The small-press literary scene has had a big influence on me

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 2 Comments

While still living in the Midwest, I came under the sway of the margins of the literary world more than the more influential institutions and best-selling or most critically acclaimed voices at its core.

In high school, I came across the weekly Village Voice tabloid amid the out-of-town newspapers at Willkie’s downtown and devoured its tales of sides of Manhattan (and the world) the established dailies ignored, mostly of a progressive slant. By college, it was augmented by New York Magazine, which originated under Clay Felkner as the Sunday supplement to the now defunct Herald Tribune; glossy Esquire, with its New Journalism stars; and Evergreen, alive with muckraking politics.

Concurrently, my advanced writing class my sophomore year opened my eyes to the importance of small literary reviews, some with institutional support and others fully independent, most of them published quarterly. Some were student run, others had professional staff; more likely they were a labor of love in the wee hours. Many of them were mimeographed and stapled, before photocopying took over. Now they’re mostly online.

I was already putting out a sporadic mimeo broadside, Dr. Samuel Johnson’s Rambler, on my commuter college campus, which also had a fine student-run review of its own, Nexus (35 cents!).

My next campus didn’t have such an active literary scene, especially of an experimental sort. As a student majoring in poly sci rather than English, though, I was able to sample some influential courses. Film history, for one, and Russian novels in translation in the Russian department, for another, and finally a current American novels class that examined Ishmael Reed, Tom Wolfe, Robert Coover, Thomas Pyncheon, and Ken Kesey. I was also reading a lot of Vonnegut and Hesse. On my return as a research associate in the mid-’70s, I became involved in a lively off-campus poetry circle led by Richard Pflum, Roger Pfingston, and David Wade, along with their annual Stoney Lonesome. The novelists I most often cite as influences were all active in this period.

My favorite literary periodicals were the Paris Review and Kayak, as well as the book publishers New Directions and Black Sparrow.

And then I got serious about poetry and submitting promiscuously. In all, I’ve had more than a thousand works accepted for publication by editors around the globe. Each acceptance encouraged more work in a particular direction, and sometimes comments on rejections (quite rare, I must say – most are mere forms) provided valuable advice. Some of the correspondence got quite lively. And yes, 20 rejections per submission was par for the course, as I’d been advised in that advanced writing class.

Trying to get a chapbook published, however, was more difficult. My biggest near-miss was with Copper Canyon in Washington state.

These days I can see my blogging as continuing in the small-press arena, especially at my Thistle Finch site, which is offering free PDF editions of my poetry.

Remember, feedback is always welcome for a writer, unless it’s purely caustic. Publishing in a void is the bigger struggle. I’d say the small-press scene is ultimately more personal. One reader can make all the difference.

My unexpected winter

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 5 Comments

My world took a big – and largely unexpected turn – at the beginning of December, when we closed on our bid on a house in a fishing village in Downeast Maine. Frankly, I didn’t expect the seller to accept our offer, but the housing inspector we engaged before that produced a long list of essential issues to address, even before we get to any renovations that play into our modest dreams.

Since then, I haven’t had much time to reflect on the whirlwind, much less post on the developments, and a lot of the fallout probably won’t start appearing here on the blog until next year, in part because I’m also submerged in another big and very timely writing project. Yes, you’ll be hearing about that, too.

It’s also meant getting down to seriously thinning our possessions, which wouldn’t all fit in our new abode – not without a barn for storage, especially. That’s been a rough and emotional passage, with so many things tied to memories or unfulfilled aspirations. At least I’d been working through my stuff over the past several years – decollecting, as I’ve said – but a lot had nevertheless been tucked in securely and left untouched till now. It’s more of a cliffhanger for my wife.

And then there’s the matter of getting our home of 21 years on the market. We bought the place as a fixer-upper, not that we had much to choose from, and now I’m having to face the reality that after a small fortune in upgrades, it still needs tons of work. I hope the new owners are up for that.

~*~

So I’ve been spending much of my time in one of the one hundred easternmost houses in the nation, getting a better feel for the place and a few things under control, with enough commutes back to Dover that I could have driven to San Diego instead, except that I never got further west than just over the border into New Hampshire.

Whew! It’s all happening much faster than I’d anticipated.

Even at my age.

Still trying to make sense of this

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 2 Comments

Random notes in no particular order:

  1. A neighborhood can be a community of peace or of conflict. Either one is layered with opportunity for faith.
  2. Some say I approach life as a mystic.
  3. Silence can be overwhelming; no wonder it is widely avoided!
  4. Right now, it would be a job rather than service.
  5. I’ve preferred to ride Lone Ranger rather than fly with the team in coach.
  6. Great line from M.W. Jacobs’ San Fran ’60s: “It was only later amid the flashing chrome and rumble-clatter of the subway that I realized my accomplishment.” Remember, I love the underground rails and have written a novel set there.
  7. Visions of your lover as God, where you’re only a passing sacrifice.
  8. Eastport Convention. Like maybe a rock band from Maine?
  9. Nola, a possible character appellation.
  10. Presidents as first names … Grant, Clinton, Carter, Lincoln, Madison, Roosevelt etc.

Well, they couldn’t wear nametags

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

One approach I employed may help readers keep track of the spreading number of family members.

In drafting my novel What’s Left, I envisioned each chapter as a module that could stand alone from the rest of the book. Think of it as a short story. That way, the number of characters in each chapter is more focused.

And while first names are usually repeated frequently in a Greek-American family, I limited this to just one great-grandmother and one descendant, and used a nickname for the elder one. Neat, eh?

Yes, the family members do show up in other modules and there is continuity over the whole, but at least you don’t have everyone in your face at once.

When you go to a social event and are introduced to many new people, are you able to remember their names and faces? Or do you go into a blur? How do you cope with this challenge?

 

Communion with strangers

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

the mailman didn’t leave the stack in the hallway, as I had worried, but rather held it to give to me today (twenty-four pieces, which included one personal letter to me, from somebody amplifying on our Seventh-day conversation in North Carolina, or as he pronounces it, Nor’car’l’na, a personal letter to Iowa from another in Pennsylvania who must have his addresses mixed up, I’ll forward adding my own greetings; three magazines; my union newspaper; six bills; unsolicited junk including offers of wild credit lines if I accept more I’d be rich if I could reach the right country without extradition

Places I’ve enjoyed dancing

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

Look, I never have figured out what passes for “popular” dancing, but I am grateful a few forms of folk versions have come to my rescue.

I could mention those times I’ve been moved while watching others dance, like at the Tinowit on the Yakama reservation or maybe at a ballet, but this list is places where I’ve done the steps, too.

  1. The Rockwells’ apple barn in Barnesville, Ohio. My introduction to contradancing, despite my initial resistance.
  2. Scout House, Concord, and VFW, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Mecca. The latter was also known as the Rocket House, ‘cuz of its mock-up Nike missile out front.
  3. Town Hall, Nelson, New Hampshire. Mecca again. Plus the legendary sloped floor.
  4. Dublin Academy, New Hampshire, for Bob McQuillan’s CD release party. I wound up waltzing with an Amelia when I mentioned the tune we were dancing to shared her name, she said calmly, “It was written for me,” back as a toddler.
  5. Town Hall, Bowdoinham, Maine. Always fun and lots of kids out on a Saturday night out.
  6. Town Hall, Kingston, New Hampshire. Smokey of the band Old Wild Goose shucked fresh oysters at intermission one night, and I really pigged out as most folks turned up their noses, not knowing what they were missing. This was November, and the shells were fattened to perfection. There was another night somewhere when he was both the caller and musician, who knows where the rest of the band was, but everything certainly was fun.
  7. City Hall, Dover, and the Oyster River Band, bringing with it memories of times when they starred in Madbury and Lee and even the Kittery, Maine, Grange Hall.
  8. The Star Grange, Greenfield, Massachusetts. They dance wild out there in the Pioneer Valley. Plus I thought I was engaged to be married, and she was a great dancer. Whole other story.
  9. Our wedding, Dover, New Hampshire. The reception featured national treasures Dudley and Jackie Laufman at their best, getting even beginners moving elegantly on the old one-room schoolhouse floor.
  10. Greek festivals at the Hellenic Center in Dover and a big tent at St. Nicholas in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Feels great learning a new talent, even at this age.

~*~

Gee, how could I overlook the big Ralph Page Legacy Weekend at the University of New Hampshire, Durham, just a dozen or so minutes from us? Maybe because it’s always on the Martin Luther King weekend, when my schedule is pressed by other demands.  This gets serious.