New Look, Same Heart: Introducing Volume One, 2.0

Kensie Kiesow

Since the COVID-19 pandemic hit the United States in full force last spring, causing the majority of the country to shut down for a month, many people have seen this break in the norm as an opportunity for change and self-improvement.

Wishing you had more time to read? Boom, you got it, and now your friends will finally stop nagging you to finish Harry Potter.

Wanna get shredded? A quick Google search will find you quarantine workouts for rock solid thighs sculpted right in your living room.

Does your list of home improvement projects look like a CVS receipt? Now, everything fits on just one Post-It! Well, as long as you write really, really tiny…

And, just like you, Volume One has been busy changing and self-improving, too.

Shortly after Governor Evers issued the Safer at Home order in late March 2020, local businesses, including Volume One and The Local Store, began to face major headwinds. The store saw less foot traffic, while the magazine—which, in part, highlights major regional events—no longer had many events to highlight.

Yet the Volume One crew viewed this difficult moment not merely as a setback, but as an opportunity as well.

For the last five years, a proposed Volume One redesign had been put on hold. The team was already swamped with expanding the store and improving their video and photo content. But in the stillness of the pandemic (not to mention the subsequent loss to ad revenue generated by events), Volume One couldn’t afford to sit on their hands until the world returned to normal. And thus, the Volume One Membership Program was born!

“With this outpouring of support, the editors and creators of Volume One finally had the opportunity to reprioritize and add even more meaningful content to its pages.”

Just when the summer of 2020 reached peak hopelessness, almost one thousand readers and citizens of the Valley (including the Chippewa Valley Writers Guild!) signed up to support their favorite community organizer and advertising partner. With this outpouring of support, the editors and creators of Volume One finally had the opportunity to reprioritize and add even more meaningful content to its pages. For the first time since 2006, the Volume One magazine and website not only got a facelift, but they added new article sections, renewed their commitment to local creatives in the Chippewa Valley, debuted a first-ever monthly podcast, and are bolstering their commitment to providing a platform to lift up marginalized voices across the region. With this new, expanded platform, Volume One will include recurring paid columns and multimedia content to share the stories and faces of diverse folks across Wisconsin.

“Though there are many exciting changes afoot, co-managing editor Eric Christenson, confirms that “the ethos is still the same: The Chippewa Valley is cool.” ”

Though there are many exciting changes afoot, co-managing editor Eric Christenson, confirms that “the ethos is still the same: The Chippewa Valley is cool.”

As part of this revamping, the new “Voice” section will include in-depth feature stories, a greater emphasis on local news, info on that cool new podcast, all while amplifying the local experiences of a more diverse Chippewa Valley.

And this transformation is far from over. Volume One continues to inspire the passion and love this community holds for the Chippewa Valley, and they will never stop innovating and creating. Eric Christenson says the changes are “indicative of the greater community – inclusive of everybody that calls this place home.”

"Burning It. Breaking It. Revealing It": 5 Questions on Craft with Dr. José Felipe Alvergue

Alex Zitzner

When I first encountered Dr. José Felipe Alvergue’s writing, I was eighteen. At eighteen I was a first-year creative writing major attending the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire and would visit The Local Store to buy books from UWEC’s faculty as way to “get to know them”. Reading José’s first book, gist : rift : drift : bloom (Further Other Book Works, 2015), opened up a new world to me of what was possible with writing. This world brought my attention to typography, etymology, overall crafting of books, and so many more ideas. Now, at twenty-three, after closely following José’s work and having the opportunity to study with him, I’m stoked to have had the opportunity to interview him about his latest book, scenery (Fordham University Press, 2020), winner of the Poets Out Loud Editor’s Prize. This is somewhat to say that these questions don’t only come from the month I spent reading/re-reading scenery, but also the past six years of engaging with José’s writing. Whether you’ve read all of José’s work or none of it, this interview touches on just five ways one can approach writing, which I hope inspires you (reader!) to read/re-read José’s work and ultimately, write. 

Alex Zitzner: After reading a “review” of scenery on Goodreads, one commenter claimed it felt like your writing was just, “stream of consciousness.” This confused me. I’m not sure if any writing comes unconsciously unless it’s slightly hypnagogic, but I’d like to use that comment as a prompt for how you approach the page. Philip Whalen said, “If you want a poem, find a blank page.” However, even notebook pages have lines which guide and confine writing within a space, and sketchpads, even without lines, limit writing with the size of their pages. Since you’re writing with Adobe Illustrator, I feel like you actually are approaching a “blank” page, or one without lines, and are met with a new set of confinements. With that being said, how does Illustrator influence your translation of thoughts/ideas into writing? How do you think your writing would be different if you primarily wrote in a notebook (lined or unlined) with a pen or pencil then transferred it into a computer program like Word/Pages?

José Felipe Alvergue: I’ve read that comment. It’s not a good idea to read reviews on Goodreads but that doesn’t mean I haven’t. Mostly because one doesn’t know who these folks are, what kinds of readers they are, and so on. But to speak to the comment, I think it reflects the situation of a reader that does not feel fulfilled in getting something from the text that is useful for them. And maybe even “useful” is not the most generous term, but I do think the engagement of reading poetry is something we have been conditioned to expect as a relationship of subservience of the poetic text to the experience of the reader’s emotional satisfaction. The commodification of literature has only underscored this.

In that relationship, we come to place a responsibility of the poetic text to, in turn, demonstrate emotional possibility within a narrowness which encompasses what is recognizable, what has been already. I’m not talking about conceptualism here. Just the emotional dimension. In many ways the unique “blankness” of an artboard vs. a document is rather daunting in the absence of confinement, even if simultaneously rewarding in the limits of possibility that can be explored.

“When I write I do write by hand on paper first. Sometimes in pencil. Sometimes in marker. I sometimes use a notebook. I sometimes use butcher paper that I unroll to a length that allows a lot of “vectors” to explore a physical limit. Or mapping if you want to call it that. ”

When I write I do write by hand on paper first. Sometimes in pencil. Sometimes in marker. I sometimes use a notebook. I sometimes use butcher paper that I unroll to a length that allows a lot of “vectors” to explore a physical limit. Or mapping if you want to call it that. And what poet doesn’t make notes or compose verse on random scraps of paper shoved into pockets? I use these multiple sources when finally composing a book in Illustrator. This also perhaps speaks to the other dimension of any one of my books and this reading of “consciousness”; my work is always an engagement with a question. I don’t write discreet poems. For me the artboard is more akin to the experience of printing on a letterpress, which might seem to be an odd association. But I see a greater freedom in printing than writing composing in a standard computer format. Especially if one has ever been around a truly talented printer that is familiar not only with typesetting but also really intuitive with the use of color, and using woodcuts, or other modalities of holding and transferring ink. These two realities come together in my books: a prolonged emotional-conceptual engagement, and a process that breaks down writing into compositional acts that are mitigated by writing technologies, and indeed the movement of text as type. 

The availability of “doing” more on the page translates into an availability of what you explore poetically in the language that occupies that page. Not only in a durational sense, but in the spontaneous manner of accidents-in-thinking. Realizations that suddenly emerge in the process of writing on paper, to transcribing into type, to “setting” said type in the software, organizing, and so on.

“When we think of “stream of consciousness” I think we assume a degree of non-intervention in the writing, which I find odd because in fact there is so much intervention between these different things I’m doing when I write. ”

When we think of “stream of consciousness” I think we assume a degree of non-intervention in the writing, which I find odd because in fact there is so much intervention between these different things I’m doing when I write. But what does resonate is the degree to which confinement is reframed in how I write, such that there is a purposeful engagement with it, and maybe this is what the author of that review is experiencing. Whether or not one, as a reader, is willing to go on that particular ride into “the limit,” so to speak, is a different question. And I get that. But that’s why there are so many different kinds of poetry. There’s something for everyone. As readers we should remember that poets are also readers, and they’re reading what they write. There are all kinds of poetry because there are all kinds of reading, and all kinds of needs. I need to feel the limit of an emotion, or a thought, or a “conclusion,” a history, an event, a relationship. I need to feel what fear or anxiety is present in that exploration, which is not purely academic but also braided to my experiences in my body, my memories, my language, my consciousness. There is much to fear right now, and fear is being exploited as a manner of sub-consciously molding people’s behavior. When the uncertainty of fear is disclosed in the public identity of poetic voice though, maybe this admits to our vulnerability. And admitting our vulnerability is the first crack in the settler-colonial vanity that is so much a part of American identity. Maybe this admission is the first step towards refusing the authoritative conclusions of a dominant voice that tells us it knows the answers, knows the solution to fear.

AZ: Building from how you approach writing, I’m curious how you approach voice in text. On pg. 44 you write in the first stanza, “Voice enacts context even while the demonstr / ative dimension, the enacting, transcends the / objective circumstances of what context brings / into relation”, and in the second stanza, “I am captivated by how voicing reaches and / approaches, finds new ways of speaking that / elude capture, elude detainment, export.” These lines reminded me a lot of Federico García Lorca’s ideas on duende. For one, how duende enters a voice when it tears in song (“deomstr / ative”) from its stretching, and two, his idea of rejecting the angel and Romantic ideas of poetry. With then thinking of his quote, “All that has dark sounds has duende”, I’m curious how you approached voice in the context of Whiteness (the background of a page, the literary canon, White Supremacy) and what it means to you for a voice to, “elude capture, elude detainment, export” ? Has Lorca or duende had any affect on your approach to voice? If not, who were the main people who influenced your approach to voice in scenery?

JFA: I can’t say I’ve ever been a big reader of Lorca, and I don’t mean that as a critique. I’ve just never really been drawn to it. But absolutely I think duende reflects performances of voice that can be found in a lot of writers from Jean Toomer’s complicated relationship to folk-songs, Hart Crane’s fugue, Walt Whitman’s geographical breath, Susan Howe’s archival specters recently embodied in her collaborations with the musician David Grubbs. I’d say even how contemporary docupoets work material documents and lyric simultaneously. The poet Douglas Kearny is working voice and mediatization in ways that floor me everytime I hear it. Claudia Rankine’s two books in the “An American Lyric”  series are thinking about that spirit-voice relationship from the pervaded landscape of knitted speech acts often flattened-over by our observance of the image. For me voice, not wishing to come to an ableist conclusion, is a situated and embodied primacy of language that belongs to the enactment of Being––and this cannot be thought or exhibited separately from History. That’s the one thing about my take on Voice in that sense, which is that it is always in the context of history. 

“To think about what different acts of “speaking out” have been across hemisphere and across history, this places a great deal of significance on that concept of Lorca’s duende, because acts of voice have not always been received without a violent and immediate silencing.”

To think about what different acts of “speaking out” have been across hemisphere and across history, this places a great deal of significance on that concept of Lorca’s duende, because acts of voice have not always been received without a violent and immediate silencing. Either a silencing that is directed purely at voice or voicing, as in forms of structural disenfranchisement, or worse, forms of violence directed more generally at bodies such that they can no longer voice. And in a way that makes violence pedagogical as it teaches others to fear-to-speak in the future. While educating others on how to enact tactics of silencing on their own authority as privileged subjects. So when I affect/effect voice in a textual field I’m thinking of the sieves and torture devices voices have historically had to physically be pushed through by the momentum of history, violence, by colonialism, positionalism. And I keep in mind that even in the aesthetic celebration of various artforms by previously silenced communities there is still great gloss, irredeemable violence, uncertain futures.

“It” is truly broken in other words. When that “It” is an experiential even if subperceptible encounter with Voice, with language. Even as it works. It works as Being, in rebellion, in demonstration, in subversion, in intimacies. The broken times are those times which still meet Being with skepticism or selective enfranchisement. This could become a very long answer, but that we still have to hear people say “All Lives Matter” is fucking infuriating and a reflection of It being Broken. What I suppose really frustrates me is that Voice, when I engage it, is then forced into the pressure or having to both educate and express Being, whereas for the entitled, throughout our History, Voice has always been a “window into the soul,” so to speak. Purely and without skepticism or refusal.

AZ: Typographically, with the combination of text and its voice, the, “blocks, pillars, and slabs or beams” from pg. 12 make me think about the construction of each page through text, image, or their combination. Pages which you refer to as being textually radical—where text intersects text to form contrapuntals, where slabs are jointed to horizontal pillars, where text forms blocks, where text can be italicized, bolded, and greyed depending on the light read in—this makes the reader read and re-read sections by rotating the book. From the act of flipping the book around to read certain portions, there’s an awareness of the act of reading, as well as the physicality of the book and its pages. Some people will say that a work “touched” them, but that refers more to an emotional sense, whereas reading scenery couples the emotional with an actual tangible sense of “touch” with holding the book that I’m not sure I’ve been aware of while reading before. Where has your interest in the meta-ness (maybe sentience is the better word that you’ve mentioned) of actually “reaching” out to “touch” the reader come from, making them aware of what they are doing, where they are, and creating a reality that exists both within and without the book?

JFA: My reaching out to touch comes from the primacy of the book-object, and my experiences with handmade chapbooks and poetic community/-ies. I think it’s also pretty magical how books survive, and you can come across books either in an archive, a grandparent’s home, a library, or any other space, and from an entirely different moment. My quote in that section is from Wittgenstein’s language games. And my take is the impossibility of a pure experience with the creation of a language, in the sense of an impossibility of language ever being manifested in a context not overdetermined by power or colonization. The embodiment or physicality that you are describing in scenery, and especially what you’re noting as the counterpuntal rhythm of it, is that “touch” as an intimacy that remains in pure difference. My lyric relationship to parenting, and the parts of the book that are memoir, and deal with my child and my partner giving birth, these are rather obvious examples of this pure difference as intimacy. But they are also the building blocks of more complex differences that require intimacy. A reaching out that is not touch or refuses the grasp as a concept of power’s will-to-know, but instead a reaching out that stops each time in the extension of an openness. As if to touch were not to grasp but to be both reception and reach at the same time. There is a decolonial undercurrent to all my work that truly seeks to understand Power, even while wishing at all times to draw a light on it so as to walk away from it, to see it in a nihilistic light.

AZ: In gist : rift : drift : bloom (Further Other Book Works, 2015) and precis (Omnidawn, 2017), there are no page numbers. scenery then approaches its pacing differently with having some pages numbered and some unnumbered. Similarly to your previous books, there is no table of contents. This brings to mind again the awareness of reading, but also the emphasis on where there are no numbers, in addition to how scenery can be read as one continuous work, or sectioned by the unnumbered, “blank” pages. On pg. 45 you confront your aesthetics, and also the confines of genre, and (potentially?) theorizing of a post-poetics, one which, “would give form / to the collaborative, cooperative / speech from scenery as an act / against the humming of continu / ity”, and how, “Such a poetics is elusive.” This focus on what can be counted or quantified makes me wonder how you envision the future (and present history) of the lyric? Also how your understanding of ontology relates to the lyric? As I will admit, I am still struggling with my own understanding of ontology.

JFA: It was tough because I never want page numbers. Fordham being a bigger press didn’t really want that, but the compromise actually worked in many ways because it does allow for “pacing” as you note. And as I describe above, I don’t write discreet poems. The work is an engagement with a question that I explore to its ontological limit. I think there will always be lyric as it might be conventionally defined. My hope is that experiencing the ontological limit of lyric begins to untrain our senses, and begins to truly open an inclusive space of the poetic commons. I think it’s easy for emotional exhibition to formulate shared conclusions on emotional being, literally bound limits on what can be known as lyric emotion, its conclusions and expression. We tend to fear what is possible outside of bounded limits. That’s the settler-colonial remainder that serves as the foundation of our American literary canon. This remainder can be extreme, but it can also work into benign interactions with text/s. I mean just see question 1, right. Another person’s consciousness might very well present itself as an unknown territory. Do we listen when others speak, when they speak on what they have concluded about what they feel?

AZ: In my own attempt at bringing in other influences to this interview, I did what may seem strange, but I let my Rider-Waite tarot deck charge on top of your book (Bob Kaufman’s collected poems were nearby however), then I read a few pages from your book to the deck before drawing a card. The card I drew was the Ten of Pentacles. The formation of the pentacles on this card comes from the same structure as the Tree of Life’s ten sefirot in the Kabbalah (Kaufman’s influence perhaps?) and its pillars. I know this may sound silly to a certain degree, but taking a prompt from this card, are you influenced by anything supernatural in your work? This could be “ghosts” or “spirits”, but also going back to duende, unseeable, “intangible” forces which cannot be observed, but still can be felt, potentially like music? You’ve mentioned that you’re sometimes a nihilist, so maybe that nullifies this question, but then, what does it mean to you to create meaning out of having nihilistic feelings, which can be optimistic and pessimistic?

JFA: I like this question. What I find interesting is that the “intangible” also encompasses pre-lingual/non-lingual events that form our consciousness. But I’m also culturally sensitive to the idea of spirits, and academically sensitive to the making of, and persistence of ghosts. Music is definitely a medium through which they travel, and one of my favorite experiences while composing is listening to music. Other poets have historically thought about other technologies as mediums for ghosts, like Kamau Brathwaite and his video Sycorax style which alluded to his computer as a medium for the ghost of Sycorax. I think if, in a hemispheric context, the “natural,” or nature exists as a contested space of settler-colonial occupation and simultaneously an opportunity for alternative epistemologies, for an indigenous ontology, then the “super-natural” must be included as a way of approaching decolonial research via an engagement like poetry. And not “super” as in an escape from, but literally a supernatural ability to leave the plane so as to look down upon it the ways ghosts or spirits can, and get a whole picture of it. Ghosts and spirits are only ghosts and spirits because they have chosen or are bound to stay with us. If it were truly an issue of a complete break or escape, we wouldn’t have these words in our vocabulary. That’s the nihilism I’m working from, a leaving behind of that which does not serve us, but very much also the labor of experiencing that leave-behind; from the decision to do so, to the anxiety of experiencing uncertainty, and the joy of the new. Burning it. Breaking it. Revealing it for its counterfeit reality and listening to/for the intangible in that there is something there worth considering in our attempt to exist towards shared realities––like Nation.

Co-sponsored with the L.E. Phillips Memorial Public Library, José will be presenting, “Bearing Witness To The Truth Of Facts: Docupoetics And Documentary Writing In A Contemporary Context" on Tuesday, November 10th from 7-8PM, which you can learn more about here. To learn more about José, you can visit his website here. If you would like to purchase his books, just click the titles mentioned, otherwise, here they are again: gist : rift : drift : bloom (Further Other Book Works, 2015),

4 Spectacularly Spooky Reads to Get You In the Halloween Spirit!

Kensie Kiesow

 As the vibrant fall colors fade from the trees and ugly browns leaves begin settling upon the Chippewa Valley, the veil between what is real and what is nightmare grows ever thinner. Black cats and cackling witches gather in the night, preparing to raise the forgotten dead. Have you carved your pumpkins yet? Is that the devil dancing at your door?

If you’ve aged out of trick-or-treating, and now find yourself on the candy-dispensing side of the door, you’re not alone.  Thankfully, there are other ways to get in the Halloween mood! I personally love immersing myself in the spooky season with a freshly carved pumpkin and a mug full of spicy hot cider.  But my favorite way to celebrate is by way of a perfectly selected spooky book…

“I personally love immersing myself in the spooky season with a freshly carved pumpkin and a mug full of spicy hot cider.  But my favorite way to celebrate is by way of a perfectly selected spooky book…”

Whether the book is just a bit creepy or the stuff of nightmares, I want it to leave me looking over my shoulder. 

So, put the cheery, Christmas stories aside and pack up the turkey tales for a few more weeks.  From now until All Hallow’s Eve, enjoy these chillers and thrillers personally curated by me.  Beware, my dear readers, and prepare for a scare! 

“Frankenstein,” by Mary Shelley

First up on the list is an absolute classic. Hailed as the inventor of the science fiction genre, Mary Shelley first began writing “Frankenstein” at the age of eighteen as part of a writing game between her and her friends. It follows the story of Victor Frankenstein, a young scientist obsessed with conquering death gives birth to a monster. The modern Prometheus is consumed by loneliness and a life without meaning, without purpose. But, when he turns to his creator for help, Frankenstein turns him away, disgusted. This book will certainly keep you looking over your shoulder for the lumbering monster.

“Dracula,” by Bram Stoker

Another classic, “Dracula” is a slower read with more buildup than more popular books written in this century, but the ending is worth the wait. Written from the multiple perspectives of Mina Harker, Professor Van Helsing, and more members of this vampire-hunting party through letters, diary entries, and voice-recorded journals. Each perspective writes with a different voice with different concerns about Lucy, the beautiful young lady fallen to Count Dracula’s thrall, and nightly vampire hunting missions which dredge up old loves as well as old fears.

“House of Leaves,” by Mark Z. Danielewski

Because books written during this century are also cool and spooky, “House of Leaves” is next up on this list! This book is written in the style of “The Blair Witch Project” in that it follows the growing horrors of the world around Johnny Truant as he reads a dusty old journal he found in a dead man’s house. Whole pages are mostly blank with swirls of letters and pictures scattered across the page, and the mystery of the expanding country house in a documentary that never existed becomes clearer and clearer. The more Johnny reads, the looser his grasp on reality becomes. Be sure not to lose too much of yourself in this book.

“A Collapse of Horses,” by Brian Evenson

If you’re craving absolute nightmare fuel BUT you aren’t interested in musty classics or commit to a full-length novel, “A Collapse of Horses” offers you a taste of terror at every turn. Horrifying stories of teddy bears with baby hearts pumping in their chests, Reno, Nevada remains forever on the horizon, and the ordinary becomes a home for the extraordinary. Our worst fears come alive in the pages of each story in this collection, and I suggest you read with the lights on.

A Lovesong for Literature: How Nickolas Butler's Shotgun Lovesongs Always Brings Me Home

Katy Hackworthy

The blurb on the back of Nickolas Butler’s debut national bestseller, Shotgun Lovesongs, aptly describes Little Wing, the tiny fictional town where the novel takes place, as “a place like hundreds of others, but for four boyhood friends - all born and raised in this small Wisconsin town - it is home”. Like many who’ve lived in the Valley, whether it be for a few short years at university or for decades, I feel the same way about our city nestled on the Chippewa. 

Despite almost 70,000 people calling Eau Claire home, to me, she’s always felt more intimate, like a hug from a childhood friend, like she’s all mine. I imagine many others feel this way; they have “their table” & “their bartender” at the Joynt, their favorite spot to watch the sun plop down over the patient river, the coffee shop where they spend almost as much time as they do in their own homes. They walk down the street knowing they'll probably run into someone they know, and they’ll welcome that familiar face, however fleeting. These are the ordinary things that make a place feel like so much more than that, and Butler’s many love letters to the Midwest remind me of that time and time again. 

“I’ve lived in Minneapolis for a little more than a year, but when I refer to “home”, I mean Eau Claire. ”

I’ve lived in Minneapolis for a little more than a year, but when I refer to “home”, I mean Eau Claire. Sure, there are things I love about the city. I’ve been entranced by my neighborhood full of kind hearted weirdos with passions for biking, social justice, and kick ass vegan food, and I’ve discovered a home teeming with laughter, cinnamon rolls, and books. I’m seeking delight here, and I’m cultivating joy, but when I think about the people & places who will always understand & embrace me, it’s the Chippewa Valley. Every time I’ve left the Valley— whether it be this past year just a short drive away, or halfway across to country to live with my grandma in Arizona—I turned to Nick’s books in moments where I needed to remember what “home” looks like: how the frost clings to your fingertips after that first snow; the sound of a pitcher being poured, then refilled, then poured again; the way you don’t have to do anything but be exactly who you are, and around here, that’s cause for celebration. 

“I know what it’s like to lounge in a supper club, stomach sagging with too many rolls and creamy soup. I know what it’s like to spend an hour or so at the town dump, just because my papa went to church with the parking lot attendant. It’s that intimate recognition that’s reminded me time & time again that even when I feel completely alone, there’s a community that makes me feel like I’m held up by hundreds of weather-worn, warm hands.”

When I was sitting in the Arizona desert, missing the river & the friendly faces who tend to her, I was comforted by characters who reminded me of the people I grew up with, by scenery that might seem boring to the untrained eye, but brimmed with beauty to me, a sucker for a coupla’ bluffs on a county road. I know what it’s like to lounge in a supper club, stomach sagging with too many rolls and creamy soup. I know what it’s like to spend an hour or so at the town dump, just because my papa went to church with the parking lot attendant. It’s that intimate recognition that’s reminded me time & time again that even when I feel completely alone, there’s a community that makes me feel like I’m held up by hundreds of weather-worn, warm hands.

There’s a warmth in Nick’s work that reminds me of the person I want to be, the person I’m trying to be. The kind of person who checks in on their neighbor, who isn’t afraid to slow down, who knows how to appreciate what they have & even more importantly, who understands the importance of sharing it. Sure, we can appreciate the simple joy of reading something that’s familiar to us, but it’s more than that. It’s like a friend whispering in my ear to never forget where you come from, and I’m here to promise I won’t. Don’t worry, Eau Claire, I’ll be back for you soon enough. 

As Shotgun Lovesong’s Leland Sutton says, “I came back here and I found my voice, like something that had fallen out of my pocket, like a souvenir long forgotten. And every time I come back here I am surrounded by people who love me, who care for me, who protect me like a tent of warmth.”

Will You Join the Guild's 20 x 5 Challenge?

On August 23, the Chippewa Valley Writers Guild did the unthinkable.  Six months into a pandemic, we joined forces with Pablo Center at the Confluence, the Eau Claire Area School District, Uniting Bridges of Eau Claire, the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire, the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire Office of Multicultural Affairs, and Eau Claire Sport Warehouse to host an in-person (yes, you read that right!) event: a screening and conversation on the new documentary John Lewis: Good Trouble.

None of it was easy.  It’s hard enough for multiple organizations to come together to envision, fund, publicize and host an event of this caliber, but doing so in a pandemic only increased the difficulties.  Ensuring that we exceeded all public health guidelines added a new wrinkle to our planning process, but we were happy to do it to ensure the safety and wellbeing of our community members.

Despite a few setbacks (including rain delay!), the event was one of the most memorable I’ve been a part of here in Eau Claire. Perhaps 100 folks attended, each of them masked and socially distanced on the wooden benches at Owen Park.  Before the film began, I had the pleasure of chatting with students, alumni, well-known musicians, visual artists, and even Eau Claire’s chief of police.  People turned out because they wanted to learn about the late congressman John Lewis, and in particular, what the congressman meant when he spoke of “good trouble.”

Owen Park Band Shell, August 23

 By movie’s end, we’d created a little good trouble ourselves.  It was a modest effort, to be sure, though as we wandered back into our community that night, we began asking ourselves what more we could do to further promote equity, inclusion, and justice right here in the Chippewa Valley.  One thing we learned immediately is that to continue building momentum on this front (and all fronts!), we needed to double down on our partnerships. 

“The more you give, the more we can give.”

 In pandemic-ridden times such as these, partnerships are more valuable than ever.  The more we collaborate, the more we have to share.  But in order for the Guild to be a great community partner, we need to raise the funds to join in.  The more you give, the more we can give.

 Which is why today we’re thrilled to announce the 20 x 5 Challenge.  Simply put, we’re looking for 20 generous individuals to becoming sustaining members at the 5.00/month level.  What will 100.00 a month do for our organization?  An awful lot!

“What will 100.00 a month do for our organization?  An awful lot!”

For starters, it will allow us to continue to offer free virtual programming to the community and wider world.  Over the past seven months, rather than shut down our activities, we’ve pivoted to the virtual format.  You’ve enjoyed craft chats from writers across the country, including Tessa Fontaine, Nick Butler, Peter Geye, Kimberly Blaeser, Christina Clancy, Neal Griffin, and, this Thursday, Barrett Swanson.  In November, we’re thrilled to host Dr. José Alvegue, followed by Dr. David Shih in January.  And stay turned for more info soon about an amazing Sound & Stories event streaming your way this December.

But make no mistake: none of this is possible without you.  Which is why we’re asking you to please make a gift to the Guild today.  Help us fulfill our 20 x 5 Challenge by clicking here. 

Together, we can bring more to the Valley by partnering with so many admirable organizations.  Let’s show the world what words can do.  And let’s put action beyond our words. Let’s make a little “good trouble” together, and strengthen our community in the process.             

Get To Know Your Guild Interns: Three Questions With the CVWG’s Three New Interns

 Krisany Blount

When people hear the word “intern” the image that comes to mind is a person who fetches coffee and sometimes lunch. I can’t speak for other internships, but here at the Chippewa Valley Writers Guild, that is certainly not the case. For the past month, my fellow interns and I have been hard at work developing our writing, interviewing, and communication skills. We conduct interviews, write articles, and are thrilled to share our skills (not to mention those aforementioned interviews and articles) with the wider literary community.

In this increasingly digital age, compounded by the pandemic, it can be difficult to make connections, even in a community like our own. So, in the interest of fostering a more connected community, allow me to introduce Elise Eystad, Kensie Kiesow, and myself, Krisany Blount. We are so excited to continue sharing articles about big thinkers, great writers, and inspiring creatives in the Chippewa Valley and beyond.

Krisany

Kensie

Elise

Elise Eystad is a third year English-creative writing major with a certificate in Teaching English as a Foreign Language (TEFL). Originally from Chippewa Falls, Elise enjoys writing, reading, hiking and traveling. She also likes writing songs and creating music.

Originally from Hudson, Wisconsin, Kensie Kiesow is an English-creative writing and German double major. She enjoys the typical English major pastimes of reading and writing, but also loves embroidery, Dungeons & Dragons, and cooking. Kensie is confident she can convince any meat-lover to like tofu with her fried tofu recipe.  One day, she hopes to work at a literary magazine and make a living writing.

Krisany Blount is a fifth year English-creative writing major and Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies minor. An Eau Claire native, she also coaches high school forensics at North High School. Krisany loves reading, writing, painting, and learning interesting things. In the time before the pandemic, she could frequently be found in a back corner of a library with either a book or her laptop.

Krisany Blount: Tell me about some good books you’ve read (recently or all-time favorites).

Elise Eystad: Definitely a hard question. Glancing over at my bookshelf now, I’ll name a couple. I finished the book The Girl with The Louding Voice by Abi Daré recently (and loved it), which is about a young girl growing up in Nigeria. My all-time favorite book of poetry is Mary Oliver’s collection, Devotions. And I do love The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. I read it for the first time on a long road trip when I was a senior in high school, so I have fond memories associated with it, despite the heavy/dreary content.

“Right now, I’m reading two books for two of my classes, Redefining Realness, by Janet Mock and The Translator, by Leila Aboulela which deal with Mock’s journey through transitioning and accepting her queerness, and the life of an Arabic translator from Sudan, respectively. ”

Kensie Kiesow: Right now, I’m reading two books for two of my classes, Redefining Realness, by Janet Mock and The Translator, by Leila Aboulela which deal with Mock’s journey through transitioning and accepting her queerness, and the life of an Arabic translator from Sudan, respectively. They are both fascinating reads that talk about subjects I’m familiar with, but I love the deeper insights into the lives of Mock and Aboulela’s character, Sammar. The Translator is written in an especially poetic way that is wonderful to read. Outside of class, I’m reading a graphic novel based on a D&D podcast hosted by brothers Justin, Travis, and Griffin McElroy with their father, Clint. The title is Here There Be Gerblins, and it’s delightful!

Krisany Blount: I’m currently reading Her Body and Other Parties by Carmen Maria Machado for a class and really enjoying it. It’s a collection of short stories and they’re all so different! Machado’s writing is so lovely and distinct—it’s been a real delight to read. One of my all-time favorite books is Nimona by Noelle Stevenson. It’s a graphic novel about a medieval steampunk society that follows a supervillain and his shapeshifter sidekick in their quest to expose the hero as a fraud. Something about it is so haunting. I first read it in 2016 and I’ve reread it several times since then, but I keep thinking about it and going back to it.

KB: What’s your favorite thing about the Chippewa Valley, within the “literary scene” or outside it?

EE: I really love and appreciate the creative and artistic culture in the Chippewa Valley. Growing up in the area, it was so easy to be involved in music organizations or go to local shows and events and I still reap the benefits of that accessibility now as a college student in a “creative” major. I think our community creates art and content that has the ability to reach audiences around the world, but has a certain familiar, nostalgic Midwest quality to it that I will always be drawn to.

KK: My favorite thing about the Chippewa Valley, within and outside of the “literary scene,” is the respect and appreciation for the arts. I feel like this area, tucked away in the farmlands of Western Wisconsin, is a little haven for creatives from the music, writing, and art worlds. Here, we have a fascinating mixture of hardy, Midwestern values and the eyes of an artist, trained to see both the beautiful and the ugly in the world around them.

“It’s been so wonderful growing up in such a creatively-rich environment. There’s always some sort of art-related thing happening. Theatre, music festivals, art shows, open mic nights, craft talks, the list goes on”

KB: It’s been so wonderful growing up in such a creatively-rich environment. There’s always some sort of art-related thing happening. Theatre, music festivals, art shows, open mic nights, craft talks, the list goes on. I love how active the art community as a whole is! My favorite thing outside of that is definitely Eau Claire in fall. We’ve got such beautiful scenery around here year round, but when all the leaves start changing color, it just feels even prettier.

KB: What’s your favorite thing about interning with the Guild so far?

“I’ve loved challenging myself to approach writing in ways that are unfamiliar.”

EE: I’ve loved challenging myself to approach writing in ways that are unfamiliar. Doing things like interviewing people and learning how to have a professional presence in my writing and interviewing was (and still is) daunting, but it’s been awesome to get to work with people on articles who not only want to share their story or information, but have genuinely wanted to see me succeed in the process, as well.

KK: I really love the freedom to choose what I want to write about and what I want to focus on. I don’t feel like the intern who’s shunted off to do the menial labor no one else wants to do; rather, I’m a part of this guild and the greater Chippewa Valley literary community.

KB: I’m so excited that this internship is giving me the opportunity to get to know a little more about the writing community in the Chippewa Valley and to help others continue to learn about our writers, organizations, and events! I’ve had the opportunity to chat with some incredible people and write about the amazing things they’re doing, and it’s been a true delight. I love hearing people talk about the things that really matter to them, and to be able to share in spreading that passion is a dream come true.

Thank you to our amazing interns, who are working so hard to keep you inspired and informed!

When Life Gives You Lemons, Make An (Online) Lit Mag: A Preview Into NOTA’s Covid-19 Pivot

Krisany Blount

From our shrinking social circles and expanded personal bubbles, to the disappointment of receiving a notification that an event you’d eagerly anticipated has been cancelled, we’ve all experienced the changes the pandemic brought with it. For we art-minded folks, being unable to visit a gallery or attend an open mic night or any other traditionally in-person gathering of artistic minds has been an additional disappointment. But just because we can’t meet in person right now doesn’t mean the organizations behind those events have gone into hibernation. On the contrary, just like so many of our wonderful local businesses, they too have adapted their operations and events to fit our new reality.

One such organization is UW-Eau Claire’s entirely student-run literary magazine, None of the Above (NOTA). Publishing biannually, they cover art, poetry, prose, and music. For the last 50 years, they have published a physical copy of each semester’s edition, and for the last one semester, they have published exclusively online.

The sudden shut down in the middle of March left everyone confused and uncertain, and organizations like NOTA had to quickly adapt to their new reality. Despite having never done a fully online issue before, NOTA’s staff was able to successfully make the switch from print to online, and they’re using what they learned in the spring to make this fall’s issue even better.

““I won’t deny that there’s an inherent appeal to holding a physical issue of NOTA—you get to smell the fresh-printed aroma of ink and pages, and for many of the creatives whose work we feature, publication in NOTA means the first time they see their work in physical print,” says Angela Hugunin, editor-in-chief of NOTA. “But an online issue also offers new opportunities.””

“I won’t deny that there’s an inherent appeal to holding a physical issue of NOTA—you get to smell the fresh-printed aroma of ink and pages, and for many of the creatives whose work we feature, publication in NOTA means the first time they see their work in physical print,” says Angela Hugunin, editor-in-chief of NOTA. “But an online issue also offers new opportunities.”

Some of these new opportunities include more flexibility in the timeline for staff to assemble the issue, expanded submission dates, potential new events, new ways to access the issue, and the ability for the issue to reach beyond the UWEC campus.

Another exciting change can be found in the fall submissions call: an optional theme relating to the “uniqueness” of 2020. Historically, NOTA has primarily received submissions from art and English majors, but with this optional theme, they hope to change that.

“Quarantine has been a time where many people have had the opportunity to try new things and experiment with art and writing and this is a perfect opportunity to show off these accomplishments,” says Meg Adlington, the art director for NOTA.

The creation and consumption of art and literature have become increasingly important in our lives in the last six months. They offer us a means of escape and a way to process the constant barrage of news.

“Consuming others’ work can put words or visuals to things we’ve been feeling but haven’t found a way to express. Sharing art can act as a little nod of recognition, an “I see you,” a way to touch someone in these days of physical distancing,” says Hugunin.

“We need to remember to take a step away and focus on something beautiful every once in a while, to give us time to take a breath and to help us get through it and art is a perfect way to do this,” adds Adlington.

Be sure to check out NOTA’s Facebook page for updates on events and the release of the fall edition. NOTA is accepting student submissions through Oct. 8.

Join Author Roxane Gay for a Blunt, Honest, and Intersectional Discussion on Race This Tuesday!

Elise Eyestad

Following the opening of the new Center for Racial and Restorative Justice on the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire’s campus, a flagship program was created, titled “Racing Toward Justice.” Their first event kicks off this Tuesday, September 29th, with a livestreamed conversation with New York Times best-selling author Roxane Gay, who will be “examining race through an intersectional lens and against a backdrop of current events.”

Dr. Christopher Jorgenson, Director of the Gender & Sexuality Resource Center at UW-Eau Claire, and Dr. Demetrius Smith, Program Director for Equity, Diversity and Inclusion at UW-Eau Claire partnered together to create “Racing Toward Justice.” “Racing Toward Justice” will have monthly events, such as discussions, panels, or speakers, throughout this school year, excluding December and May. When considering who to feature for the opening event, they wanted to be intentionally intersectional, “highlighting voices that aren’t always highlighted in issues with race.”

Though planning events online because of a pandemic can be stressful, to say the least, it can also provide new opportunities that would have been impossible to do in person. Because of virtual, livestreamed events, new doors were opened for Jorgenson and Smith to reach out to speakers who would normally be outside of the university’s budget. With these new possibilities, Roxane Gay was brought up, and thankfully, she accepted.

Gay shot to fame with her New York Times best-seller Bad Feminist. She is also the author of the well-known books Hunger, a memoir, and Difficult Women, a collection of short stories. As a queer woman of color, Gay also offers blunt assessments of race, popular culture, and feminism.

“She speaks in ways that are accessible to everyone; ways that are not so esoteric but are really smart,” says Jorgenson. “She’s smart, funny, and in particular, she appeals to a lot of people who don’t normally see their experiences discussed.”

“She speaks in ways that are accessible to everyone; ways that are not so esoteric but are really smart,” says Jorgenson. “She’s smart, funny, and in particular, she appeals to a lot of people who don’t normally see their experiences discussed.”

This event is not campus-exclusive; anyone from our community is encouraged to join. Simply follow this link or scan the QR code on the poster. It’s free, and Jorgenson’s hope is that many will come and enjoy! Roxane Gay will speak for 30-45 minutes, then the online audience will have the opportunity to send in questions, which a moderator will ask to Gay.

“There are people who feel so frustrated in the United States right now because they want to do something, but they don’t know what to do. Engaging in these conversations are an excellent way to either begin or to continue and compliment your own advocacy,” says Jorgenson.

Mark your calendar and tune in for free to the livestream on Tuesday, September 29th at 6pm.

More Than Miscellany: Barrett Swanson on Research, Longform Journalism, and Crafting His Debut Essay Collection

Elizabeth de Cleyre

When people learn you’re a writer, the first question is usually, “What do you write?” Followed closely by, “What is your favorite book?”

 I secretly hate answering this question. How could one possibly choose between so many incredible authors and books?! But within the past week, two people asked me to name my favorite book, and the answer came quickly, easily, and unequivocally: Lost in Summerland by Barrett Swanson. It’s sort of a bad answer though, because the book won’t be published until May of 2021. But it’s so good it’s all I want to talk about for the next eight months.

The essays that comprise Lost in Summerland perfectly encapsulate the urgency and complexity of these strange times. It’s awe-inspiring, if not occasionally disconcerting, to see the world refracted back in pristine prose—especially in a time period which often evokes a funhouse mirror. And yet Swanson’s work feels simultaneously timeless and prophetic too, mining the past to find resonances and reverberations to carry us into the future.

The ability to see the world clearly and express it eloquently is a superpower, and Swanson’s prose doesn’t stop short of simply seeing; it’s obvious in these essays that the narrator also feels things deeply—a refreshing departure from the distant, feigned objectivity projected by most journalists.

In an upcoming craft talk for the Chippewa Valley Writers Guild, Barrett Swanson will discuss the role of personal material in longform narrative journalism, using his recent cover stories in Harper's Magazine to discuss the ways in which the "I" necessarily takes on many guises in creative nonfiction. He'll also share tips on pitching stories to editors and navigating the contemporary magazine world.

Swanson generously answered questions via email in anticipation of his talk on October 15th. You can read more of his writing on his website and preorder Lost in Summerland from Counterpoint, your local indie bookstore, or Bookshop.org.

Elizabeth de Cleyre: Your first essay collection will be published in May 2021 by Counterpoint Press. How did you go about determining which essays would make up Lost in Summerland? What was the process of organizing them like? Did the pieces that were previously published in magazines and literary journals change or evolve from their previous incarnations?

Barrett Swanson: The process of curating the essays for the collection was pretty intuitive, if only because I think I’m a victim of certain thematic preoccupations—narrative breakdown, loss of meaning, communal longing, national myths—and each of the pieces that made their way into the book dealt, in one way or another, with those ideas and arguments. There were a few pieces that were omitted that I still sometimes glance at with a kind of wistful, what-might-have-been resignation, but my editor (the wise Dan Smetanka) was helpful in preventing me from overplanting the garden.

“Above all, it was important to me that the book wouldn’t be read as a miscellany, but that each essay would complicate and refract some of the themes that emerged in the piece that preceded it, that the conceptual undertow of the book would pull the reader along, even as the topics and genres of the pieces shifted pretty dramatically (antiwar veterans to psychics and mediums, waterparks to disaster simulations). ”

Above all, it was important to me that the book wouldn’t be read as a miscellany, but that each essay would complicate and refract some of the themes that emerged in the piece that preceded it, that the conceptual undertow of the book would pull the reader along, even as the topics and genres of the pieces shifted pretty dramatically (antiwar veterans to psychics and mediums, waterparks to disaster simulations). My hope is that the later essays will function to click the themes into clarity and show how some Americans have been reckoning with life in this country from the late Obama era to our democracy’s present unraveling.

Because some magazines have house-styles and because I am pathologically obsessed with cadence and inflection, there were some slight alterations between the book versions and the magazine versions of these pieces. In most cases, though, the differences are so granular that I wonder whether anyone else would even notice them. One of the ways in which my OCD manifests itself is in the sculpting of sentences, and I get so irksomely particular about phrasing that it can be emotionally debilitating.

EDC: In “Political Fictions” for The Paris Review you mention you abandoned “aspirations to be a presidential speechwriter and enrolled in an M.F.A. program for creative writing.” Narrative is a through line with both of those career paths and the importance of story is threaded throughout your essays. What prompted you to focus on creative writing, and how did you get your start?

BS: I started writing seriously in undergrad and was fortunate to have had two tremendous fiction instructors—Laura Krughoff and David Michael Kaplan—both of whom pulled me aside after their respective creative writing classes and told me that I could pursue this as a possible profession. That kind of validation was ventricle-swelling for a young writer and gave me permission to take the idea seriously. At the time, I was interning on a presidential campaign and thought that eventually I would become some sort of hip, leather-jacketed political operative, loitering in the back of the campaign bus with the candidate and concocting little burbles of oratory that would help sway national elections (please know that I cringe to admit this). To the astonishment of my family and friends, I pretty swiftly jettisoned my political ambitions once I got into an MFA program.

During the program, I was writing and publishing short stories mostly, with the occasional foray into poetry, but it wasn’t until I graduated from the MFA that I started writing essays. For whatever reason, I almost never used material from my life for short stories—the vocal conceit of my fiction was almost always character-driven, a kind of dramatic ventriloquism—so once I started digging into my life, a whole little terrain of potential topics bloomed out in front of me. My early essays were memoiristic, and it wasn’t until I went to that utopian community in Florida—called The Venus Project, which I discuss in “Prophet from the Swamp”—that I tried my hand at longform journalism. As a reader, I tended to love that kind of excursion piece, where a writer jaunts off to some odd quadrant of the culture and tries to make heads or tails of a particular community and their place within it. The Venus Project piece was my first attempt at that, and I wrote it entirely on spec. From there, I just started submitting it like crazy until the recently shuttered and deeply mourned Pacific Standard made it a cover story. After that, some other magazines started reaching out and other editors started taking my pitches more seriously.

“People who know me well will tell you that it’s strange that I became so addicted to this kind of work because I essentially have the nervous system of a toddler—(even something as routine as flying on an airplane requires extreme levels of personal courage for me)—so a job where you’re constantly traveling to and spending time in offbeat communities doesn’t seem like the most congenial of arrangements for someone with my temperament.”

People who know me well will tell you that it’s strange that I became so addicted to this kind of work because I essentially have the nervous system of a toddler—(even something as routine as flying on an airplane requires extreme levels of personal courage for me)—so a job where you’re constantly traveling to and spending time in offbeat communities doesn’t seem like the most congenial of arrangements for someone with my temperament. But I think there’s something about that tension that makes me keep doing it, that the occasions for the articles kind of nudge me into the world and force me to scrutinize it more rigorously. 

EDC: What’s your writing process like and how has it changed over the years — on a craft level but also as you navigate changes in the publishing industry and your work as a professor?

BS: In the years after the MFA, saddled with student-loan debt, I did the adjunct hustle for seven years, teaching at as many as three different campuses at a single time in order to make ends meet. As a result, I learned to write at odd hours and interstitial moments. During that time, I would get up at 3:30 or 4AM and write until 8 and then head over to the college for a full-day of teaching. Possibly that sounds monastic or extreme, but it was a way of convincing myself that I was going to pursue writing even when no one was waiting for a piece. A few years ago, after several years on the job market, I was lucky enough to procure a tenure-track teaching position, so I’m a little more stable financially, although my writing routines and rhythms haven’t much shifted or varied. For whatever reason, I find that early morning hours tend to be the most generative, maybe because I’m too tired to entertain the Greek chorus of self-lacerating voices that would otherwise colonize my head. So a good day will be four hours or so of scribbling in the morning and then a couple hours in the afternoon for rereading and revision. Within the last year or so, I started writing all my first drafts longhand, which I couldn’t recommend more highly to anyone. There’s something about the kinesthetic labor of writing the words that allows me to better hear their music, whereas the choppy velocity of typing often results in me paying more attention to how the words look on the page (to the detriment of the narrative sensibility). Plus, I don’t like the visual trick of how Word processing platforms make even the filmiest draft seem “finished.” I’m trying to think of other quirks in my process.

“On reporting trips, I record EVERYTHING, so usually I’ll return home with 36 to 72 hours of recordings, and will spend a week or two listening, which allows me to relive the experience, and I will fill two or three notebooks with memories and rough scenes, frequently consulting whatever additional notes I took on the trip (usually on my phone). In those notebooks, I’ll start drafting scenes, and when I’ve written two or three of them, I’ll brandish a fresh legal pad and begin writing the actual piece.”

On reporting trips, I record EVERYTHING, so usually I’ll return home with 36 to 72 hours of recordings, and will spend a week or two listening, which allows me to relive the experience, and I will fill two or three notebooks with memories and rough scenes, frequently consulting whatever additional notes I took on the trip (usually on my phone). In those notebooks, I’ll start drafting scenes, and when I’ve written two or three of them, I’ll brandish a fresh legal pad and begin writing the actual piece. The first draft can take anywhere from a week to a month, depending on the nature of the reporting and the scope of the research, and at some point during that phase, I will switch over to my computer, which is a built-in assurance that I pour over the sentences again and do another version. I always like when writers disclose the peccadilloes of their work habits, so I will tell you that I type my stuff in Microsoft Word, with Times New Roman 12-point font, single-spaced, with the “View” at 115%, which makes the text small enough that I can see almost the whole page and keep track of the meter of the graf in question. I listen to “Brown Noise” or “Pink Noise” when I write, although sometimes I will throw on William Basinski’s “The Disintegration Loops” or Happy Apple’s “Homage Ritchie Valens,” particularly if I’m feeling autumnal or whatever.

EDC: Your craft talk on October 15th will discuss the role of personal material in longform narrative journalism, and your writing strikes a balance between journalism and essay. Without giving too much of the craft talk away, can you tell us a little more about crafting a persona for these pieces, or the importance of it?

BS: For fear of sounding redundant on the 15th, I will keep my answer brief. I don’t know about you, but when I was growing up, middle-school and high-school teachers tended to talk about personal writing as a matter of “finding your voice,” as if there were some Platonically ideal self that loitered at the rim of your consciousness, as if the act of writing was nothing more than the unearthing of this “real” identity. My own experience is that one’s persona is far more flexible and contingent, one’s voice far more protean, and the emergency of a given essay’s scenario requires that my narrative sensibility chameleon itself to its tone and register. All of us calibrate our social personas this way, but at least when I was an undergrad or an MFA candidate, I didn’t hear professors talk at much length about the “I” in creative nonfiction. A lot of times I think it’s hard for fiction writers to transition into essays because they forget that one of the fundamental tasks in nonfiction is self-characterization, which is something that, if they’re not writing autofiction, they probably don’t have much practice at. One thing I try to remind my students is that any topic they choose to write about is in some way a reflection of their affections, hopes or fears, and so the essay needs them to create an “I” where those resonances between the topic and the writer are immediately apparent. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that this is an authorial masquerade, but I do think that essays present the writer’s revolving door of self.  

EDC: In addition to crafting and presenting a persona on the page, your pieces are incredibly well researched, and your work spans a wide range of topics: historical notions of masculinity in America, the Spiritualism movement in the mid-nineteenth century, school shootings, and the antiwar movement and organic farming, among other subjects. What’s your research process like? How extensive is it, and at what point do you know you have enough for the piece? Or do you ever find yourself with too much research?

BS: Oh, god. It’s different for every piece, but I tend to do gobs of research up front, if only because each of my essays almost always concerns a completely different topic than whatever I wrote about in the last piece. For this reason, I am apt to suffer debilitating cases of imposter syndrome. Grad school was helpful in this regard, because in having to build reading lists for one’s thesis or dissertation, you can’t help but become proficient at curating a list of research materials that will help you passably draw the contours of some historical moment or topic. With every piece, then, it can seem like I’m giving myself an intensive undergraduate degree in the subject. For instance, with an essay like the one in Harper’s about the contemporary men’s movement, I was fairly omnivorous in my research, reading as many as 20 books on masculinity and men’s groups, listening to (oftentimes hair-raising) podcasts on the subject, watching documentaries about body builders and the Proud Boys, and interviewing people in the community—all of which I completed before I went on the trip. Doing this kind of work up front allows me to have an intellectual framework for whatever community I’m entering and allows me to select more deliberately the details and anecdotes that I experience while I’m on the assignment.

The great odium that I’ve noticed about contemporary publishing is that the imperative of timeliness and the velocity of online publishing makes it harder to do the kind of research that will help a writer historicize their subject and allow them to understand that these aren’t new trends but part of a larger pattern, which is crucial if you’re a writer who’s interested in tracking the true etiology of our social problems. For instance, so much of the coverage about contemporary men’s groups—much of which was weirdly laudatory— failed to acknowledge that these sorts of communities were popular in the past and tended to enjoy periods of massive growth only when there were corresponding advancements in feminism (the Iron Johns during Third Wave, the Male Liberationists during the Second), which is an important thing to consider, especially if you’re going to insist that they can be efficacious in addressing things like toxic masculinity. Along these same lines, in advance of going on the trip to Lily Dale, the world’s largest community of psychics and mediums, I read a veritable deluge of trend pieces about how “millennials are going wild for astrology” or “why are CEOs embracing spiritual traditions,” but virtually none of these articles talked about how the birth of Spiritualism in the 1890s and the rise of New Ageism in the 1960s coincided with periods of epistemological confusion and narrative breakdown, which demonstrates the extent to which people will reach for an ideological ballast whenever the center is not holding.

That said, early on in my career, I think I tended to rely too heavily on research, or rather I didn’t know how to integrate it seamlessly into the narrative account of the excursion. As I’ve gotten more experience in the longform genre, I think I’ve become more adept at letting the research merely inform my observations rather than inserting all those factoids into the piece in question.

I don’t think you can do too much research. If anything an essayist like John McPhee, who does titanic, if not Talmudic, amounts of research, provides compelling evidence of the extent to which the real danger is not doing too much research but rather failing to develop a methodology for organizing the info one gathers. In order words, what’s debilitating for writers, I think, isn’t the amount of research, but the inability to successfully wrangle it.

EDC: Though your essays often deal with serious subjects, there’s a fair amount of humor and levity in your essays. In Lost in Summerland, you visit Wisconsin’s famed Noah’s Ark Waterpark to “summer” as a verb, discuss the connection between Kim Kardashian and Kafka’s “The Hunger Artist,” and attend a West Wing fan convention. In a darkly funny moment in “This is Not a Test,” your press liaison misidentifies you as a writer from Harper’s Bazaar, prompting you to “waste a bunch of time wondering how a fashion organ might cover the events at Disaster City: ‘Containment Couture: How Hazmats Will Overrun Athleisure as Your Work-from-Home Daily Water’ or ‘You Down with PPE? Yeah, You Know Me: How Gloves, Masks, and Protective Eyewear Will Soon Become the New Urban Chic.’” What role does humor play in your writing, and specifically when writing about serious or grave matters? 

BS: I can’t remember who said this—it was either a comedian (Gilda Radner?) or a philosopher (Wittgenstein?)—but they once described comedy as the truth told at a higher velocity. Part of me likes to think that whatever humor emerges in my essays is borne of that fact, as is hopefully legible in the example you mentioned, about the press liaison at Disaster City. The fictional headlines that I conjured ended up not being very far afield from the actual scareheads that certain fashion organs were publishing in April and May of this year, when the first wave of COVID-19 was peaking and when Work-From-Home couture became a booming industry. For me, it was grimly disconcerting to see such headlines rubbing shoulders with pieces about the pandemic’s death toll. And so whenever I’m on a reporting assignment, I’ll always bloodhound around for details like that, for those ironic little doodads that vivify not only the weirdness of the situation in which I find myself but also the absurdity of life in America at this tragicomic moment.

 On a practical level, though, the humor in my work emerges out of a larger agenda, which is to craft a narrative persona that faithfully reflects my personality. My favorite writing is where the person shows up in their work, and so, for me, every sentence tries to establish a companionship with the reader, something that an artist whom I’m close with describes as becoming “a friend of the reader’s mind,” which is a phrase I rather like.  

EDC: Last but certainly not least: favorite books or reading recommendations? And what’s your favorite piece of writing to teach and why?

BS: I’m going to answer a kindred but less stultifying question. The best essay collections I’ve read recently are Elisa Gabbert’s The Unreality of Memory and Jordan Kisner’s Thin Places. Rachel Kaadzi Ghansah’s essays are invariably exquisite and brilliant, and I’m waiting for her collection, The Explainers and The Explorers, with a kind of bated anticipation. And my god, have you read Elif Batuman’s recent essay in The New Yorker? About Zoom performances of Greek tragedies during the COVID-19 pandemic? I swear, it will ruin and restore you. I also love both Lauren Olyer’s and Patricia Lockwood’s criticism. Also, Mark Fisher’s Capitalist Realism.

Among my favorite things to teach is Zadie Smith’s NW, which a contemporary modernist novel that was, by my lights, insufficiently celebrated when it was first published and that my first year college students start out hating (because the prose isn’t linear) and end up loving (because Smith is an absolute genius, and she renders the sadness of our neoliberal moment in a way that is both energizing and elegiac). I also love teaching “The Hunger Artist” by Kafka (which I wrote an essay about) and “Notes from a Native Son” by James Baldwin. I can read these works again and again, and unfailingly they perform on me an emotional and intellectual resuscitation.

Tune into Barrett’s craft talk on Zoom on October 15 at 7PM. Here is the link. Meeting ID: 886 3826 7523
Passcode: 602055

Co-sponsored with the L.E. Phillips Memorial Public Library.

Elizabeth de Cleyre is a writer and editor based in Eau Claire, WI. Find her at cedecreative.com

Quarantine Comforts: The Art That's Comforted Four Local Creatives

Elise Eystad

 When the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire went fully online last spring semester, I moved back to my parent’s house. Day after day was spent in front of my laptop screen, either in a Zoom meeting for work, an online class, or finishing a paper. It felt like every day blurred together with all of my screen time, yet I also felt as if the majority of the days were wasted, since I almost never changed out of my pajamas. At the end of the night, however, I would curl up in the living room with my parents and watch BBC shows; they had just gotten a BritBox subscription on Roku to fill our quarantined nights. I watched every British period piece that I could, then also re-read Pride and Prejudice. Jane Austen became my best pal and quarantine companion. While this evening practice didn’t help me feel any more productive, I was comforted. It was fun to laugh at British slang with my dad and swoon over Darcy and Knightley with my mom. The period pieces also made me thankful that I was stuck inside with my phone, TV, and plenty of books, instead of having to resort to a “turn about the room” in my boredom, like a 19th century heroine.

Cesar A. Cruz said that “art should disturb the comfortable and comfort the disturbed.” While I don’t know if “disturbed” is the first word I would have picked to describe our collective state during the Covid-19 pandemic, I do believe that we are all fairly disturbed, disheartened, and in need of comfort. And whether it be a movie, book, album, or visual piece, art has a way of comforting us, even while the reality of our own world seems uncertain and harsh.

With that in mind, I asked four local people in the arts about their own “Quarantine Comforts”: What art has helped lift their spirits in the time of COVID-19?

Thank you to Angela Hugunin, Michael Perry, Stephanie Turner, and Rebecca Mennecke for contributing!

Angela Hugunin: student, Editor-in-Chief at NOTA

“I found that it informed my now more frequent strolls and helped deepen my appreciation of the natural world around me—I’ve been grossly underestimating trees! ”

Like many others around the world, I’ve seen an exponential jump in my screen time over these past months due to a shift in working conditions. This shift has brought me a newfound longing to spend time outdoors. I’ve found myself drawn to nature in new ways, and this has shown up in the art I’ve taken in. I read Peter Wohlleben’s The Hidden Life of Trees over the summer, and for me it brought a perfect mix of wit and discovery. I found that it informed my now more frequent strolls and helped deepen my appreciation of the natural world around me—I’ve been grossly underestimating trees! I also really enjoyed Wayétu Moore’s She Would Be King, which I got through the Dotter’s Books subscription (hooray for local bookstores!). Moore’s novel took me to faraway places, challenged my understanding of the history of colonization (in a good way), and had me rooting for the characters’ superhuman abilities and resilience. Both books expanded my thinking and buoyed my spirits.

Michael Perry: writer

“‘art’ doesn’t always have to spell itself with a capital ‘A’ to improve the world. ”

1) This is irredeemably self-centered, but honest: my own work has been a source of retreat, if not comfort. I don't mean reading my own work and going ooh, aah, I mean cranking it out. As a freelancer and a performer I've had to redouble my writing production to counter income lost from the road. This has included some self-published projects. The side-benefit of writing and writing and writing, is that I am able to disappear into the work. Even if I'm just editing a revision, taking pen in hand and bending to the task literally allows me to duck and cover. I am also very grateful that in writing my books, turning in my columns, recording audio, I am allowed to work through hope and unease in real time. And it's a chance for me--overtly and between the lines--to acknowledge and thank those people out there striving for good amidst the grim.

2) Given all the home time, I finally finished reading Voltaire, the biography by Jean Orieux, and Voltaire in Love, by Nancy Mitford. It was dreadfully fascinating to observe as Voltaire navigated social unrest and upheaval mirroring much of what we're observing or at the precipice of today. Again, I wouldn't say this lifted my spirits, but there's always something grounding about reminding ourselves that human behavior has been twisting itself into confounding knots forever, and in reading histories like these we are given clues as to how best adjust our own course. And even more importantly, how history will judge us.

 3) During the earliest months of the pandemic, my daughters hooked my wife and me into streaming the detective comedy-drama Psych. It is a silly show and I would never have chosen it for myself, but it quickly became a shared and goofy joy that we looked forward to on those dark early nights. Its implausible plots and running gags remind me that "art" doesn't always have to spell itself with a capital "A" to improve the world. The creators of that show gifted us with a nexus for cheer, and we needed it.

Stephanie Turner, UWEC English Professor

“Nothing ever goes away. Trouble circulates, manifesting first as a strange new virus, reforming into civil unrest over police murders and mask mandates, escalating as anxiety over returning to work and school.”

You Can Go “Away,” But You’ll Always Be Somewhere 

In grade school, when it seemed everyone was sporting sew-on patches with all the latest slogans, one of my classmates sewed a skull-and-crossbones “POLLUTION” patch to the seat of her pants. She had the right idea. The slogan her patch and its placement evoked was “there’s no such thing as ‘away’.” When you throw something away, like waste, it just ends up someplace else, in some other form, like the unthinkable things piling up in a landfill or bubbling through the sewage treatment plant. It’s a simple law of physics.  

Our shared crises during the pandemic remind me of this fact. Nothing ever goes away. Trouble circulates, manifesting first as a strange new virus, reforming into civil unrest over police murders and mask mandates, escalating as anxiety over returning to work and school. To get away from it all, I watched the Netflix series “Away.” In that series, a small group of humans with big differences work together to solve a common problem: how to reach Mars safely. If only it could be that easy here on Earth. Here, there’s no “away.” We are the common problem. Still, we’re finding out way through it with our forms of expression. In my visual rhetoric class, students are looking for iconic images that creatives are remediating to comment on the present time. Thus, Edvard Munch’s classic painting “The Scream” appears on a face mask; the man and woman in Grant Wood’s “American Gothic” stand the requisite six feet apart in a cartoon.  

I find comfort in exploring these extremes. “Away” streams into my living room; iconic artwork is used to comment on our times everywhere else. Challenging inertia, another law of physics, we change direction, pick up speed, create away.

Rebecca Menneke: Associate Editor at Volume One

“Art inspires art. It’s others, truly, that inspire me.”

“Arts, culture, and creativity are one of those three key sectors that drive regional economies,” said Jo Ellen Burke, the president of the Eau Claire Public Arts Council. “Any lasting damage to the creative sector will drastically undercut our culture, wellbeing, and quality of life.” 

I’m not sure many people would consider my line of duty “art.” Though I’m a writer (thereby, creative) reporting on often the artistic elements of the community (thereby, creative), it rarely feels like an artistic endeavor to write about the hard-hitting nooks and crannies of the community. Lately, I’ve covered how racism has impacted the Chippewa Valley, the ways in which people of color have had to tirelessly work to recreate unjust systems that unfairly benefit white people, how COVID-19 has impacted the arts, local farmers, how mental health has taken a solemn hit during these – dare I say it – unprecedented times. To say that writing about these challenging topics is “art” seems to undercut the depth and complexity of these issues. But that’s precisely what I consider my line of duty: art. And discussing these nuanced issues is, in of itself, a form of art. When interviewing Jo Ellen Burke about the recent profusion of public art in downtown Eau Claire, or Wayne Marek at the Eau Claire Children’s Theatre about how theatre is impacted by a pandemic or Bre Ferraro at the Eau Claire Film Festival about filmmaking during these times, I’m constantly reminded of how the arts thrive during challenging situations – they were made to thrive – and it encourages me to create my own art during these chaotic. And my art is this: I’m taking the complex issues of the day and making them less complex, more accessible. By writing about the new murals going up downtown, I’m creating my own art. And, to be completely honest with you, it gives me a sense of purpose and meaning. Before I got my job as associate editor at Volume One, you could most likely find me in my parents’ basement, watching yet another episode of Forensic Files, still in my pajamas, bundled under a blanket and feeling purposeless – defeated, uninspired. Now I feel I have an important mission: to tell the important stories of our community and to do those stories justice. Art inspires art. It’s others, truly, that inspire me.

Getting The Buzz About Honey Literary: An Interview With Co-Founders Dorothy Chan And Rita Mookerjee

Krisany Blount

Those of us who have lived for any length of time know what it’s like to be frustrated. Sometimes things just aren’t going your way. Sometimes life is overwhelming and there’s nobody around to help. And sometimes you’ve been dealing with racism, sexism, homophobia, or other forms of oppression for so long that you reach a tipping point. In instances such as these, you have two choices: calm down and continue with your life as it is or announce that you’re done and do something to change your life.

Dorothy Chan and Rita Mookerjee chose the second option.

Over the summer, Chan, an assistant professor in the English department of the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire, and Mookerjee, an assistant professor in the Women’s and Gender Studies Program at Iowa State University, founded a literary journal. Fed up with the racism and sexism of the literary world at large, they set out to create a space that is run by womxn of color and focused on BIPOC voices. That space is Honey Literary.

I recently had the pleasure of chatting with Chan and Mookerjee about the founding of Honey Literary, the formation of their masthead, and innovation in the literary world. Be sure to check out their website for additional information and to see their submission guidelines.

Krisany Blount: Congratulations on launching Honey Literary! What was the impetus for founding a literary journal?

Rita Mookerjee

Rita Mookerjee: We needed something new and bold to break up the white literary scene. We kept hoping we would see diversity and innovation from journals. Many places offer that, but we still wanted more. It was clear that we had to sculpt our own space.

Dorothy Chan: Exactly. Over the summer I got fed up, so I tweeted that I’d start a BIPOC-focused, intersectional feminist literary journal run by all BIWOC. That tweet really picked up, and I realized: this is going to happen. I texted Rita. She said she was in right away, and since then, we haven’t looked back. But that’s really our attitude with everything in life. I’m thankful to have such an amazing co-founder and best friend. Rita motivates and inspires me every day.

KB: I love the name Honey Literary! Where did it come from?

RM: In brainstorming, we wanted something really femme and fun. Dorothy and I both study and write on food extensively, so that probably influenced the name as well. We were Googling a lot and making sure our brand wasn’t like anything else out there. The saint with whom I share a first name is associated with bees. I love them; I have them tattooed on my left arm. The texture of a honeycomb parallels our masthead and category breakdown—distinct segments linked by their borders. The honeycomb pattern is unmistakable. That’s what we want to be.

KB: I don’t think I’ve ever seen categories like Valentines or Animals in a literary journal before. How did you decide which categories to include? What attracted you to Valentines and Animals in particular?

DC: Fun. When I teach creative writing, some of my students are very form and/or genre oriented, while some are very prompt oriented. “Valentines” and “Animals” are instant prompts.

Honey Literary is really about breaking down barriers—enough with the gatekeeping! Part of that is challenging the idea of what a section/category in a literary journal means. We wanted fun categories. A lot of our editors write about animals and Valentines anyway. I mean, the sonnet is fourteen lines. Just like Valentine’s Day. It’s truly the perfect romantic amuse-bouche.

Rita edits and curates the poetry section, as well as the Sex, Kink, and the Erotic section. There’s really something for everyone. We’re opening up conversations and all kinds of writing. Bring it all on.

KB: Honey Literary’s masthead is quite the collection of talent! How did you select them to be editors?

DC: Rita and I have been lucky to meet so many brilliant people in our creative and academic careers. All these editors were such natural and instinctive choices, and what’s really amazing is that they all said yes immediately! We love you: Avni Vyas, Claire Meuschke, Jessica Q. Stark, Christina Giarrusso, Zakiya Cowan, Trinity Jones, Maria Clara Melo, and Gaia Rajan.

Please check out our masthead page. We each honor some of our favorite writers here. If you’re looking for reading and/or teaching recommendations, our masthead page is a great place to start!

In addition, many members of our masthead have published books and chapbooks. Check out Claire Meuschke’s debut poetry collection, UPEND (Noemi Press, 2020) and Jessica Q. Stark’s debut poetry collection, Savage Pageant (Birds, LLC 2020).  Check out Avni Vyas’ collaborative chapbook with Anne Barngrover, Candy in Our Brains (CutBank Books 2014) and Rita Mookerjee’s chapbooks Becoming the Bronze Idol (Bone & Ink Press, 2019) and Protection Rituals (Drum Machine Editions, 2020).

Gaia Rajan has a chapbook coming out with Glass Poetry Series in 2020-2021. It’s titled Moth Rituals. Can you believe Gaia is only 16? She’s brilliant. She designed our entire website, and we’re so grateful. I’m always blown away by how her mind works.

I’ll be using our Twitter page to continually highlight staff and contributor achievements as well.

KB: What kind of space is Honey Literary hoping to create within the literary landscape?

RM: We are so proud of the BIWOC writers and editors who helped pave the way for us. To honor them, we want to set a new standard, but really, an anti-standard. We are big on hybrid forms, experimental work, and multigenre writing. Dorothy and I see so many places still publishing pretty poems about trees. I’m like, “Who cares?” Where is the urgency? I think urgency needs to come to the forefront of contemporary writing. There must be exigency as well.

KB: What can people do to support Honey Literary?

RM: Share with friends and send us your work! You can follow us @HoneyLiterary on Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok. We are so excited by the warm reception we have had from writers and journals we love.

KB: Anything else you’d like to share?

DC: In early October we’re debuting a special artist spotlight section called “Sticky Fingers” (a play on honey, of course). Our first spotlight is the inimitable K-Ming Chang, and we’re publishing her short story, “Invasive Species,” along with an interview with Editor Zakiya Cowan.

Our first issue debuts Winter 2021. Stay tuned!

Be sure to follow Honey Literary on Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok, and check out their website. Submissions for their first issue are open through Dec. 1.

Local Stories of Work, Play, Love, and Prayer: Celebrating the Release of "Hope of the Crow: Tales of Occupying Aging"

caption: Hope of the Crow cover art featuring crow atop book.

Elise Eystad

After seven years of blogging and a year of revising, author Dr. Katherine Schneider’s latest effort, Hope of the Crow: Tales of Occupying Aging has, as she puts it, at last “flown the nest.” This newest work comes after three other books: Occupying Aging: Delights, Disabilities and Daily Life, To the Left of Inspiration: Adventures in Living with Disabilities, and the children’s book Your Treasure Hunt: Disabilities and Finding Your Gold.

Organized into four sections—work, play, love, and pray—Hope of the Crow is a compilation of Schneider’s blog posts and other writings that center around her life as an elderly, disabled woman. With humorous chapter titles such as “Mercury and I are in Retrograde,” “Sighted People are Strange,” and “What If Wonder Woman had a Disability?”, the book is filled with fun anecdotes and musings on aging, faith, friendship, living with a disability, and much more. In addition, there are thought-provoking entries on privilege and ableism, like “Only You Can Stop Ableism,” “The Many Faces of Privilege,” and “Is Accessibility Nice or Necessary to You?” that discuss practical tips for interactions between sighted people—medical professionals in particular—and blind or visually impaired person.

As displayed in the title, Hope of the Crow: Tales of Occupying Aging, spends a lot of time focusing on the relationship between growing older and living with a disability. “Half the people over sixty-five will develop a disability,” Schneider says, “so I want to share a few tricks of the trade and give some realistic hope about the good life still being achievable.”

Included in the book are also tales about Schneider’s Seeing Eye dogs, as well as two poems: “An Anthem for the Americans with Disabilities Act” and “Hope of the Crow.”

And why the title Hope of the Crow?

“Crows fascinate me,” Schneider says. “They’re smart—the females make and use tools. They survive and thrive in many environments, which gives me hope in these turbulent times. They can’t sing (neither can I), but we still try to caw out our hope somehow.”

Not only is the current release of Hope of the Crow: Tales of Occupying something to celebrate after eight years of writing and editing, but it also comes at a culturally fitting time. 2020 marks the thirtieth anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act. According to adata.org, “The ADA is a civil rights law that prohibits discrimination against individuals with disabilities in all areas of public life, including jobs, schools, transportation, and all public and private places that are open to the general public. The purpose of the law is to make sure that people with disabilities have the same rights and opportunities as everyone else.” As a self-proclaimed “disabled elder activist,” Schneider says that Hope of the Crow was published on this thirtieth anniversary for a specific reason.

“This book,” Schneider says, “is the living out of the ADA.”

Hope of the Crow is available from www.wheatmark.com and online outlets. It is available in accessible format from www.bookshare.org. You can keep up to date with Dr. Kathie Schneider and find other writings on her blog at http://kathiecomments.wordpress.com.

Challenge Your Assumptions: Neal Griffin Visits Eau Claire in Virtual Craft Talk

Kensie Kiesow

I was in the middle of my normal, COVID-era social distancing routine, sitting alone in my house working on my laptop, when I chanced upon the opportunity to interview a fantastic, local crime fiction writer. What great luck I stumbled into because the one I would be assigned to interview was none other than Neal Griffin! This ex-marine, retired police officer, and bestselling author born and raised in Wisconsin was kind enough to chat with me over the phone about his most recent book, The Burden of Truth, which came out last July, as well as about his life as a Southern California police officer.

Griffin will be visiting the Chippewa Valley à la the internet on September 22nd from 7PM to 8PM to offer a craft talk sponsored by the Chippewa Valley Writers Guild and co-sponsored by the L. E. Phillips Memorial Public Library. During “Crime Fiction as Social Commentary”, he will discuss books from authors like Harper Lee and Walter Mosely, which contain social commentary that has maintained its relevancy to this day. He will also be exploring how real-world policing and justice are portrayed in the crime fiction genre as well as opening the floor afterwards for any questions. Be sure to tune in to his talk on Zoom (link here!) on September 22 at 7PM! Read on for more on Neal’s latest book, writing beyond oneself, and how his police work does (and doesn’t) translate on the page.

Kensie Kiesow: What influenced the subject matter of your newest book, The Burden of Truth? 

NG: Well, after 27 years in Southern California law enforcement, at some point I got the writing bug. I’m a big believer in using crime fiction to test people’s assumptions about policing in America, and that’s certainly been true since I’ve been published in 2015. So, I wrote three books that were pure fiction and based in an entirely fictional environment in Wisconsin, and I enjoyed that and had some success with it. But, in the last couple of years, I talked to my editor about a story that kind of haunted me about a young man I met in my last couple years at the Escondido Police Department here in San Diego County. He, like Omar, was living in that hazardous middle lane of barrio street justice where gang culture is active in the community. On the one hand, he has to deal with the police officers who, when they look at Omar, see somebody who fits the profile of a gang member, and they treat him that way. Now, on the other hand, Omar’s gotta get along with the actual gang members. So, Omar’s that guy who was at ground zero of a very serious crime, and he had been in a car that he probably shouldn’t have been in, but he felt like he had to, to protect his family.

Well, the young man wound up getting arrested and involved in a major gang murder case. And, he had to testify in open court. I remember, after we arrested him, when we sat down in the interrogation room, he just sat forward and said, “Okay, let me tell you what happened.” He told us a story and that story didn’t change from the first day he told us to the last day he testified in court. It was his absolute truth. And, that truth almost cost him his life because, according to California law, being there at the scene of the crime considered him a principle of the crime, so he was looking at twenty-five to life. But, he was a nice kid, and when he got in the car that night, I don’t think anyone could have held him morally responsible for the decision he made to protect his family. But, legally, he wound up in a lot of trouble. Young men like Omar are constantly put in these situations where they have to go along to get along. They end up in the legal system, and the law can be pretty harsh. I’ve always wanted to write that book, so I decided to write what I call fiction true to life. I decided to make it in San Diego county in a real community because that story hits close to home.

KK: I noticed that your first book, The Benefit of the Doubt, was written with two, white male protagonists, and I was just wondering, how has your writing changed to portray a Latino man?

NG: Ben Sawyer, the protagonist of The Benefit of the Doubt, was sort of the cop I would always have liked to have been. He’s just a real bold and terrific police officer, until the moment he’s not, of course. He commits an act of abuse so egregious that his whole career is destroyed. Now, the real question is, “Where do I, a 60-year-old white man, get off trying to write as an 18-year-old Latino boy?” and I think that’s a fair question. The fact is, I did work with a lot of young men like Omar on both sides of the coin. I met young men who were really in that difficult situation and managed to make something great out of their lives, and some who didn’t. My wife is also a first generation Mexican-American, and her family mostly lived in Salinas, which is a pretty tough town up in Northern California, so I know some of her first-hand experiences. From hers and my own personal and professional background, I felt that I had some skin in the game, so to speak, that I could have the audacity to write as an 18-year-old Latino. Now, I did get some sensitivity readers because I didn’t make that decision lightly. To write that far outside of your own reality is something that you should be very careful with, particularly when you’re crossing cultures.

KK: What about the crime fiction genre draws you in, both as a reader and as a writer?

NG: As a writer, what we really strive for is to challenge the assumptions that people have. And, certainly everyone has an opinion of police work, and most of the people I come across not only have an opinion about police work, but they’re “experts.” They think they know everything that cops go through. That’s changed within the last couple of years because, with the ubiquity of cell phones, it’s become harder to challenge people’s assumptions. People are seeing it themselves from reality TV and youtube. Although, I still like the idea, and I want The Burden of Truth to challenge people’s assumptions, specifically concerning how they think justice plays out in the lives of young men like Omar. That’s really what motivated me to create that very first character, Ben Sawyer, then Tia Suarez after him, and quite a few others.

KK: What made you want to become a police officer in the first place?

NG: Crime fiction! It’s funny because, way back in 1970, I wandered into the Eau Claire Public Library on Farwell street, and there was this book that everyone was talking about. It was a book of the month selection, and it was called The New Centurions by Joe Wambaugh, who was a new writer and a detective for the Los Angeles police department. I tried to check it out, but the librarian wouldn’t let me because it was adult fiction. Instead, I went over to my dad, who was a professor at the college, and he got it for me because he believed that children should read whatever they wanted. I did end up reading it when I was very young, and the librarian was probably right that I had no business reading it as a 10-year-old, but by the time I was 12 years old, and because of the books I read, I was bound and determined to become a police officer. I ended up joining the marines, but when I was discharged, I immediately went over to the academy in San Diego and worked in the county for 27 years.

KK: I noticed you studied police ethics at the FBI National Academy in Quantico. How has that influenced your police work on and off the beat?

“So, I’ve always been fascinated by police excellence and how to train that, how to operationalize that as opposed to just depending on people being able to respond to such difficult circumstances. When you train shooting, driving, or even report writing, you’re training the physical imagination on how to respond to certain scenarios, but when you’re training ethics, you’re training the moral imagination. That’s the part that I try to drill in them.”

 NG: I was a core instructor, so that meant I instructed on police conduct and police ethics. I like to talk about police excellence, but of course we studied misconduct as well. I’ve studied that field for close to 20 years, so when I ended up at the FBI academy, that’s what I wanted to specialize in. I’m fascinated by what makes some cops so good at what that do, and how sometimes we let people who clearly have no business wearing a badge and a gun work in that field. And I don’t think I need to use any specific examples because all you have to do is go on youtube. When I started teaching ethics, I said a good trick for law enforcement is to behave as though there is a camera on you, but now I have to tell them, “remember, you are always being filmed.” So, I’ve always been fascinated by police excellence and how to train that, how to operationalize that as opposed to just depending on people being able to respond to such difficult circumstances. When you train shooting, driving, or even report writing, you’re training the physical imagination on how to respond to certain scenarios, but when you’re training ethics, you’re training the moral imagination. That’s the part that I try to drill in them. In police work, you don’t have the moral right to be pretty good at your job, you have to be really good at it.

KK: How has studying police ethics and patrol procedures influenced your opinions on the recent shootings of unarmed black men and women?

NG: Well, my career began in 1989, and within the first couple of years, there was the first viral police video. It’s interesting because, back in the day if you mentioned Rodney King, everyone knew who that was, but now if you mention that name, no one knows anymore. There was a time when everyone had an opinion on Rodney King, and in the last ten years, we’ve seen so much of this egregious misconduct that it’s very difficult to come to grips with it. I do point out when I answer this question that the police respond to between forty and sixty million calls for service every year, and over 98% of them involve no use of force whatsoever. That being said, I can’t look at the video of Kenosha and defend that. What police officers need to recognized is that people can see it with their own eyes. They can see what has occurred, and they can see it’s just not defensible conduct. I could break down what happened in Minneapolis frame by frame and see so many opportunities for a competent, well-meaning officer to avoid that situation. I can also see some malice, particularly in Officer Chauvin, for standing on George Floyd’s neck, and I think that’s going to be a very solid criminal case against him. In Kenosha what I see are some issues of competency as well. I still teach ethics, and a lot of the time, it really just is police officers who aren’t very good at their jobs.

 Tune in on Tuesday, September 22 at 7PM on Zoom (link here!)! For more info on Neal Griffin, or to order his latest book, The Burden of Truth, visit his website at nealgriffin.com

To The Class of 2024: Reflections on Learning to Lean

Katy Hackworthy

As I think about all the amazing students & teachers getting ready to head back to school during a time of deep uncertainty, particularly the class of 2024, I can’t help but reflect on my freshman year at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Caire. That first fall was one for the books, both literally and figuratively. I spent most of my high school career as an overly ambitious & overly socialized music kid, bopping between one rehearsal or production to the next with a gaggle of pals trailing close behind me.  I wanted college to be different.  And so, I decided my first semester would be all about quality time with me, my new city, and my ever-expanding book collection. Although I was a music education major, my first love was literature, and diving into the more appealing alternate realities found in the literary world was the comfort & escape I craved in order to avoid the more intimidating task of making new friends.

“Anyone who has spent time in the Chippewa Valley during the fall understands how breathtaking it is to witness the leaves turn, to feel the breeze off the river chill our noses & fingertips a little earlier each day, to cozy up at a local coffee shop and let yourself lean in to the momentary briskness before the bitter winter returns. I spent most of those first few months walking along the river...”

Anyone who has spent time in the Chippewa Valley during the fall understands how breathtaking it is to witness the leaves turn, to feel the breeze off the river chill our noses & fingertips a little earlier each day, to cozy up at a local coffee shop and let yourself lean in to the momentary briskness before the bitter winter returns. I spent most of those first few months walking along the river, acquainting myself with this city I was unsure about. Those freedom-filled days took on various forms, but I always ended up lounging on a park bench or laying under a tall pine with a book in hand. I almost never brought along the assigned readings slumped on the desk in my cramped dorm room, neglected in favor of something I picked up at the public library or at my hometown bookshop. Those unfamiliar benches & parks ushered in a welcome sense of anonymity & freedom, something I craved coming from a small river town where it was difficult to walk down the street without running into someone eager to talk your ear off. 

I reserved my afternoons away from campus for those intimate indulgences that added up to a whole lot of self discovery & a fair amount of earned solitude. I made sure to separate the city & all I did in it from the campus that often felt claustrophobic.  These efforts at keeping my worlds distinct allowed me to more fully fall in love with this incredible place that’s imprinted itself upon me forever. In my attempt to lean into that solitude, I was also making friends with this new city & the places that marked it with character, like the public library which felt like a secret I was keeping from my peers (pro tip, students: snag a few required readings from the public library before padding the pockets of the campus bookstore!), and the record store where I would spend chilly afternoons chatting with fellow music nerds that made me feel at home. In one particularly memorable moment, I walked across the bridge just after sunrise to make it to my appointment at a clinic near Water Street only to find out I had the wrong day. To make the most of my mix up, I stumbled into a tiny coffee shop called The Goat where I found a group of old men playing cards over mugs of coffee & cracking up with the kind hearted owner. I was the only other person in the joint that early, and sitting by myself, smiling at the group of pals over my copy of the local paper, made me feel like I was a part of something good.

“Students, never forget we all deserve and need comfort & company, and those two things are hard to come by during these days of physical distancing combined with a social & cultural revolution”

Students, never forget we all deserve and need comfort & company, and those two things are hard to come by during these days of physical distancing combined with a social & cultural revolution. That’s asking more from us than many have ever given in their whole lives.  And so, I’m here to remind you to lean in and lean on. Lean in to the discomfort, lean in to the learning, lean in the small joys like books & walks by the river & your favorite barista handing you a warm mug without having to ask for your order. And of course, never forget to lean on the places & people you love for the necessary comfort along the way. 

"Selling Books Out Of A Backpack": On Persistence, Getting Scrappy, And The Power of The Notebook

Dalton Hessel

There’s a pile of multi-colored notebooks that sit on my windowsill. They aren’t leather bound journals with paper delicate enough to make the Founding Fathers blush. They are notebooks scavenged from the shelves of a local Dollar Tree. “Don’t quit your day job,” is what they tell us as writers, so this was my means of pinching pennies from the very beginning. The words that found the pages of these notebooks eventually worked their way into paperback books sold out of my backpack in between classes at UW-Eau Claire. Those same books (and some new additions) are now in cardboard boxes in the back of my Subaru named “Alfred.” While I’m far from any bestseller lists, I’m thankful for the journey these erase marks and scribbles continue to take me on. 

“Looking back on it now, I treat that first book of mine like an awkward first kiss; it wasn’t pretty, but it happened”

I published my first book when I was a senior at Hayward High School in northern Wisconsin. Looking back on it now, I treat that first book of mine like an awkward first kiss; it wasn’t pretty, but it happened. Since then, I’ve realized the importance of continually working at the craft of writing. If I am lucky, I will be able to plan for morning writing sessions while tucked in the corner of a coffee shop. The majority of the time I am opening the notes on my phone at 1 a.m. because a thought came to my head while lying awake. (Something that happens quite frequently in the Wisconsin summers while living in an apartment with no air conditioning.) I’ve learned that it doesn’t matter where you write or what you write as long as you continue to write. We can envision holding awards and the book tour autograph sessions all we want, but nothing happens until our pencil hits the page.

Creating these days can be a rather daunting and scary process. Not that it hasn’t always been, but putting yourself out there for the Internet to see is intimidating. I’ve gotten into the habit of sharing short pieces of my poems on Instagram and Facebook in hopes to stir up some interest with my writings. There’s something about sharing what’s on your heart at the time with the world that often holds me back from hitting that “post” button. I think we as writers owe it to ourselves to be true to the words we put on the page, but there’s always that lingering fear of it being rejected by the world. The thought of “but what if I don’t?” has started to overpower the fears that riddle me.

I believe that I will always hold onto those cheap notebooks and I will continue to buy them as I move forward as a writer. Their covers are starting to crack and the pages that still smell of coffee shops throughout the Midwest are frayed and worn. But despite their decay, they’ll continue to serve as a reminder to me of the writing process and the beauty that one can find in writing yourself out of the bargain bin. 

Dalton Hessel’s most recent book the ramblings of a twentysomething can be found here.

Also, be sure to check out The Northern Nerd and follow their page on Facebook to see what’s happening in the northwoods of Wisconsin. 

Finding Fellowship, Solitude, and Inspiration in Door County

Dan Lyksett

I’m sitting on a Leopold bench at the edge of a clearing at the Write on, Door County writers  retreat.  It’s mid-afternoon, early August, and it’s the fourth day of my weeklong writer’s residency. I’m wrestling with the main character of a short story I’m writing. I know what he’s doing, but I don’t understand why. There is a truth he is missing. I am missing. Perhaps I don’t know him well enough. I’m hoping a walk along one of the trails on the 39-acre retreat or the butterflies flitting among the prairie flowers or the scolding of the blue jays will lead me to knowledge.

I have my notebook with me, but my computer is in the house I’m sharing for the week with two other writers, Katie Vagnino, who lives in the Twin Cities, and Sarah Stuteville, of Seattle. They are back in the house, writing. Both are educated and accomplished writers. Katie’s prose and poetry have been widely published and her first book, Imitation Crab, will be released by Finishing Line Press. Sarah is a former journalist who reported stories from the Middle East, East Africa, South Asia and the former Soviet Union, and her memoir pieces have been widely published. Both have taught writing on the university level.

And me? I took one college English class, fall semester 1970, freshman English Composition, taught in old Schofield Hall by a guy named Will Jennings. I only remember that nearly every Friday we wrote while he fiddled with a guitar. You might recognize the name. Will Jennings left teaching shortly thereafter and went on to become an award-winning songwriter, a Hall of Famer whose writing credits include the lyrics to “Tears in Heaven” and “My Heart Will Go On.”

I took the class pass-fail. I passed.

Full disclosure: I still don’t consider myself a “writer.” I’m a retired veteran newspaperman who is trying to become a writer and is appreciative of some small successes I’ve had along the way. A few years ago I attended my first writing workshop, one organized by the Chippewa Valley Writers Guild. After the first day I went home, sat on our patio sipping a beer and told my wife I wasn’t sure I was going back. I was intimidated by the smarts of those writers, their understanding of the bones, muscle and  tendons it takes to craft a piece of fiction. I only knew about deadlines and the inverted pyramid; elementary truths like “Show, don’t tell” were new to me. The next morning I braved the country roads back to Cirenica, and I have benefited from the knowledge and generosity of the writers I met there ever since.

It happens again at Write On, Door County. The night of our arrival, Katie, Sarah and I sit at the picnic table on the deck behind the house getting to know each other and talking a bit about our plans for the week. I mention I’d brought some books to read including a friend’s manuscript I’d agreed to look over. I believe it was Katie who gave me a rather odd look and said, “It’s nice of you to use some of your time here for that.” It was the first inkling of something I was to learn. I’m here to write.

The next morning I open up a short story I started about a year ago. I once thought it was finished. But earlier this year my friend, novelist Nick Butler, was generous enough to give it a read. He basically told me, “It ends too soon.”

During my week at Write On, Door County, I never open another story, and I never read another word of the books I’d brought along. Katie, Sarah and I might see each other briefly during the work day, grabbing another cup of coffee or tea or a snack, but we are mostly in our own spaces. Working. Writing. I usually write with a classical music station playing in the background, but I swear off news and social media for the week, and I don’t want to disturb the quiet focus permeating the house. My radio stays silent.

We socialize in the evening, sometimes venturing out into the charms of Door County for a careful supper in the Age of Covid. One night Katie arranges for us to introduce Sarah to a traditional Wisconsin fish boil. But mostly we sit around that table on the back patio, sharing life stories and wine and beer, talking about goals, what we had done or hoped to do. And in the morning we go back to work.

As I sit on that Leopold bench, I am only yards away from The Coop. Norbert Blei is a Door County writing legend who worked as a reporter in Chicago for a time but became a renowned writer of non-fiction, fiction and poetry. He advocated for Door County and is revered there. He did much of his writing in the converted shack that is Blei’s Coop. It’s been moved here to provide an inspirational workspace for the visiting writers. I could write in the shack. During my introductory tour, Jarod Santek,  the Write On, Door County artistic director, showed me where the key was hidden. But Blei accomplished much of what I aspire toward. I must earn my in.

“Maybe it’s the butterflies or the shorebirds I don’t recognize calling overhead but sitting at that bench I suddenly discover the truth my main character has been ignoring. I’ve been ignoring”

Maybe it’s the butterflies or the shorebirds I don’t recognize calling overhead but sitting at that bench I suddenly discover the truth my main character has been ignoring. I’ve been ignoring. I jot down some quick notes before the thought disappears and hurry back to my desk. From my window I can see across the street where workers are putting the finishing touches on Write On, Door County’s new Writing Center, a beautiful structure housing offices and space for writers to gather. I open my story and search for when my character might first suspect his truth, or perhaps where I hint at his lack of awareness.

It’s late afternoon on the last day of my Write On, Door County residency. I finish the first draft of the story. I save it, close it, and I have not opened it since. I’m letting the story breath, putting some space between it and myself so when I approach it again we can introduce ourselves as strangers. Discover if the truth still holds true.

I owe Katie and Sarah. Without knowing it, they taught me what a writing residency should be. I owe Write On, Door County. They generously share an inspiring space that moved me. And I owe the Chippewa Valley Writers Guild. They made it possible. I will try to repay these debts.

"Meeting An Old Friend": A Review of Richard Terrill's "What Falls Away Is Always"

Debbie Campbell

The best art takes us places: Berkeley, a garden of red potatoes, father’s cabin leaning north, 10 a.m. at Papa’s Café. It reminds us to search for the new in the familiar: insights hidden in stage directions or news clippings. And it draws us in effortlessly, transporting us before we realize we’ve gone.

Richard Terrill’s What Falls Away Is Always is a tour of such magnitude. I found myself getting lost in these slices of life outside my own, a much needed escape during our present time. Having lucked into learning from Terrill some years ago, it was like meeting an old friend on these pages, too. His trademark wit, humor, appreciation for good art, and musical ear shine here.

“Having lucked into learning from Terrill some years ago, it was like meeting an old friend on these pages, too. His trademark wit, humor, appreciation for good art, and musical ear shine here.”

When you pick up this collection of poetry and conversations, you may very well find yourself, like me, returning often to catch another glimpse of a shy and smiling Coltrane, or to watch Italian-dubbed cinema with Terrill on a Polish TV. As I remember it, he always had strong opinions on worthwhile cinema.

Most of all, you might find for yourself an excellent teacher of craft, lyricism, and life in these pages. I find myself grateful to continue to learn from Professor Terrill, as I knew him, through this candid and clever book.

How The Guild Inspired the Midwest Artist Academy

B.J Hollars 

If there’s one thing I’ve learned throughout my years with the Guild, it’s that change always begins with you. No, not me, but you, reader. Our Guild members have always pushed us into new and exciting directions, directions that have expanded our membership, dreamed new programs, and inspired unique retreats.

“For the past five summers, I’d often find myself sitting on a porch at Cirenaica or The Priory when, inevitably, some writing retreat participant would amble over and say, “You know, it sure would be nice if young people had this sort of opportunity.””

For the past five summers, I’d often find myself sitting on a porch at Cirenaica or The Priory when, inevitably, some writing retreat participant would amble over and say, “You know, it sure would be nice if young people had this sort of opportunity.”

They were right.

Add to this the dozens of emails I’d receive annually in which parents would plead for the same thing.  “My child loves art,” they’d write.  “But we don’t know how best to support them.”

James Joyce Centre

Fast forward to last summer, when a few friends and I had the opportunity to teach high school-aged writers in Ireland.  After a week spent roaming beaches, cemeteries, and soaking in culture wherever we could, the students put down their pens just long enough to prepare for their final reading at The James Joyce Centre.  Nerves emerged as the students revised right up until showtime, at which point they stood bravely before the mic to share the fruits of their labor.  By evening’s end, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.  As my fellow instructors and I observed the tight-knit community that had formed, we joked, “Gosh, we should really start at arts-centered high school…”

Ireland Instructors Maggie Pahos, Ban Hao, B.J. Hollars, Chris Clartigue in Inishbofin, Ireland.

And then we sort of did!

Introducing The Midwest Artist Academy--a transformative precollege experience for gifted, talented, and diverse high school-aged artists from the Midwest and beyond! (Or as I like to call it: "Hogwarts with a different sort of magic.")

With offerings in five disciplines--creative writing, theatre, dance, visual arts, and music and composition--our weeklong experience on the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire campus will conclude with a culminating collaborative showcase at Pablo Center at the Confluence. Our goal: to grow as artists, and to grow as people. Click here to learn more about our amazing instructors coming to us from throughout the world!

“The Guild proved that when passionate people come together in common cause, anything is possible. ”

Of course, none of this would have ever come to be were it not for the Chippewa Valley Writers Guild.  The Guild proved that when passionate people come together in common cause, anything is possible.  The key is bringing those people together.  And now, Guild members can help!

How Can You Support The Next Generation Of Artists?

First and foremost, by staying in touch with the Midwest Artist Academy!  Please subscribe to our newsletter by typing your email address into the “Subscribe” bar right here on the homepage.  You can also like us on Facebook and Instagram.  By connecting with us—and extending your own connections to interested parties (high school-aged artists, as well as their parents)—we’re able to direct all money toward scholarships rather than marketing.  Word of mouth is the most powerful tool we’ve got, which means you are the greatest gift we’ve got!  Tag your friends, send personal emails, messages, texts, etc.—collectively, we can spread the word far and wide!

Second, if you’re in a position to give, please do!  Donations of any size are greatly appreciated.  Consider making in a one-time donation here or make a pledge to help us long term!  If you or your business are interested in funding a scholarship or partial scholarship, please reach out at info@midwestartistacademy.org.  For 375.00, you can sponsor a half-scholarship for a student.  For 650.00, you can sponsor a full scholarship.  You can even name the scholarship in honor of, or in memory of, someone you admire.  There are plenty of perks to those who give (in addition to changing the life of a young artist!), and you need only drop us a note to learn more!

In closing, much like the Chippewa Valley Writers Guild, please know that the Midwest Artist Academy isn't mine--it's ours. Let’s work together to support the creative economy, support local arts and artists, and support young artists dedicated to crafting a better world. By helping the MAA, you are helping young artists find their future in the arts.

Thanks to the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire Foundation, University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire, the UWEC English Department, and Pablo Center at the Confluence. And most of all, thanks to you. 

Announcing: BIPOC Workshop Group Hosted By Yia Lor

The Guild is grateful for the opportunity to support a new BIPOC-centered workshop group hosted by CVWG board member Yia Lor. Our hope is that this writing group will, as Yia puts it, “allow BIPOC writers to gather, share, and grow in a space that centers itself around lifting diverse voices.” Please see below for Yia’s complete message! And thank you to all future members for taking part!

A New Group For BIPOC Writers

Yia Lor

Writing can be a lonely endeavor, but we are truly in tremendous company here in the Valley. The support I have received from other fellow writers is immeasurable, and the many workshops and events offered through the Guild have greatly enriched my writing. 

As I continue on this journey though, I often wonder where all the other writers are who share stories about girls who speak English at school but swear in Hmong at home, girls whose classmates make fun of their hair because of the texture, and girls whose friends pull at their eyes and ask why their faces are so flat. I certainly don't want to believe I am the only Hmong writer with these experiences.

“My hope is this workshop group will allow BIPOC writers to gather, share, and grow in a space that centers itself around lifting diverse voices.”

My hope is this workshop group will allow BIPOC writers to gather, share, and grow in a space that centers itself around lifting diverse voices. I look forward to conversations about character development and mind-blowing plot twists, and I’m especially excited to trade stories about grandfathers who grew peaches to remember a home left behind and mothers who packed rice with pork and mustard greens for school lunches.

Mark your calendars for our first meeting, which will be held Thursday, August 20th from 7-8:30pm. We will meet virtually on Google Meet (https://meet.google.com/ifz-ghyx-nfy). You will need a Google account to join. This first meeting will focus on getting to know each other and how we want to structure our time together.

For more information, drop the CVWG a note by way of Facebook message or email: chippewavalleywritersguild@gmail.com.

Hope Is Arguing After Midnight

Krisitian Iliev

When I should be in my bed sleeping 

As I listen to sirens beeping

The partition feels ever wider 

Experts and laypeople disagree 

An odious logic surrounds me

At home I feel like an outsider 

Friends on both sides have something to say

All of the nurses deserve bouquets 

Laughter still hangs around in the air

Despite all of this, I still persist 

See hope in the arguments I missed

At least our debates show that we care. 

Kristian Iliev is a Bulgarian-American writer, UW-Madison alum, and the founder of rock band The Racing Pulses. In 2013, he won the Racine Poets Laureate Young Writers Contest. His debut poetry collection, Glyphs from the Apparatus, was published in 2018 by Stiks & Monida.