Spotlight

The Happy Hunting Ground: An excerpt from THE ORCHARD IS FULL OF SOUND

Last night I dreamed of the “happy hunting ground.”

He is thrust into the place of bones. These bones that look human but are not. They are different because, he sees now, the skulls are all wrong. But the rest of the bones are normal—legs, ribcage, bits of arms, shoulder blades. But what of this place? More tunnel than anything else, in the way a tunnel hides a promise of light directly within the darkness of its mouth. Following this promise, he moves ahead, no longer studying the skulls so closely, remembering, memorizing, the legs, ribcages, arms, shoulder blades, each part of each former person as tarnished pearls in the black.

When he at last emerges from the tunnel he is met with the most perfect spring day, an environment with the sweetest air and water, but a spring day that shimmers and then changes to the most perfect summer day where in the dry heat the deer make dust in the road. Predictably, here comes cooler weather and the fog of fall with good leaves.

It’s a place called Virgie, but it could be Milton. Small town is small town. In this small town the railroad tracks move forward to the vanishing point and splits two giants of the great range—John Attic Ridge and Abner Mountain. The scent of creosote comes up in waves from the treated ties. As far as twenty yards out from the tunnel, the cool breeze moves in a wall against him. A coating of sweat turns cold on the back of his neck, and he is at that moment aware of the rabbits.

Across an expanse of bottom field at nearly the same level as the Big Sandy tributary running behind it, no less than two dozen rabbits stop all at once, spread out a few feet from each other and, seeing him, begin to beat the ground. But after no more than a few seconds of this, in perfect synchronization, they flop into the trimmed grass of the field, chin the ground for a bit, and then begin dancing, actually spinning in the air.

Seeing all the activity out in the open by so many rabbits, he raises his hand, his finger pointing forward like a barrel, the thumb held up like a hammer, and fires off three pretend shots into the bottom field. At once three of the rabbits begin to spin slowly and fall stiffly backward, their front feet cartoonishly clutching their chests before going entirely limp. He can’t remember ever seeing rabbits behave this way, but it was nice to be hunting again, so he fires off three more shots and three more rabbits pretend die. Then all six rabbits roll over in the grass and regain their lazy beating of the ground.

There is the strong urge to tell his mother about the rabbits. And you could shoot without a gun, never kill, but the rabbits would do a little dance, all as if it were a game, and they were playing it too. As he begins the letter to his mother in his mind, how he would explain this strange place and these strange animals, the season turns again. Winter with heavy powder-snow as the railroad tracks disappear beneath the weight; that thick scent of creosote doesn’t fade away as much as turn off as if captured in an unseen vacuum. It is replaced with the crisp sensualities of cold. When the snow stops he can see he’s at the summit of John Attic Ridge.

The summit is profoundly quiet. The mountain descends in sharp slopes all around him. The trees, the sky, the mineral flesh of the soil, the foliage—everything is white. When the first animal comes into view, it’s a big deer. The buck is heavy-horned and clumping along under its weight and power and constantly lip curling to get at the wind. It is also entirely white, including the beams and tines of its rack. A closer look reveals that even its eyes are coma white.

In line behind the buck are other animals, all white, including a small herd of goats, two thoroughbreds, and a massive and lumbering buffalo with a head like flaming torch of cotton. The horses are only visible within all the white when their tight muscles draw together to create the hint of grayish lines along their bodies. He grieves to tell someone how the buffalo snorted, tossed their heads from somewhere in the snowblind, to explain how it seemed a kind of language sharing a kind of secret.

All of a sudden he is tired, and materializing there on his side is his Army blanket. It is rolled tight and fixed to his waist by three shoestrings tied together in reef knots. There’s no question that he will bed down here on the summit in the snow, and so he is asleep nearly before he is flat on the ground. This is where he will write later he dreamed within the dream.

At Fleety’s she tells him the story of the bones. If he could have remembered the perfect spring and the dry summer and the white devouring everything in the winter he would have shared this with Fleety. But all he could remember where the bones inside the long tunnel. The skulls. This is why he felt it was a predetermined event, her telling him about the only thing he could remember from where he had been. He believes in fate, intervention, and destiny; he knows these are some of God’s tools to understanding.

The bones were poor people killed by bandits, Fleety explains.

He listens to her, but everything she says after explaining the bones comes in muffled bursts like a coughing fit into a pillow. Finally she takes him by the hand and at once they are both deep inside the tunnel where he started from. The bones are there, just as before, walls of legs, shoulder blades, fingers, hip bones. The skulls are more misshapen than before, less human. They are lighted in the dark by the faintly pearled tarnish. There is much about the bones that are the same, but there is more that is different now.

He has no time to study the bones or the tunnel walls closely. Fleety guides him to a place he must have overlooked the first time. She moves aside and allows him to enter this new place under a huge rock where no light should have shown. When he is standing fully inside the space, two things become clear: he is in a cave and he is irreversibly alone.

In this cave where light should be a fable, he finds a dogwood tree. It glows the kind of red those trees get at sundown and the buds are purple in that weird light. The scene holds his attention fast, even as the distant thumping of footsteps starts up behind him inside the darkness of the tunnel. By the time he looks away from the dogwood tree and turns to the sound of the footsteps, there is little time to do anything other than throw up his arms in a weak defense.

His forearms go instantly numb. Flecks of blood splatter his cheeks and forehead, warm at first and then drying and cooling. And then he sees the instrument swooping downward again toward his outstretched arms—a pick axe, but one much larger than usual.

The man holding the axe was much larger than usual too. Clearly mad as a hatter, he swung the weapon in bursts, crushing and chopping at the skulls. All the while he is yelling, explaining that he is trying to make them human-looking.

Then I went back to the other side of both dreams.

November 20, 2019 0 comment

Conversation Spotlight

‘Writing is a way of going home’ – An interview with author Chris Offutt

written by Sheldon Lee Compton

Sheldon Lee Compton: You move back through some of your formative years in your memoir My Father, the Pornographer. How much of that time was spent feeling out of place as a sensitive, creative young man in what can seriously be an extremely manly region? Or if you didn’t feel this, tell me: how did you pull that off?

Chris Offutt: As a young child I assumed everywhere else was just like it was in the hills. It didn’t occur to me that it was an unusual place, full of natural beauty and freedom. I believed that cities had more people and taller buildings.

The thing about sensitivity is this: I didn’t know it at the time. I had no idea that I was perceiving the world differently from most other kids. I didn’t necessarily fit in, but I could always “read” a situation, know the emotional dynamics, and negotiate them.

I went through eight grades of school with the same kids. I liked to draw, and beginning in 4th grade, I wrote stories. I also began keeping a journal at age nine, and made attempts at comic books. None of this set me apart. The kids in our class all loved and accepted each other. That my interests were different from theirs didn’t matter. I was a consistent discipline problem at school, which the other students probably appreciated. Insubordination mostly. I talked back.

I didn’t fit in at the county high school. The things I was interested in were unavailable. High school had no art classes and no theatre classes. Everything was geared toward football, basketball, and baseball. I liked sports but at 4’ 11”, I was way too short for anything. At 18 I believed that if I left, everything I sought would be readily available. That didn’t turn out to be the case. I missed the woods terribly.

I never thought of it as an “extremely manly” world at the time, though I recognize now that it was. I talked constantly and wasn’t threatening. I learned early to be funny, which helped. I was always genuinely interested in others and whatever task they were doing, willing to help. In this fashion, I learned a lot, especially from the adults.

From Chris Offutt’s personal collection. Photos courtesy of Chris Offutt.

SLC: That’s really interesting how you used your emotional sensitivity to make reads on people. A handy trait, no matter what region you’re from. So much of your work, especially the memoirs, have what I would call moments of literary absoluteness – a good example is the section from My Father, the Pornographer where you and your father piss on the barn the same way he and his father had done. Do you recognize these moments as literary material when they’re happening? Or, rather, does this event ripen into something literary as part of the process, only in reflection while writing?

CO: As a boy I wanted to be a spy or detective. I understood that the skills of observation, listening, and remembering were necessary to both occupations. I began trying to develop them. Unfortunately, those careers eluded me. But the habit had begun. It helped me later as a writer.

As a young man, I often engaged in activities that I thought would later bear literary fruit. Usually reckless and spontaneous, often pretty dumb. Afterwards, I wrote long journal entries, often two or three times per day. That practice helped me remember, and helped me learn what was worth paying attention to.

As far as the scene with Dad goes: it was the only time we were ever alone together for a prolonged time. He rarely left the house and never entered the woods. A trip to his old childhood log cabin was a big deal for me. He didn’t often talk about his childhood, and when he did it was usually bad—lonely and miserable. He was close to his mother. His father was a very manly man—a hunter, fisherman, and farmer who could fix anything. He didn’t like his son.

On this trip to the cabin, I was particularly attuned to Dad’s behavior. He’d told me about pissing on the barn with his father before; it was an example of how cold it was that winter. It was the only interaction with his father that wasn’t negative and he wanted to replicate it with me. That night I dutifully wrote all the details in my journal.

I think anything has the potential to, as you put it, “ripen into something literary.” The key is to pay attention to everything all the time. Next is to choose the most important events, those that will deepen character or, in the case of description, that will enable the reader to see more. I still listen and observe, like Harriet the Spy and Sherlock Holmes. The other day I heard someone say “She let down her back hair.” I loved the precision and the old-fashionedness of the phrase. I wrote it down, transcribed it into my computer later, and already tucked it into the new novel.

SLC: Those memorable phrases are great. My grandmother always said, “I don’t understand all I know about it.” There’s that nice wordplay and the honesty that made it memorable for me, because I’m the worst at keeping a journal and having it be a useful tool. I usually lose them within the first week. But, like you mentioned, most writers have that filter that recognizes a lot and stores it one way or another.

CO: You can always save cool phrases on your cell phone and email them to yourself. I do that sometimes. I still carry pen and paper, but it’s not as discreet. Once a guy saw me writing on an index card and said: “What are you doing, writing a book?” I laughed and laughed.

Jug of wishbones with brick.

SLC: We’ve talked often about the general state of Appalachian literature over the past several years. Catch me up on where your thoughts are now. And, on the off chance you can, how much will you share about this new novel? I always like to hear you’re working on a book.

CO: The new novel is set in the hills of Kentucky—surprise! I have a policy of not talking about fiction I’m working on. Too much gets away from me. It’s better to keep it in my head until it hits the page. Non-fiction is different because there’s no invention, nothing to lose verbally.

SLC: I absolutely get not talking out the story. I think some of the creative energy gets lost that way, for sure.

So what about the general state of Appalachian literature? I think we talked last year about an underappreciated novel by Perry County, Kentucky-native Jesse Lee Wooton called Into the Hills, the Garden. I’ve met Jesse a couple times in Hazard at readings and he’s definitely a talent, but I’ve not read the book yet. Where do you see things going with literature from our area? Who else out there should people be reading?

CO: First, every Appalachian novel is underappreciated.

Second, the genre of Appalachian Literature seems to be expanding north, south, and west. I mainly read writers from eastern Kentucky, West Virginia, East Tennessee, and the hill part of North Carolina. Culturally, these areas are closer to my region. I’ve read all the fiction that’s come out of these places. The “canon” of Appalachia is relatively small, which makes it easy to cover.

Literature of the hills falls into two loose groups—my own designations, not scholarly distinctions. The first books written and published until around 1970. After that, life in the hills changed drastically due to the War on Poverty, the completion of the Interstate system, and the Vietnam War. Books written and published after 1970 are the second group. I believe in the future there will be a third group—Appalachian books after the Internet, cellphones, and cable TV.

My recommendations are to read them all. They will lead each individual reader to the books they like. Chris Holbrook is a good place to start.

Beyond that, my favorite writers are Jean Rhys, Joan Didion, Graham Greene, and Robert Stone. Not Appalachian, not southern, and only two are American. But my gosh, they are great, great writers. The quality of prose matters more to me than subject matter.

Nests in Kentucky glass.

SLC: Yes indeed, Chris Holbrook’s short stories are solid. A reader couldn’t go wrong starting there. And it does seem there’s a lot of Appalachian literature floating around, in particular what’s known now as Appalachian Noir. I think anything written and set in Appalachian has to be noir by virtue of the region itself. It’s pretty much still like the Old West where I’m from. I was born and still live in Pikeville, by the way, the very town your dad once sold Procter & Gamble products.

CO: Appalachian Noir is a marketing term that has no firm definition. The term “Noir” was used by French critics to describe American B-movies from the 1940s and 1950s due to a lot of dark shadows. The French loved these movies. In their language, word noir means “black.”

Eventually Noir was used by pulp magazines and paperbacks for the men’s market. These days, Noir often describes books that rely on extreme violence instead of character or quality of prose. If it helps get readers, great. But most of what’s called “noir” is no more noirish than the books called “Southern Gothic” are gothic.

SLC: You’ve mentioned in your work that you once had thoughts of becoming an actor, even relocating to New York City. What would success at acting have looked like for you? What were your goals and plans?

CO: I was nineteen at the time I moved to New York City to be an actor. My idea of success was the standard boy’s fantasy: fast cars, beautiful girlfriends, tons of money, top shelf bourbon, and good dope. In other words—I had no goals or plans. I didn’t know the first thing about becoming an actor. No resume. No headshots. No training. Nothing. A good recipe for failure, which I did.

I eventually got a degree in Theatre at Morehead State University, where I acted in fifteen or so plays. What I liked about acting was the abandonment of the self. I could be someone else for a while and at the end of the show there was applause. I liked the attention. I needed it.

I later acted in a few short films and one feature called The Slaughter Rule, that is available online. Ryan Gosling was the star. I played a bus driver.

For ten years I wrote screenplays in Hollywood, living out there for months at a time. I learned how hard a job it is to be an actor. As a writer, the rejection used to be by mail, nowadays it’s often via email. It hurts, of course, and my work still gets rejected, but a manuscript is at a slight remove from me. They aren’t rejecting Chris, just the work. It’s much worse for an actor. The rejection is always personal—height, weight, face, voice, walk, etc. I don’t think I could have handled that, which really means I didn’t want to be an actor badly enough.

When an actor finally get a role in the movies, it’s very different from theatre. Often they don’t rehearse. An actor has to show up fully prepared with all the lines memorized, then play a scene, often with strangers. Each 2-person scene gets shot a minimum of ten times. Each time the actor has to get the lines right. If you take off a jacket and set it on a chair, you have to remember exactly how you did it, then do that action the same way every time. If it’s an emotional scene you have to cry on cue, or get angry, or scream, or express genuine love. Ten times in a row!

When the scene ends, nobody applauds. The crew prepares for the next scene. Actors change clothes, and drive home.

Nevertheless, sometimes I watch movies late at night and think—What if I’d stuck with it? But then, I think the same way about my failed attempts to join the Army, the CIA, and becoming a Forest Ranger. What if I had? What would my life be like now? I’d not have spent the last thirty years alone in a room. I probably wouldn’t have written books.

SLC: I finished rereading My Father, the Pornographer earlier this week and I imagined you with this mountain of books and papers, all your dad’s obsessions, both professional and personal, and I wondered what your daily schedule was like with all that research. Also, did you have a memoir in mind during the process, or were you carrying out your dad’s secret will to you with no other thought than fulfilling that obligation? I consider it to be your most courageous book to date, and I’m interested in when and how you stepped up to that challenge.

CO: My initial motivation was simple. Dad had never put together a bibliography and I thought every writer deserved one. I began by going through all 1800 pounds of his archive. In the living room, I shoved three big tables together to form a horseshoe shape and began making piles.

Dad had written more than I knew. He also changed the titles as well as his pseudonyms. There were hundreds of manuscripts. To keep track, I kept extensive notes on laptop computer. As I worked, I began remembering more things about Dad and from my own childhood. I added these memories to a separate file in the laptop. After three months, I emailed the document to myself so I could open them on my main computer, a big desktop job in my writing studio. When I opened them in that context—the room in which I wrote—it occurred to me that there could be a book.

For two and a half years I worked twelve hours a day. During revision, I cut a third from the manuscript, about 150 pages. I have no idea what’s in the book now. I never read it after the final revision and doubt I ever will. In my mind everything’s still in there, everything I cut, everything I remembered, every thought I had. Sometimes I wish I’d chosen a different title. It turned out to be about my childhood as much as about my father.

Courage? People have said that about the book, and I accept that it’s perceived that way. During the writing, I often wished I’d never begun the project. That doesn’t feel courageous to me. It’s possible that I finished the book because I was too cowardly to quit. I wrote it out of despair, sorrow and love. I wanted to understand my father. I couldn’t have done it while he was alive. Dad’s death meant he could no longer hurt me. That in turn provided compassion.

SLC: I’ve read in a couple places articles that made a pretty big deal that Country Dark was your first work of fiction in almost two decades. I get the sense you don’t keep track of that sort of thing.

CO: The gap between books of fiction appealed to the publicity people. Plus, it’s true. However, during that time I completed several other books. An experimental book about my childhood that was a complete mess. Two other novels didn’t turn out very well, one set in Lexington and one set in Louisville. Lesson learned—set my work in the hills! I wasn’t playing to my strengths with those books. They weren’t bad, but mediocre isn’t good enough.

During that 18-year gap, I continued to write and publish short fiction, enough for a collection. It is now a completed manuscript. In addition, I have two books of essays—one serious, one humorous. I trust the process of writing, make the prose as good as I can, and operate on hope. I’ve been lucky.

SLC: I can say that Country Dark moved about as smoothly and quickly as anything I’ve read in the last few years. That smooth flow is a quality in your writing that’s always there, so it never mattered to me if I was reading one of your collections, a novel, or a memoir. Those small moments like Tucker using the bleached out turtle shell as a bowl are good examples of that smoothness.

We spoke earlier about your occasional hunts for turtle shells and bird nests and some projects you’re working with those things. I always think it’s interesting when non-writing projects find a way into our narratives. Tell me a little bit about your nest and shell collection. Are there creative links between these activities and your writing?

CO: A long time ago I figured out that anything I did would wind up in my writing. It then made sense to limit my activities to the kinds of things I wanted to influence my work. I spend a lot of time alone, often wandering around the woods. I also enjoy outdoors labor—as long as it’s on my own land. I’d had enough of labor for other people.

Couple that with this: I’ve had the “collecting bug” since I was a child. There’s an urge to gather, arrange, display, etc. Unfortunately, I never had any extra money for that sort of thing. I wound up collecting what was free. That meant rocks, feathers, animal skulls, bird nests, snake skins, and turtle shells. Oddly enough, the key to finding these artifacts of the woods was NOT to look for them. Once I start seeking, I never found anything. It’s similar to writing. I write to see what I find.

Anyone can find an old white turtle shell, but I prefer one with the scales still attached. They will eventually peel off. I spend a lot of time gluing them back together. I then spray them with polyurethane.

Bird nests are another favorite. I spray them multiple times, letting them dry between sprays. Then I trim off the stray twigs. I spend days on these projects. My wife calls it “busy work with intense focus.” She says I need it.

Feathers & nests.

SLC: In your new novel Country Dark, there’s this great moment when the state worker Hattie remarks on her boss Marvin’s unease as they pass from the blacktop to dirt road implied marker of west to east Kentucky. In those early scenes you make so many great points about the difference between city folk and country folk in Kentucky. Only an eastern Kentuckian could understand those differences enough to write about them so accurately and with such insight. I know you moved back to Morehead earlier in your life (partly the subject of your fantastic memoir No Heroes). Was that the last move home, you think? If so, do you anticipate the area featuring more heavily in your work or fading out and replaced by others as the years pass?

CO: There is a popular myth that elephants go to a special place to die. I used to think that way in terms of Kentucky. I concocted a complicated fantasy of arranging to travel there, limping off into the woods and lying down. Realistically, it’d be impossible if I were an old man, nearly dead.

I no longer have any family in the hills. To visit home means staying in a cheap motel on the Interstate. A few old buddies live there, but many are dead or in prison. I moved back home four times. The last two I bought a house, believing it was permanent. I didn’t last a year either time. Perhaps it’d been different if I’d moved to Lexington, but when I think of home, I think of Haldeman, Kentucky—four square miles. But Haldeman is gone now. The ZIP Code has been changed, my grade school torn down, and the general store closed. It’s not even on maps any more.

The hills are in me, deeply imprinted. There is a directness to hill culture, a no-nonsense approach—even when being playful. I miss that style of communication. You never have to interpret what people say or worry that you’re missing something, because people are very direct with each other. Since leaving, I’ve encountered a great deal of social problems due to my directness. People often think I’m mad when I’m not. It puzzles most folks that I have absolutely no tolerance for small talk. Life’s too short to waste on chit-chat.

I get homesick every day. Writing is a way of going home. I can envision my beloved land. I can talk to all the people. I can smell the trees and hear the birds. I can climb the hills and feel the strain in my legs—all this without leaving my room. I will write about the hills of Kentucky to my dying day.

August 15, 2018 0 comment

Review Spotlight

Light and Shadow: A Review of Chris Offutt’s Country Dark

written by Sheldon Lee Compton

If you ask why there was so much fanfare for the arrival of his first book of fiction in nearly two decades, Chris Offutt might tell you it was a good marketing plan. The last thing he would tell you is that, for fans of his work, new fiction from him was nothing short of an event.

The recent offering, Country Dark, a novel set in Eastern Kentucky, is not one that will disappoint those seeking a good crime story with heart. The story follows Tucker from his time returning to Kentucky having just finished his stint in the Korean War, to a middle age man and father of five shuttling liquor for the regional shine king Beanpole. Along for the ride is his wife Rhonda and daughter Jo, the only one of the five children not born with a deformity or malady of some kind. In the midst of this, Tucker and Rhonda are doing whatever they must to survive. And so the scene is set for what evolves into both a grim treatment and one with enormous heart.

In particular, Offutt seems to work best when presenting the gray areas of his characters — not all good, not all bad. This is the case with Tucker, a man of principle and honor, aware of dignity and how to keep it, but also capable of instant and irrevocable violence. Tucker’s dedication to his family, the lengths he goes to and what he ultimately endures for a portion of the novel, shows evidence of this. And this character trait is one that many people in Eastern Kentucky have. Offutt is at his best when working with the people he knows best. Take the voice in this for example from an early conversation between Tucker and Rhonda:

‘That’d be worse. You could stay with my other sister, but you’d not like her.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Nobody does, not even her husband and kids.’

‘How come?’

‘She’s like a blue jay. Pretty to look at but loud and mean.’

And then the absolute marrow-deep understanding of Appalachian people in this exchange been Hattie, a state child services worker and her city-slick boss:

‘More than one way to get answers,’ Hattie said. ‘Let me tell you something. You ask yes-or-no questions and you won’t get anything. Folks around here don’t think that way. A yes-or-no question will make them think there’s a right answer and a wrong one. They won’t speak because they don’t want to make a mistake.’

The novel, as I mentioned, is a good crime story with heart. It’s the heart that is most pronounced, though, which is, in its own right, a major accomplishment. It’s so easy to slip into tropes when writing a narrative in which violence plays a key role, but Offutt keeps his pulse on what each of the characters are experiencing in a human way – from an ancient midwife wondering lost in the dark woods to the shine runner himself having a peaceful, normal breakfast with his devoted wife. Each character has that essential need of something, a desire, that brings them to the foreground, even beyond the point of the narrative itself. For instance, we already have an idea of Tucker as a man willing to defend what is his and a good husband. But, Offutt, seeing the chance to show us yet another dimension of Tucker’s character, his being a good father, takes the opportunity to do so in the most poignant but unsentimental ways possible. The section comes as Tucker is saying goodnight to his son Big Billy, perhaps the most afflicted of his five children.

‘Son, I’m getting plumb wore down from the past week and have to hit the sack here in a minute. But they’s one more thing I been meaning to tell you…’

He goes on to tell of how smart squirrels are through a story recalling their habit and peculiar ways of getting to the meat of acorns before finishing with this:

‘And right now, up in some oak tree in the woods, they’s a daddy squirrel telling his boy how to do it. Same as me and you. Daddy loves you, Big Billy. Daddy loves you.’

For his return to fiction, Offutt made good on his promise to write about his homeland of Eastern Kentucky and in the only way it can be done well — by keeping the heart of his characters fresh in the reader’s mind. Along the way there are several plot turns that are often the highlight of Offutt’s creative powers: old men holding others at gunpoint only to reveal it as a strange joke, henchmen who begin as hard cases only to become pitiful in their servitude, and killers as kind of thoughtful as any of the stained glass saints. These are moves only Chris Offutt could make in a book, and he makes them as clearly and purely as high-test shine.

August 14, 2018 0 comment

Required Reading Review Spotlight

Offutt’s memoir My Father, the Pornographer puts his talents and insight on full display

written by Sheldon Lee Compton

Chris Offutt has the combination that award-winning author Adam Johnson says is made up of the writer who is both talented at an important level and also has something important to say. Rarely does a writer have both, Johnson says. In Offutt’s latest memoir My Father, the Pornographer this combination is on full display.

The child of a writer, Offutt grew up immersed in the world of a working man of letters. The demands on him and his siblings to remain quiet at home, the time spent watching his brother and sister while his parents were away at sci-fi conventions (Andrew J. Offutt was both a prolific and heralded author of fantasy and sci-fi novels), and, most of all, and this coming following his father’s death, facing the rather overwhelming reality that his dad was also the author of hundreds of porn novels. Offutt sums this discovery up perfectly in the book, saying, “My father was a workhorse in the field of written pornography. After five decades he died in harness.”

In his usual fluid prose, Offutt gives an account of his task compiling organizing his father’s work into a comprehensive bibliography in this latest memoir. But how Offutt handled this task alone in no way sums up the large, human view the book projects. We learn, as we do with all of memoirs to date, as much about Offutt himself as we do about the subject of the book. In this case, his formidable years growing up in the tiny east Kentucky town of Haldeman, Kentucky, and then later, when he’s dealing with the fallout from his father’s death.

A great example of how Offutt managed in this book to keep a larger, human view in place while also telling the story of both himself and his father, comes fully into the light in the following passage:

“A few years later Dad began calling me late at night, maudlin from bourbon. He said he’s been thinking about suicide. He’d even picked out the place — the bathroom shower — so it’d be easy for Mom to clean the mess. He figured he’d use a shotgun but had run into a problem. His arms were too short to reach the trigger. My first thought was practical: use a forked stick.”

And writing — the act of creating — is also featured, often and beautifully, such as this passage in which Offutt speaks to his motivation to continue working on the craft.

“On the wall of my room I fastened a mirror directly above my typewriter. Surrounding the mirror were photographs of writers whose work I admired. My only hope of joining their company was sitting at the typewriter. If I didn’t write, the mirror was empty. It was a powerful inducement to work.”

For all that’s accomplished in My Father, the Pornographer it could how candid Offutt is that stands out the most. His account of his father’s life as a writer and his own ways of dealing with his father and the rest of his family is told in the very straightforward way that is a staple of his work. Recounting various events are done so with that same practicality he brought to the conversation about suicide on the phone with his father. But rather than what could have been a stoic, heartless narrative of two lives, Offutt’s book pulses with heart and courage and purpose, with insights on every page.

There are very few writers producing better memoirs than Offutt and My Father, the Pornographer is further proof of that fact. Should you enjoy this offering, it would do you good to add to your reading list his other powerful works of nonfiction including The Same River Twice and No Heroes: A Memoir of Coming Home.

August 10, 2018 0 comment

Conversation Spotlight

Upcoming: Two Reviews and an Interview with author Chris Offutt

written by Sheldon Lee Compton

Over the course of the next week, I’ll be sharing reviews of Chris Offutt’s last two books — the memoir My Father, the Pornographer and his latest novel Country Dark. In addition to these reviews, I’ll then have a full interview conducted with Chris over the past couple of weeks.

The recipient of a Whiting Award, a Guggenheim Fellowship, recognition from the Academy of Arts and Letters, a host of published novels, short story collections, and memoirs, and many other accolades, Chris, a Kentucky native, is our local boy made good. From Hollywood to the famously exclusive halls of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, Chris has been there. But the road started in Kentucky and returned several times to the same, and I have no reservations telling you he is the best our fair commonwealth has to offer in literature.

I was first made aware of Chris’s work as a senior year in high school, but not in the classroom. I visited my uncle, Gayle, who, at that time, wrote poetry under the name G.C. Compton. Gayle was my first literary hero. The winner of four consecutive Plattner Awards from the journal Appalachian Heritage, he was also the first and only Appalachian writer I had ever read. That changed when he handed me Kentucky Straight, Chris’s first collection of stories. “This guy has it right,” my uncle told me. “He knows what he’s doing.”

My uncle’s words were true then and they’re still true today. Chris has it right, in so many brilliant and simple ways. It’s Chris Offutt Week here at Enclave. So relax and enjoy the bird nests and turtle shells and a look at our greatest Kentucky author. You heard me: bird nests and turtle shells. And the greatest Kentucky author. Wait and see.

August 8, 2018 0 comment

\m/ New Hotness \m/Poetry Spotlight

“poems (& possibly other forms)” an interview with Amy Saul-Zerby

written by Alexandra Naughton

In this interview, Alexandra Naughton, editor in chief of Be About It Press, speaks to Amy Saul-Zerby, author of Paper Flowers Imaginary Birds (published by Be About It Press in January, 2017).

Alexandra Naughton: Okay, so I thought I would start off by asking: when did you first start writing this book? What was the impulse to create it, or what was the inspiration? And what has the journey been like from then to now?

Amy Saul-Zerby: The book came into existence gradually over the past four years or so. In 2012, I’d just gotten out of a six year relationship, and had also just stumbled upon this community of young writers & poets sharing their work with each other online. I’d been writing poetry since college, but the poems in this book began to come when poetry was really becoming the center of my life in a way it hadn’t been before then.

While creating a full-length collection was always a goal, I didn’t set out to make this book. The collection of new work just kept growing until I had enough raw material to begin to think about whether it could even become a cohesive whole. Because the work is so confessional & draws so much from things I was going through during those years, I was able in early 2015 to create something that felt cohesive from the previous three years of very constant writing.

The key realization that really enabled me to craft the manuscript from all that work, which really surprised me at the time, was that the narrative arc was already there. All I really had to do at that point was arrange the pieces to tell the story that it honestly felt like they already wanted to tell, if that makes sense.

AN: Totally makes sense. When did you write it? How did you write it? Do you set aside time specifically to write? Describe a place that reminds you of making this book.

ASZ: I was jumping between occupations during that time, so my schedule wasn’t consistent. I wrote what I could when I could. When I began working on the book, I was helping my grandfather care for my grandmother, who had Alzheimer’s and to whom the book is dedicated.

If there is one place that reminds me of the making of the book, it is probably the house they lived in, where I would stay while taking care of her. She had been hugely encouraging of my writing since I was a kid, and would often ask me to read her my latest work. (My mother is also very supportive, so I am lucky for that as well! But Louise & I shared a very unique bond.)

I also spent six months in Austin, TX, working in publishing, and a good chunk of time in Philly working as a hostess and then an office admin in the restaurant industry. So my work schedule has changed several times, but I write whenever I can, which will always, always be the case no matter what else I’m doing. & which has really always been the case since I decided in (I believe) first grade that I wanted ‘to be an author’ when I grew up.

AN: That’s awesome that you’ve known since the first grade. I feel like that is when I discovering my passion for writing, though I didn’t take it seriously until later.

What kind of writing career would you enjoy the most? Do you see yourself writing as an occupation?

ASZ: I have a lot of hopes & goals with regard to my writing. Experimenting with forms other than poetry is a long-term goal, but I also feel that I have so much work still to do with poetry. I’m a huge fan of Melissa Broder’s work, in terms of content but also in terms of the breadth of forms she utilizes. I could see myself enjoying having a column, writing personal essays, experimenting with short-form prose / flash fiction. Screenwriting & playwriting are also really attractive forms, though somewhat more intimidating because they’re so foreign to me still.

But to answer your question: yes, I want to write as an occupation.

AN: What kind of stuff did your grandmother like to read? Was there a piece you wrote that she was especially fond of?

ASZ: Oh, she liked to read everything she could get her hands on, but I think short stories & novels were her favorite.

She was a very early riser, and one of my earliest poems was about reading with her in the mornings as a kid before anyone else was awake. She had me email her a copy of that one, printed it out directly from AOL (with the subject line and everything), then framed it and hung it in her study. So I think it’s safe to say that one was a favorite.

AN: Are you enjoying this interview?

ASZ: Yes, I am enjoying it very much, thanks!

AN: Who do you want to read this book? Who would you like to see holding a copy of your book?

ASZ: Honestly, I want whoever would get the most out of it to read the book. Whoever needs it, anyone it might help in any way.

I don’t want to see anyone in particular holding a copy of the book. I just want it to reach people with whom it might resonate. I would rather hear back from someone who found something helpful in one of the poems than see my book in the hands of a literary idol or a public figure or celebrity.

AN: BUT IF YOU COULD SEE IT IN THE HANDS OF A PARTICULAR PERSON, WHO WOULD IT BE????

ASZ: Haha, OKAY FINE, but I didn’t want to have to say this… it’s a tie & I would like to choose both Lena Dunham & James Franco.

AN: Why those two?

ASZ: It would just mean a lot to me.

AN: Okay, fair enough. There are lot of great pieces in Paper Flowers, Imaginary Birds. Lots of funny and sardonic quips. My favorite piece is probably the Craigslist missed connection. It’s too real.

What’s your favorite piece in the book?

ASZ: That’s one of my favorites too. Currently I really like ‘Celestial Bodies’. A lot of the poems in the book were written during such a different time in my life that I feel somewhat distant from them now, but that one still feels like me.

AMN: It’s so weird to see stuff written from years or even months ago. It can feel so foreign, like did I really write this. Do you see any growth in your writing now to some of the pieces in the book? Or maybe not even the poems, but personally?

ASZ: Absolutely. My writing has changed a lot, and I’ve changed a lot as a person, even just since putting the manuscript together in 2015. So the poems in the book from as far back as 2012 feel very foreign to me now. For me personally, the book feels like a kind of time capsule. It never feels like I didn’t write the poems, because I remember the things I wrote about so vividly (to the point where it’s almost painful to read parts of the book). It’s more like, ‘Wow, I feel so far from where I was when I wrote this.’ And I am grateful for that distance, and the book reminds me of how far I’ve come, which I often forget.

AMN: All right, let’s wrap this up. What do you think? We’re indie writers who work with indie presses, right, so that means we have to do a lot of our own promotion. What are your plans for promoting the book? Are you going on tour? What are your hopes for 2017? Any fun plans? Any fun projects in the works?

Also, please use this space to say whatever you’d like that you want to talk about that I didn’t ask about or whatever. 🙂

ASZ: Yeah! I’m doing a bunch of readings in Philly, including a release party. Working out the details of a release event in NYC, as well. And I’m in the planning stages for a west coast tour this spring! I’m fortunate to have a lot of energy to devote to book promotion at the moment, so I’m really just throwing myself into it.

I’ve also just started working for a local literary mag here (Apiary Magazine). So I’m looking forward to involving myself further in the Philly poetry community, continuing my work with Voicemail Poems, and touring / promoting the book.

And, as always, to continuing to work on new poems (& possibly other forms)! There have been times when I’ve really questioned the value of what I’m doing and let my self-doubt get the better of me, but at least for the moment, I feel motivated & determined to keep working at this.

AMN: Thank you for doing this interview. What did you think of it? Any areas in which I could improve as an interviewer? Please be honest.

ASZ: …
Amy Saul-Zerby is a Philadelphia-based poet. Her first collection, Paper Flowers Imaginary Birds, was published by Be About It Press in January of 2017. Her writing has also appeared in TheNewerYork, Painted Bride Quarterly, Spy Kids Review and The YOLO Pages, and she is managing editor of Voicemail Poems & multimedia editor of APIARY Magazine.

February 23, 2017 0 comment

Small Press Spotlight

Why Write About Pain? a review of Tender Points

written by Alexandra Naughton

This is a review by Cory Rohr of the book Tender Points by Amy Berkowitz, published by Timeless Infinite Light.

“I don’t particularly like riddles. But then again, neither did travelers passing through Thebes. They didn’t try to solve the Sphinx’s riddle because they craved the intellectual challenge. They tried to solve it because the Sphinx killed anyone who didn’t.”

In the face of a distrustful public, incredulous media, and abusive authority Amy Berkowitz exposes tender points–likely the only quantifiable identifiers of a deep, personal puzzle without a solution in sight. A sensitivity that cannot be proved is not trusted: this shaky proof is repeatedly disregarded by people that have not experienced it. And yet, Tender Points is a clear and vivid look into the muddied hurt below the surface, a novella in poems about living with pain. This work immediately establishes a distinct mode that compliments its subjects. The writing is hard and cutting, direct and purposeful; for flowery, garish, effeminate poetry would undermine the severity contained therein. In addition to avoiding discreditable writing, these poems decry suffering silently, especially at the hands of systematic oppression and sexual violence. Community members alike in their experiences or close enough to those within their network can alleviate the assaults of and exorcise misogyny.

“Welcome to the Myspace of my constant pain.”

But why write about pain? Does writing about pain help us connect with other people? Perhaps it is easier than answering every “how are you?” with “I am in a near-constant state of pain and today is no exception.” Or as a form of analysis? to draw out the atrocities of memory as an attempt to qualify them somehow?

May 2, 2016 0 comment

Spotlight

Local Literary Superstars in Bookstores – NOMADIC PRESS in FRUITVALE, CA

written by Alexandra Naughton

Literary spaces—the kind that make you feel at home, make you forget you’re in the middle of a major urban jungle, the kind that speak womb to musty pages to ink and weathered paper—are hard to find these days. We felt it necessary to carve out such a space in Fruitvale, Oakland; to offer a bit of respite along the fervor of Foothill Boulevard and the buzz of a city amongst cities in transition—renewal and destruction. It was a space built by its weekly inhabitants, as all literary spaces are, perhaps. Their energies lining the walls post-performance, the laughter and tears, raised voices and middle-finger rises—the spaces absorb the energies released and pretty soon it’s a soup of homeless letters and phrases, of misses in the night and full-fledged landings mid tarmac. We try to offer home to poets and musicians, performers and listeners, wanton for a bit of intimate time spent together over wine and freshly brewed coffee.

For the second feature in this series, J. K. Fowler of Nomadic Press talked with three phenomenal Fruitvale-based writers: Paul Corman-Roberts, Missy Church, and Cassandra Dallett. J. K. and crew all answered some questions about one of their favorite small press performance spaces in Oakland, the Nomadic Press Oakland Workspace in Fruitvale.

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What do you love about this literary space?

Paul Corman-Roberts (PCR): I love it because it is also a salon. I love it because it’s within walking distance of my house. I love it because there are pupusas with goldfish in them next door. I love it because if pupusas with goldfish are too outrageous for you, then you can easily walk to the best and worst Mexican food in Oakland from Nomadic Press.

Missy Church (MC): I love the local access of Nomadic Press and the easy vibe that J. K. creates in the cozy little space. I find new eye treasures during every visit hidden among the books and home-made shelves. The clean bathroom can only be outdone by the cozy couch and the smell of freshly brewed coffee.

Cassandra Dallett (CD): I love the space because it’s in the neighborhood, because it’s full of sun light, cactus, books, and writers. I love that the space is inclusive and welcoming and that I can actually walk to a reading.

J. K. Fowler (JKF): I’ve seen the Oakland space unfold since I moved Nomadic Press into what was a tope barren wasteland space in Fruitvale. Redwood shelves were built, the books were moved in, furniture was slowly acquired (some through donations), colorful paint was slapped on the walls, and we started to host events. It wasn’t a quick build out by any means. We scrimped and saved, but in 2015, we’ve now had over 50 events in the Nomadic Press Oakland Workspace, and when you walk in, you can feel all of the amazing energy that creative, talented, beautiful folks in the community have brought to the space and left within the walls. The plants, the books, the furniture—it all just soaks it up and is rejuvenated every time we host an event. So what do I love? I love that our community is continually felt within the space. It feels like home, and home is hard for many of us to find these days.

What’s your favorite book in this bookstore?

PCR: I Am Sausal Creek by Melissa Reyes.

MC: I have to agree with PCR on this one: I Am Sausal Creek.

CD: I’m going to say the whole Nomadic Press Fall 2015 Collection. There are many good books on the shelves, and I hate to pick favorites, but I love to be surrounded by books—it feels like home.

JKF: Of course, I am biased. From a personal standpoint, I have the first copy of The Stranger by Albert Camus that I received from my eighth-grade teacher sitting right behind me while I work within the space. I have Frantz Fanon’s Wretched of the Earth poised next to James Baldwin’s Collected Essays, both of which were given to me by a dear friend in high school. And Dostoevsky, Gogol, Gay Talese, and Truman Capote all sit near each other just over the piano and watch over me—all of their works completely altered me. But I smile every time I look up on our shelves and see the brand-new titles that Nomadic Press just put out by Cassandra Dallett, Paul Corman-Roberts, Dan Shurley, Freddy Gutierrez, Allie Marini (two titles by this amazing author!),Brennan “B Deep” DeFrisco, and Melissa Reyes, not to mention our 2014 Nomadic Journal, Changes.

Do you have a book out right now?

PCR: Yes, it’s called We Shoot Typewriters and it has a depiction of a typewriter based on the typewriter on display at Nomadic that founder J. K. Fowler retrieved from Sausal Creek.

MC: Why, yes I do. Thanks for asking. My latest and greatest is called CHURCH (Paper Press). The official launch is Saturday, November 14, 2015, at Woods Bar & Brewery at 17th and Telegraph in Uptown, Oakland, from 5–8:00 PM. Come for the poetry, stay for the confessions.

CD: Yes, I have four chapbooks that have come out in 2015, and all of them are on the Nomadic Press shelves: On Sunday, a Finch (part of Nomadic Press’ Fall 2015 Collection, Pearl Tongue(Be About It), The Water Wars (Pedestrian Poet Series), and Bad Sandy (Lucky Bastard Press).

JKF: I have two in the works. One is nearly done; the other is just beginning. Both are creative non-fiction and controversial in their own right, whatever that means.

All photos by Joe Carrow. See the first post in this series here, Wolfman Books in Oakland, CA.

December 16, 2015 0 comment

Random Spotlight

Local Literary Superstars in Bookstores – WOLFMAN BOOKS in OAKLAND, CA

written by Alexandra Naughton

photos by Joe Carrow

Jesse Prado once said: ‘Hosting a blog is like being Batman. No one cares.’

You could probably say the same thing about being a creative writer. Like, we all think we’re pretty amazing (seriously, we all think we’re hot shit) and we all think we are doing a vital service for our communities at large, but honestly most people most of the time don’t really give a damn about what poets and fiction writers are doing.

We do performances and have parties with poetry readings and get bizarro and hang out at bookstores until the owners kick us out, but are we breaking any new ground? Are we opening up the doors for fresh audiences? Is it possible to get more people caring about reading books and buying books and shopping at local bookstores and supporting the small press industry? Does anyone care?

My name is Alexandra Naughton and I want to introduce you to local writers and artists and book purveyors who are struggling to keep up in this bubble about to burst economy (you know what I’m talking about, San Franciscans) and striving to stay doing cool stuff in this place we call home. Namely the East Bay. We can’t really afford SF rent anymore, if we ever could (except Amy Berkowitz who has rent control). I want you to come and party with us (poets know how to have a good time– trust), and I wanna get us all talking because I think we could all show each other a lot.

So this is a short little series spotlighting some local writers in bookstores. It all started out with a post on facebook, as it usually does. Brokeass Stuart’s Goddamn Website was featuring a new series called ‘beautiful women in bookstores,’ luring online media consumers in to look at photographs of a beautiful woman posing in a bookstore while also maybe reading about a local bookstore. I commented that it felt like a missed opportunity, a chance to spotlight some talented local writers.

So I got my own idea, and I collaborated with some friends. Our idea was to build upon ‘beautiful women in bookstores’ without being quite so objectifying. Yes, writers are beautiful people too, but more than that they are talented and work hard for their vocations. Brokeass Stuart signed off on it, saying it was a good idea. And so we proceeded.

Anyway, I thought it would be tight to spotlight some awesome bookstores and literary salons that are doing their thing by hosting happenings and doing their best by providing a space for people in the community to meet and try to make something beautiful. Try to make something meaningful, if only for a moment. If only until you finish reading that chapbook. If only until the weird girl on stage finishes smearing ashes on her forehead. For the first feature in this series, I talked with two amazing writers, Amy Berkowitz and Vernon Keeve III, and we all answered some questions about one of our favorite literary spaces in Oakland, E.M. Wolfman Books at 410 13th Street in Oakland, California.

What do you love about this bookstore?

Amy Berkowitz: I love E.M. Wolfman because it’s such a community center. I was trying not to say community center, because it’s not, like, a big rec hall where people take quilting classes… but on the other hand, I wouldn’t blink an eye if you told me there was going to be a quilting class there. Actually, I’m now on the wikipedia page for community center, and Wolfman does fit wikipedia’s definition—it serves as a place for community celebrations, a place where community members meet each other socially, a place housing local clubs, and yes, even a place for wedding ceremonies (I had the pleasure of attending a sweet and teary poet wedding there last spring).

Wolfman is a great small bookstore, with a really nicely curated selection of used and new books and a very solid and frequently refreshed selection of local publications. So even if it didn’t host a pop-up clothes mending service or weekend tarot readings by donation or a panel on gender and violence in literature held inside a blood ritual tent or drone music performances or a really wonderful series of art shows in the back room or the opening night of the HAXAN film fest or a ton of readings by a wide variety of local and visiting writers, I would still recommend it as a very lovely independent bookstore. But it’s so much more than that.

Vernon Keeve III: Wolfman books looks like it was birthed from my own imagination. I would honestly read any book on their shelves and read anything suggested to me by the owners of the store. The space almost feels like a carefully curated artist’s exhibit, because of the layout and how the selection of books speak to one another. Wolfman books is a space that speaks to society and tells society what needs to be done in order to make society a giving place for everyone.

Alexandra Naughton: I love E.M. Wolfman. It has this weird homey feeling. Maybe it’s the sparkly spackled ceiling that everyone’s grandma in South Philly has, except more magical. Like, it doesn’t feel like any home I’ve ever been to, but it’s a home I wish I could visit and host parties at. And I kind of do. It’s one of my favorite spots to host Be About It readings because of the setting and tone of the place.

All that reclaimed wood on the walls and floors lends this easy, warm, coffee shop of my youth feel. The artwork on the walls and in the gallery area is always interesting and funky. And it’s hella close to BART, so it’s super convenient for events. The first time I did a show at Wolfman was for the 2014 Beast Crawl, and since then I’ve been hosting shows at the spot on a pretty regular basis. I’m happy to have developed a relationship with this bookstore, and I am thankful to the owner, Justin Carder, for being such a supportive member of the literary/arts community. Like Amy already said, Wolfman isn’t just a bookstore, it’s a community center.

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What’s your favorite book in this bookstore?

AB: I don’t think I can pick a favorite, but I’ll tell you about the books I chose off the shelves for our photo shoot: Sheila Heti’s How Should a Person Be, Paul Ebenkamp’s The Louder The Room The Darker The Screen, This One Summer by Mariko and Jillian Tamaki, and Miranda July’s The First Bad Man. I haven’t read The First Bad Man yet; everything else I highly recommend.

VK: I stumbled across a copy of The BreakBeat Poets and thumbed through it. It was amazing to see some familiar names. Danez Smith, a personal hero of mine, had 3 or 4 selections in the book. It Hasn’t Stopped Being California Here by Jordan Karnes is also a book to be lauded. I was in poetry workshops with Jordan in grad school, and it is fascinating to see her evolution as a writer in her book of essays. She has always been one of my favorite poets, but to see a poet branch out into essays was something that inspired me to write the book that I’m releasing with Nomadic Press Conversation with a Southern Migrant in the winter.

AN: I bought Like Life by Lorrie Moore at Wolfman over a year ago and it’s one of those books that I just keep by my bedside and reread when I feel lonely.

Do you have a book out right now?

AB: I do! Tender Points came out in June. It’s a book-length lyric essay about sexual violence, chronic pain, and patriarchy published by local small press Timeless, Infinite Light. I’ll be doing a seven-city east coast tour in September to support it. More here.

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VK: I don’t but it is coming. Look for it from Nomadic Press, as well as the releases from other amazing local writers.

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AN: Hell yes I do. Punk Hostage Press put out my second book earlier this year, You Could Never Objectify Me More Than I’ve Already Objectified Myself, which is a poetry collection about my experience as ‘girl on the internet.’ I have another poetry collection, My Posey Taste Like, published by Bottlecap Press this spring, which was heavily inspired by the Lana Del Rey album Born to Die. Both books are available at Wolfman Books and other local shops, as well as online. And of course, you can also find issues of Be About It zine and our chapbooks at Wolfman <3

December 7, 2015 0 comment

Art Literary Scene Poetry Small Press Spotlight

Spotlight on Great Book Covers

written by D. Dragonetti

Cover design is really important, can make or break a manuscript. Here are some covers, along with statements from the authors on what inspired them, that make me really want to read:

1. Megaphone Heart, Manuel Arturo Abreu (2013)

“It’s an X files toy I cut up and photographed :P”

Read it here.

2. Baby Babe, Ana Carrete (2012, Civil Coping Mechanisms)

“it’s my hand and i’m wearing ring pops and we put slime on top and it made a chemical reaction/started melting so we had to take the pictures really fast”

Get it here.

3. Fantasy, Ben Fama (2015, Ugly Duckling Presse)

“It was created by an illustrator named John Lisle… What i told him is this ‘You should do something people aren’t expecting. Which is why I thought of the odd flower I saw on your website … the flower from the future, a flower that will exist … maybe when we don’t.'”

Pre-order it here.

4. Swan Feast, Natalie Eilbert (2015, Coconut Poetry)

“The book is in large part a question about the significance of the Venus of Willendorf, my fascination and later pop-sensationalizing of her, and some of the sensationalizing involves us obviously having tons of sex and getting married. So. I wanted a cover that somehow conveyed that… I thought [Jasmine Golestaneh] would be really good for this, as she generates a lot of collagework twisting women, animals, and rainbow glitz. I told her what I wanted, which is what I always want: Gritty, grotesque, sexual landscape.”

Order it here in March.

5. Asuras, Jayinee Basu (2015, Civil Coping Mechanisms)

“The drawing is by my friend Rachel Wolfson. Asuras refer to knowledge-seeking entities. I liked the field-biologist aspect of the drawing since observational illustrations are one of the most basic methods of recording reality.”

Pre-order it here.

January 28, 2015 1 comment