually a subtle and concise depiction of the psychology of love, with its many contradictory moods following in quick succession, like clouds across a stormy sky.
Considering that English is not Hewitt's first language, she has a fine ear for its rhythms and nuances. I have left the poem as she submitted it, but would suggest the following grammatical changes: In the second stanza, add "the" before "same look", and eliminate the second "you" in the penultimate line. In the sixth stanza, change "mere" to "merely" before "an effort". The phrase "gets all heedless" sounds more like street slang than its author probably intended. I would change the line to "Like a confused maiden becoming all heedless" so that the verb can apply to both the maiden and the "it" (the sky) of the next line.
In the fourth stanza, it would be technically correct to add "me" before "a whore", though not necessary for the poetic flow. I rather like the ambiguity and universality of the line without the pronoun, which is why I did not correct it before publishing. At this point in the poem, the narrator is looking at herself through another's eyes, internalizing their negative judgments. Her real fear is not her own self-criticism but the likelihood that her beloved or other onlookers would have contempt for her devotion.
Finally, I would like to see a more interesting title than "Note to Self III", which sounds more like a writing exercise in a notebook than a title in which the author had real confidence. It is also not really accurate, since the narrator is addressing her beloved throughout, not herself. With these changes, this well-written and affecting poem would do well in independent, small-press and local poetry society contests, though it might be considered too traditional for the university-run publications.
Where could a poem like "Note to Self III" be submitted? The following contests may be of interest:
Franklin-Christoph Poetry Contest
Postmark Deadline: November 30
Free contest from seller of luxury pens and desk accessories offers $1,000 for unpublished poems up to 100 lines, plus fountain pens for runners-up
Writer's Digest Poetry Awards
Postmark Deadline: December 19
National writers' magazine offers $500 and self-publishing package, good exposure for emerging writers; open to unpublished poems, 32 lines maximum
Poetry Society of Virginia (Adult Categories)
Postmark Deadline: January 19
Prizes of $50-$125 for poems in over two dozen categories including humor, nature, and a variety of traditional forms; top prize in 2009 is $250 for a sonnet or other traditional form
This poem and critique appeared in the November 2008 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
Note to Van Helsing
Seduction is an art,
And so is death.
To fan the spark of life,
Until raging flames consume the body.
She died in ecstasy you know.
Sobbing her thanks,
As her soul burned away like a wick.
I can still feel her now.
A heartbeat unique among millions.
Within the heated flow of her veins,
Had lain the throbbing birth of womanhood.
Untouched!
An unmarked page,
Floating in the rain.
She danced between the drops,
Waiting for my pen to make its mark.
How could I resist,
This island of purity,
In a sea of sin?
The deep longing within her loins,
Given voice through quickened pulse.
It cried out for me,
And I raged in turn,
To cleanse my soul in the waters of this untapped well,
To douse damnation's fires in this virgin's red fount.
Gentle, so gentle the pursuit.
A soft smile to mask my fangs,
A caress like silk from razor-ed nails,
A knowing look with earthy promise,
And suddenly, so suddenly,
She was mine!
Fragile little leaf,
Twirling in the wind,
Crying on the edge of eternity,
For the thunderous release of the storm.
Within shadows her flower opened,
Within whispers her petals fell,
Within shivers her womb curdled,
To the cold offal of a dead man's seed.
Fruitless rite, empty husk, innocent damned.
She seemed familiar,
Did you know her Abe?
Perhaps your other lambs will bring me peace.
Copyright 2009 by Brian Donaghy
This poem was first published on MicroHorror.com in April 2009.
Critique by Jendi Reiter
Just in time for Hallowe'en, this month's critique poem by Brian Donaghy is based on characters from Bram Stoker's Dracula. In style and tone, "Note to Van Helsing" is a straightforward entry in the erotic-horror genre that Dracula exemplifies, rather than a critical reinterpretation or ironic pastiche, of which there have been many in modern times.
Vampires are the superstars of the monster world because they represent the unholy marriage of our two great preoccupations, Eros and Thanatos. In the Victorian era, arguably the heyday of the Gothic romance, sexual taboos could be explored more freely if the literal storyline was about violence rather than sex. The tragic outcome of uncontrolled passions in the horror novel could redeem a sensual story from charges of immorality.
To some extent this dynamic is still at work in the immensely popular Twilight novels, where the decision to transition from human to vampire is a powerful metaphor for adolescent girls' anxieties about their sexual awakening and the attendant risks of peer-group ostracism and family estrangement. Similarly, one could argue that Anne Rice's elegantly tragic, polyamorous vampires reflected the conflicted emotions of the gay community during the AIDS crisis of the 1980s and 1990s. Does the sublimation of erotica into horror reflect the misplaced priorities of a culture that finds violence less obscene than sex, or does it defend the sacred mystery and momentousness of sex in the age of casual hook-ups?
The Romantic poets wrote some of the greatest classics of erotic horror. Among them are Edgar Allan Poe's "Annabel Lee", John Keats' "La Belle Dame Sans Merci", and Samuel Taylor Coleridge's "Christabel", "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner", and others. (Read about Coleridge and see more sample poems here.)
A victim of its own popularity, the Gothic poetic style that was so groundbreaking in its own day has become overly predictable in ours. Because "Note to Van Helsing" doesn't reinterpret those conventions, some mainstream literary journals might reject it as "genre" work. However, I admired its lyricism and emotional range, which make it a fine example of its genre.
The narrator speaks with bold assurance from the beginning, as befits a seducer. Even the title is cheeky, calling this elegantly worded challenge to his opponent a tossed-off "Note" rather than a letter. He can spin out verses without even trying, as smoothly as he weaves an irresistible web around his victims.
The vampire-hunter Van Helsing, like the readers of Dracula, wants to believe in his own basic decency, in flattering contrast to the vampire's boundless self-indulgence. The narrator of this poem mocks that self-image by asserting the universality of his dark impulses. Despite himself, the reader becomes aroused by the images of the girl's ravishment, and discovers within himself what the vampire has always known: that sex is dangerous, and death is sexy.
I particularly liked the passages in this poem where Donaghy reaches beyond the stock imagery of blood, sin and purity (is the vampire myth Catholicism-as-fetish?), such as the stanza beginning "An unmarked page, floating in the rain". This cooler and more contemplative moment provides a refreshing pause between scenes of overheated blood-lust. As the tension builds, the water imagery identified with the girl changes from a tranquil baptismal pool to a torrent of orgasmic release: "Crying on the edge of eternity,/For the thunderous release of the storm." She claims sexual agency, it seems, at the price of her life.
This coyness about female desire is a common and, to my feminist mind, disturbing convention of romance writing. The woman must be overpowered, either literally, as in the vampire scenario or other rape/seduction fantasies, or psychologically, by the man's charisma, in order to yield while retaining her virtue. Her flipping back and forth between the roles of victim and enthusiastic participant absolves both parties in the seduction drama.
But these strategies of self-preservation are all in vain, in the world of the poem. Between "her flower opened" and "her womb curdled" there is scarcely a breath. Meanwhile, once the narrator's thirst is sated, his coldness and emptiness return. Whereas before, the girl appeared uniquely desirable and important ("A heartbeat unique among millions"), she is now only another notch on the bedpost ("She seemed familiar,/Did you know her, Abe?"). The nickname, used here for the first time, could be another sign of the narrator's contempt for Van Helsing, but it could also be an invitation to bond over the shared experience of sexual conquest. The two are not mutually exclusive, since male friends often express their affection through teasing insults.
This emotional shift improves the poem, saving it from becoming a cliché erotic fantasy. In real life, coming down from the high of sexual union can stir up feelings of sadness, emptiness, even disgust for one's self or one's partner, as blissful self-forgetfulness is edged out by the self-conscious and separate ego once again. Sex reminds us of death because it makes us notice our embodiment, and bodies perish. What then does it mean that even immortals experience this sense of loss? Perhaps the source of our post-coital suffering is the changeableness of our own moods. We can't sustain the peak experience. The dead girl, alone, never has to face the morning after. That may be why she is such an enduring figure in Romantic literature.
For more reflections on the cultural meanings of the Gothic, check out Golem: A Journal of Religion and Monsters.
Where could a poem like "Note to Van Helsing" be submitted? The following contests may be of interest:
Poetry Society of South Carolina Contests
Entries must be received by November 15
Twice-yearly contest offers prizes up to $500 for PSSC members, $200 for nonmembers, for poems on various themes; no simultaneous submissions
Abilene Writers Guild Contest
Postmark Deadline: November 30
Texas writers' group offers prizes up to $100 in a number of genres including rhymed and unrhymed poetry, short stories, articles, children's literature, and novel excerpts
Wild Violet Writing Contests
Postmark Deadline: December 18
Prizes up to $100 and online publication for short fiction and poetry; longer poems accepted, up to 200 lines
Another publication that appreciates "genre" writing includes:
This poem and critique appeared in the October 2009 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
Nothing Changes
By Gary Beck
I sit at my desk
with my iPad,
send an email
to a friend in France.
It gets there in seconds.
Across the street
at a construction site,
immigrant laborers
who can't speak English
put up a scaffold,
the same way they did
in ancient Egypt.
Down the block,
four large men
carry a heavy rug,
just the way they did
in ancient Persia.
At the corner,
two men load a truck
the exact same way
two men loaded a cart
in the Middle Ages.
The progress of civilization
has given us
powerful machines,
electronic devices,
yet everywhere I look
we still do things by hand.
Nothing in the Rulebook
Nothing in the Rulebook is a UK-based online magazine that includes competitions listings, writing news, and feature articles about literature and culture.
Novel & Short Story Writer’s Market 40th Edition
From Writer's Digest, "the 40th edition of NSSWM features hundreds of updated listings for book publishers, literary agents, fiction publications, contests, and more." Includes interviews with bestselling authors and tips for fiction writers.
Novel Writing Advice from Caro Clarke
Fiction writer Clarke offers helpful tips on plotting, pacing, revising, and other nuts-and-bolts aspects of creating a novel, in a series of 30 articles originally written for the online magazine NovelAdvice.
Now What? The Creative Writer’s Guide to Success After the MFA
Published by Fairfield University's MFA Program, this multi-genre writer's guide features essays from numerous published authors about their postgraduate career paths.
NPR Poetry Games
In honor of the 2012 Olympics, National Public Radio features contemporary poems that honor the ancient connection between the arts and athletics. The website includes the text of the poems plus audio of the authors reading them. Contributors from around the world include Kazim Ali, Monica de la Torre, and Mbali Vilakazi.
Nullipara
By A.M. Thompson
nul·lip·a·ra (noun) A woman who has never given birth.
I am gill-less in a sea of the alive,
an ocean of female forces, dark and green.
This deprivation is ancient, biblical,
back to the days of fire pillars, ashes.
I feel too modern to be sistered back
to Sarah, to Elizabeth to time...
yet time is the deep that drowns the heart:
I see a burgeoning belly and cannot breathe.
Too basic to explain or understand,
I can only strive not to inhale the sea
then struggle up to gasp unholy air
and catch lost lullabies above the surf,
A primal music sorrowing this loss:
My songs of unforming—
ungrowing, and unborn.
Numinous: Spiritual Poetry
This online journal based in New Zealand publishes poems of a spiritual nature written in any style. Contributors have included such well-known authors as Annie Finch, Barry Spacks, and Martin Willitts Jr. Authors may submit one group of 4-6 unpublished poems per year.
NY Book Editors
NY Book Editors matches authors with experienced publishing professionals for manuscript critiques, from developmental to line editing. Initial fee is refundable if author is not satisfied with sample critique. Their blog features articles about the basics of writing and publishing.
NY Times: Rise in Self-Publishing Opens the Door for Aspiring Writers
This New York Times article from July 2011 discusses trends in self-publishing and how to choose the right publishing package.
NYC Midnight
Founded in 2002, NYC Midnight is a writers' forum that offers free writing challenges with themes and time limits to hone your skills. Each competition begins at 11:59 PM New York time, hence the title, and can range from 24 hours to 8 days to complete. Authors must use the writing prompt and submit a polished piece with a maximum word/page count by the deadline. Winners are published on the site (with their permission). Genres include flash fiction, short stories, and screenwriting. Sign up for their e-newsletter to be notified of the current challenge.
Objective Correlative
By David Holper
"The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion." T.S. Eliot
Imagine a poem about the old Germany
the one in which you had to pass to through
Checkpoints A, B, C to travel
from West Germany to East Berlin:
it would by necessity be an act of faith,
dividing what we remember with what you feel obligated to tell:
it would require, too, a certain anxiety: the clock's hands frozen
just past midnight, a scene replete with klieglights, razor wire, guard towers,
armed Russian guards just barely old enough
to shave, or kill. Being young yourself, you would
remain stoic. Dignity is required in transit out of the known world
into the wintery ice fog. With your orders in hand,
you must enter the little green hut, just beyond
your car, slide the paperwork under the mirrored glass
and wait in the silence, with Joe and Vladimir
frowning at you.
No one will speak,
whether you say something in Russian or not,
whether, as you go out, you wish the guard a good evening
or offer to trade the open Playboy on the dash
for a belt buckle or a fur hat. Afterwards, you must drive directly
110 km from A to B: until you enter Berlin, you cannot leave your car,
whether you break down or run out of gas. At that point,
the poem must advance the alphabet in its proper order,
the landscape undoing all that you think of civilization
so that, if the poem does not confound us
with anything that challenges our faith in the world we know,
then and only then, the car will pass into the city—and beyond
Checkpoint Charlie, through the last barrier, and you will discover yourself
in East Berlin, the dirty fog drenching everything in doubt.
Once there, you'll find a troubling belief will manifest in the lines
of wet laundry strung outside the windows, the raw bullet holes
from decades before, the anxious gray faces. If you hear anything
resembling a scream, do your best to ignore it. Tell yourself it is only
your imagination. Maybe later you will stop at the Alexanderplatz for a souvenir,
(though aside from the vodka and the Cuban cigars, there will be nothing worth buying)
and watch the snow pile up in gray slush, effacing everything,
everyone. If you notice the man following you in the charcoal colored suit,
you must not make a scene. He will not bother you,
as long as you don't ask about what is torturing you. Keep moving, keep pretending
that the dead are not following you with every step. Only in this way
will we ever believe this nightmare to have been true.
Originally published in Third Wednesday, Spring 2012
Obscura
Obscura, the literary journal of Lehman College in the Bronx, publishes poetry, fiction, artwork, and drama that reflects their community's vibrant multicultural and Latinx influences. Open to submissions from current students and alumni.
Observatory
Clear-sighted, modest and wise, the narrator of these poems takes us to London, China, Japan, and post-Katrina New Orleans, always with an eye for the moments of common humanity that open up intimacy between strangers.
Obsession
By Janet Ruth Heller
I walk down the hall at work
and my boss stares at my breasts.
I go to his office to ask a question
and my boss stares at my breasts.
I speak up at a committee meeting
and my boss stares at my breasts.
I teach a composition class in front of him
and my boss stares at my breasts.
I submit my letter of resignation
and my boss stares at my breasts.
Octavo Digital Rare Books
High-quality digital reproductions (PDF or CD) of important rare printed works. Catalogue includes medieval illuminated manuscripts, Shakespeare folios and more.
October Full Moon
by Marilyn McVicker
Standing on the hill, I look down the cove.
The roof glows radiant in the moonlight. It is
so bright, tonight I can see this page, clearly.
Stars canopy above. A chill in the air.
Dark forest forms a fringe to the scent
of rotting leaves, decaying grass. Last remaining
katydids sing their fading ostinato. Air is
electric with light, life at its zenith.
Inside my fleece jacket, I am warm. My blood
pulsates the liquid music of my life. Alive
in my veins. Electric.
When I am too old to stand here any longer,
will I wish I had stood here more?
Odd Mercy
By Gail Thomas. This elegantly crafted, life-affirming chapbook won the 2016 Charlotte Muse Prize from Headmistress Press, a lesbian-feminist poetry publisher. Thomas' verse knits together several generations of women, from her once prim and proper suburban mother descending into Alzheimer's, to her young granddaughter surrounded by gender-bending friends and same-sex couples. She grounds their history in earthy details like the taste of asparagus, locks of hair from the dead, and old newspaper clippings of buildings raised and gardens planted by blue-collar forebears. The centerpiece of the collection, "The Little Mommy Sonnets", poignantly depicts a sort of reconciliation at the end of a thorny relationship, where differences in ideals of womanhood fall away, and what's left is the primal comfort of touching and feeding a loved one.
Ode
By Luci Shaw
The stillness of last night's dew, falling,
The ripeness of a perfect peach,
The coupled sound of two loons, calling,
My friends' connections, each to each.
The thorny rose's sharp perfection,
Forgiveness offered to a foe,
The firmness of a son's connection
Though seasons come and seasons go.
A violent thunderstorm retreating,
A candle's flame, however brief,
The sudden joy of kindred meeting,
Or autumn's colors, leaf by leaf.
The promise of a friend's arrival
To share a meal and dream a dream,
To work together for revival
Of some beloved, forgotten scheme.
Life's rhythmic pulse forever thrumming
in tune with love's eternal song.
Forgive me, if you hear me humming
for joy that you and I belong.
Ode to a Fallen Sparrow
By Helen Leslie Sokolsky
I stand riveted
within a circle of sparrows
feeling like an immigrant
trespassing on their gathering.
Squalls of white swirl around us
the snow falling steadily
in an unchanging rhythm.
One sparrow starts wandering away from the others
limping slightly
making his way to the park benches
now camouflaged in winter's coat.
He seems to find comfort on those pillars
so many stories carved into the wooden slats
voices of summer's past.
I toss some crumbs, my alms to him
he sprinkles me with down
the two of us, twisted vines
pulled together across all this stillness.
Carefully steadying himself on his podium
hurt leg tucked in feathers
the sparrow begins to trill some half notes
and from that tiny frozen heart
a fugue clamoring to wake the earth
resounds in all its splendor
his resurrection symphony.
Ode to the Forty Year Patient
By Andrew Mercado (writing as Chris Smith)
They held a patient at the hospital for over forty years, yes they did!
He was committed to the hospital when he was barely more than a kid.
They held him here, excessively, for no good reasons,
Do the math; they held him here for over 160 seasons.
They held him locked up, not to go free,
Even though he was acquitted of a crime on a not guilty plea,
For year after year and day after day,
O'Lord have they made him pay.
They took away more rights and lowered the quality of food,
To the point that it is indigestible and overall rude.
He cannot sleep due to the light,
That peers into his room each and every night.
They took away hours at his patient job, so money he could not make,
All the while, the hospital just kept on the take, take, take.
For all the while, the hospital stole his life,
And replaced it with worsening continuous strife.
The hospital won't let him go, not even now,
They want to drive him for their "pound of flesh", like a horse and plow.
From the world, the hospital kept him hid,
Until they can bury him and say, "Good Rid!"
of dementia nonsense before departing
By Simon Peter Eggertsen
my grandmother licks at a dried red peach,
thinks of her life still and the rust crush of age.
distracted by the jumble of weakened sense and memory:
she tastes the delicate blade of a gray winter knife
shave through the dense white matter of summer light;
she smells the prismed edges of sugary autumn sand
slip from the dull languor of blue summer dew;
she sees the glee of a thousand green spring wisps
chase away the doubt of black autumn shadows;
she hears the red-fire frenzy of a summer morning sky
subdue the cold aquamarine hues of winter-splayed 'cicles,
she feels the yellow veneer of a spring wind merry-go-round,
glaze into the orange haze of autumn's plumes;
she re-senses, without knowing, the color and order of her seasons.
Off the Yoga Mat
By Cheryl J. Fish. Three New York intellectuals on the cusp of their 40th birthdays fumble toward maturity as Y2K looms. Every environment in this gentle yet deep novel is fully realized—from the anarchy of the "freegans" in Tompkins Square Park, to the domestic rituals of Finnish sauna culture, and the Black community of pre-Katrina New Orleans. The protagonists' lives and loves intersect repeatedly, like complex and shifting yoga poses, hopefully leading to a bit more enlightenment by the time we reluctantly bid them goodbye.
Office Depot
Free delivery with qualifying orders.
Ogden Nash (1902-1974)
Master of American light verse. "How are we to survive?" asks Nash. "Solemnity is not the answer, any more than witless and irresponsible frivolousness. I think our best chance—a good chance—lies in humor, which, in this case, means a wry acceptance of our predicament." Bio. Celebrating the 100th anniversary of his birth.
Ojo
By Donald Mengay. In this Joycean novel about queer life in the American West, a young man flees his repressive Cleveland suburb and the ghost of his first lover, to find himself as an artist in a trailer on the edge of the Colorado desert. In the small town of Ojo Caliente, Jake's unlikely family-of-choice comes to include a swinging pastor and his lesbian wife's feminist book club, a construction worker torn between his passion for Jake and his comically fertile wife, and an assertive Latino lover who lives in a household of sharp-tongued trans femmes. This fragile utopia is further riven by the advent of AIDS, yet sensuality and farcical humor leaven the grief. Reading this multivocal, stream-of-consciousness story is like overhearing tantalizing snippets of strangers' conversations on a long train ride. One gradually learns to recognize their voices without context or transitions, and the close attention required to follow the narrative makes its scenes that much more memorable. Ojo is the second book in a planned trilogy that began with The Lede to Our Undoing.
Old Book Illustrations
Images from this searchable database of vintage book illustrations are free to download for your graphic design project. The site attempts to ensure that all images are public-domain and legally accessible in your jurisdiction, but the risk is ultimately on you to confirm permission.
Old Graveyard
By Richard Eric Johnson
Gnarled roots creep beneath
The old leaning trees still shading.
Faded epitaphs and names from other eras
Hide now on tilted, fallen, weathered stones.
Stark are the remaining angels and
Obelisks trying to stand this stillness.
A small stagnant, algae-thickened pond
Meditates a barely discernible sky above.
Insects crawl, buzz in flight and
Beg a swatting of the hand.
From this point one sees an old road of
Crumbling asphalt stretching for neighboring hills.
A grand new super highway drones
Somewhere out of sight.
No one has been here
In a very long time.
Older Writers and Finding Success
What to say when older writers ask me, "Am I wasting my time?"
https://pshares.org/submit/emerging-writers-contest/Annie Mydla, Managing Editor
Despair is a common theme in many writers’ lives, but that despair is usually linked to fears of growing older and losing one’s mojo, or losing the interest of agents and publishers, or the ability to generate a living from writing.
- Writing Into Your Seventies and Beyond, Barbara DeMarco-Barrett for Gotham Writers
Earlier in the year, I completed a critique for a well-written memoir by a writer in his mid-sixties. After reading my comments, which were largely positive, the author wrote back that the critique was too generous. He told me that I had failed to answer his only question: "Am I wasting my time?"
While this is a question that nearly all writers face, it can carry a special urgency for writers over retirement age. There's often a sense that time might be running out for the hit, the blockbuster, the artistic and social triumph that will justify years of hard experience. There's a lot riding on the manuscript. It can mean more than just itself.
Maybe that's why some of the most dissatisfied critique feedback I've gotten has been from older writers who seem disappointed that I didn't tell them to put down the pen. Is it their fate to slog on alone, racking up pages that no one will read? Maybe a scathing critique would provide some kind of release.
Doling out scathing critiques is not the role of a developmental critiquer, though. My job is to read a manuscript and tell the author the strengths and growth points. Often, this includes expressing genuine admiration for what the writer has accomplished.
When a positive critique receives the follow-up question, "Am I wasting my time?" my response is most often, "Of course not!" But I have the uncomfortable awareness that to the author asking the question, my response might be inadequate.
"Am I wasting my time?" I wonder if there are other questions hidden underneath it: "Does anyone care about my writing?" "Will I find commercial success?" "Does anyone care about me?" "Am I worthwhile?" "Do my thoughts matter?" "Am I creative, or just a fake?" "Have I accomplished anything in life?"
If I read your manuscript and thought it was good, then my critique will make that clear. And yet—something about these situations makes me feel like to the writer, I'm a surrogate for the wider world. It's as though my affirmation as a single reader and critiquer can't replace what the writer feels like they need, but can't get, from the reading public.
I think a lot about the experience of the older writers among us. And, fortunately, other people do, too. I recently had the pleasure of reading an article by Denise Beck-Clark, The Elderly Unsuccessful Creative: On My Deathbed, I Will Still Want to Write. In the article, Beck-Clark writes,
Ultimately, there's the question, "Have I lived a meaningful life?" Or, given all the time I spent writing, not to mention learning, thinking, and talking about writing—identifying as a writer—has it all been one big, sad waste of time and effort?
For me, the pain of this question is its underlying contradiction of the personal versus the interpersonal. On one hand, it's a question that virtually every writer will ask. On the other, it's a question that virtually no one else can answer. I would venture to say that no mere reader, critiquer, agent, publisher, or horde of fans would be able to respond to any writer's satisfaction. Some of the most successful writers have also been the most unhappy. The problem of self-worth, self-expression, and public recognition remains incredibly thorny.
But that's no reason for a writer to give up—let alone ask someone else to tell them to give up.
Finding Success Outside the Manuscript
One thing I have noticed as a critiquer is that many older authors who ask, "Am I wasting my time?" do so in the context of their first or second manuscript. At that stage of the career, a manuscript can feel monumental, a milestone, a monolith. So much has gone into creating it—a lifetime of emotional processing, for starters. Traditional publishing might seem like the only way to do this monolith justice.
Moreover, the writer may have been told their entire life, "You know, you could write a book!" Completing the manuscript and getting it traditionally published could seem like the fulfillment of a social vote of confidence. If the writer doesn't get the book traditionally published, it might feel like failing the people who believed in them.
In the context of modern publishing, though, this "all or nothing" attitude might be putting more pressure on the older writer to succeed with the book manuscript, and nothing but the book manuscript. That's a tough bind to be in. Selling an agent or publisher on an entire manuscript is inherently difficult, because it's such a big investment for everyone involved.
Meanwhile, there are so many smaller, less-investment-heavy, and just-as-professional publishing opportunities besides full-length book publication. If you are an older writer looking for ways to get your work in front of readers, take a look at the four methods below.
1. Try flash nonfiction
Have you been wrestling with a book-length memoir manuscript? Chances are, your document contains an abundance of passages that could stand alone as flash nonfiction (creative nonfiction, memoir, fictionalized memoir). These very short stand-alone pieces range from 100-1,000 words. With just a few strokes of a mouse, you could paste likely-looking passages into a new document, tie off the beginnings and endings, and send them to journals.
It might be worthwhile doing some research on flash nonfiction to get a feel for the genre. The publishing cycle is more rapid than with full-length books, so there are more opportunities, and feedback typically comes more quickly. Some places to start with your research might be:
Writers on the Move: What is Flash Memoir?
Writing Women's Lives Academy: The Benefits of Writing Flash Memoir
If you read about flash memoir and like what you learn, you might want to experiment with submitting excerpts from your existing work to flash nonfiction journals such as the ones listed on these sites:
Erika Dreyfus: Where to Publish Flash Nonfiction & Micro-Essays
Submittable Discover: Flash Nonfiction Markets
Writer's Digest: 5 Flash Fiction and Nonfiction Markets
Brevity: Flash Creative Nonfiction Markets (link opens a PDF)
Flash memoir thrives on momentary impressions without larger context, so it's likely that little, if any, additional editing would be needed before submitting each excerpt to a journal. I'd encourage you to send each of the excerpts you select to at least ten journals and see what happens. You might get a better result than you expect.
2. Seek out publications that are looking for older writers
"Writers 40+" is a thriving market all its own, with many publishers and a solid reader base to keep it lively. Agents, publishers, and journals are actively looking for writers in middle age and beyond.
Opportunities for all genders:
Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magaine
The Speculative Literature Foundation's Older Writers Grant
Lambda Literary's J. Michael Samuel Prize for Emerging Writers Over 50
McKitterick Prize: For a first novel by an author over 40
The Next Chapter Award for emerging writers over 40
Opportunities for women:
Shirley Holden Helberg Grants for Mature Women
Hosking Houses Trust writers' residencies
Two Sylvias Press Wilder Series Poetry Book Prize for women over 50
3. Make writing social
Face-to-face interactions allow writers to cut through the abstractions of "finding their audience" and witness their work's impact directly on readers and listeners.
Joining a writers' group or class locally or online is a great way to get work in front of others. Older writers are welcome to participate in groups for writers of all ages. This article from Artful Editor has great ideas on making writing social: How to Connect with Other Writers.
There are also groups specifically for older writers to meet and enjoy each others' company and experience. Both local, in-person groups like SWit'CH, and online venues, like the Senior Planet Writers' Studio, are great ways to connect one-on-one about writing.
Going to author talks and readings, open mics, book clubs, and writers' conferences can also be a great way to meet and network with other writers.
If you're looking for ways to get involved with other writers face-to-face, it might be a good idea to get into the habit of checking local listings on a regular basis. Lists of upcoming writing gatherings and workshops (both for all-ages and for older writers specifically) are often available at libraries, community and senior centers, and meetup.com.
4. Get involved with anti-ageist activism in the arts
When I asked our head editor, Jendi Reiter, what they thought about the topic of older writers and success, they immediately wrote back:
My first thought is that you should check out the Twitter account @noentry_arts which highlights unnecessary age restrictions in literary and arts applications. They've been successful at pressuring some sponsors to be more inclusive of older writers, amplifying opportunities for older writers, and spreading the word about articles and opinion pieces touching issues of ageism in writing and the arts.
It can be wonderfully heartening to see how we can fight back against artificial limitations against older writers. Getting involved with anti-ageist activism can be an affirming way to assert one's own right to creativity, as well as to meet and support fellow creatives. Read @noentry_arts's posts here: https://twitter.com/noentry_arts
Have any thoughts on finding, or not finding, success and satisfaction as an older writer? Write to Annie at annie@winningwriters.com to share your thoughts.
