If you’ll be in the Lakes Region the first week of April, come write with me on 4 April 2019, 6:00-8:00 p.m. at the Meredith Community Center. We will explore the intersection of landscape and memory through creative writing exercises. You’ll be free to use my guided prompts in the genre of your choice, and will be invited to share your results. Follow-up editorial and publication opportunities at Folded Word will be available to you for any short works inspired by the workshop’s prompts.
This will be the first in a series of workshops held in my hometown and is designed to serve writers of all genres — poetry, fiction, and non-fiction alike. If you’re a writer living in Northern New Hampshire, you know that workshops north of Concord are hard to find. I hope you’ll find my Folding Words series engaging and effective.
If you have any questions about how the Folding Words series will work, please fill out the comment form below. And if evenings don’t work for you, please let me know alternate days of the week and times that are better. I’m happy to schedule a daytime session if there’s enough interest.
I had breakfast with Kevin this morning. Sausage and day-old pancakes with jam. And tea. We laughed as we discussed aging, travel, writing, and the odd mythology. When I say “we laughed,” I mean to say that I laughed and sensed that Kevin must have laughed as he wrote these pieces. Though I suspect with some he sighed as he revised. Or pondered. Or stewed. Because these prose poems seem to have the qualities of a mood ring: adapting themselves to the reader’s inner state so that different elements are highlighted accordingly.
I couldn’t put this book down—had to consume it in one sitting. It was every bit as engaging as the collection of his microfiction I had the pleasure of publishing (101 KINDS OF IRONY, Folded Word, 2012). Yet it had more layers, as poetry must. The same wit and wink were there, but also in attendance were beauty and insight. And a line I’ll never forget from “In the Town of the Fallen Angel”: If you are very lucky, you will see the angel himself, asleep in his chair, holding the open wings of a book in his lap.
I remember a night long ago, as the sun set behind the marché and a lone spire peered through the dust laden air, a lone bicyclist made his way down this empty street toward home confident that sagabo would soon warm him. Confident that after this meal, his world would sleep through the winter night wrapped in a cobalt breeze. Confident that he could hope for a profitable morrow tailoring clothes for the schoolmaster’s wife. He slept a good sleep next to his good wife and his good children. But that was long ago. Tonight I pray that peace returns to the sleep of this street, so that hope may return to the people who work and live along it. Bonne nuit, mes amies de Bobo-Dioulasso et dans le Burkina Faso entier.