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Wednz Scene: Literature Events & Conferences

Wednz Scene: Literature Events & Conferences

April 5 / 17

Hey….Lots of things going on in the world of literature so let’s not waste time and see what’s going on….


 

SEWANEE WRITERS’ CONFERENCE
WORKSHOPS IN POETRY, FICTION, AND PLAYWRITING
JULY 18 – 30, 2017
THE UNIVERSITY OF THE SOUTH SEWANEE, TENNESSEE

Accepting applications through April 17

Thanks to the generosity of the Walter E. Dakin Memorial Fund, supported by the estate of Tennessee Williams, every participant receives assistance covering two-thirds of the actual cost to attend. Additional funding is awarded to fellows and scholars.

931.598.1654 / swc@sewanee.edu

sewaneewriters.org


 

FRESH WATER, FRESH VOICES
JULY 20 – 23, 2017 / MARQUETTE, MI

This unique conference features a blend of workshops, craft talks, and outdoor activities along beautiful Lake Superior. Be inspired by the one-of-a-kind landscape of the Upper Peninsula and learn how nature and place can invigorate your writing.

Attend craft talks and workshops with Pam Houston, Diane Les Becquets, Frank X Walker, and other award-winning authors.

Bike, hike, kayak, fly fish. Try paddleboard yoga. Relax on the beach.

NMU.EDU/FRESHVOICES

NORTHERN MICHIGAN UNIVERSITY

 

Click on the links to get the information about these workshops and conferences.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

featured image: unknown

 

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Spring Reads 2017

Spring Reads 2017

March 21 / 17

Spring is officially here. That means it’s time for Spring Read 2017. Found twelve that just may interest you….


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lincoln in the Bardo – George Saunders

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Refugees – Viet Thanh Nguyen

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Child – Fiona Barton

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amberlough: A Novel – Lara Elena Donnelly

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Devil Crept In – Ania Ahlborn

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Stars Are Legion – Kameron Hurley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Most Beautiful: My Life With Prince – Mayte Garcia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reckless Daughter: A Portrait of Joni Mitchell – David Yaffe

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Otis Redding: An Unfinished Life – Jonathon Gould

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unwanted Advances: Sexual Paranoia Comes to Campus – Laura Kipris

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Best Land Under Heaven: The Donner Party in the Age of Manifest Destiny – Michael Wallis

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

South & West: From a Notebook – Joan Didion

 

 

There are more books out there. You can go to GoodReads, Amazon, and other sites to find your Spring time read. Enjoy the rest of your Wednesday, be blessed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

featured images: Wallup.net, amazon.com, amazon.com.uk, & goodreads.com

 

Wkend Scene: 2017 Southampton Writers Conference & A Writing Contest

Wkend Scene: 2017 Southampton Writers Conference & A Writing Contest

March 4 / 17

Good Morning creative peeps! Two things in the literature department to share with you. The first is the Southampton Writers Conference…..


 

SOUTHAMPTON WRITERS CONFERENCE 

July 12 – 13, 2017

Melissa Bank / Billy Collins / Natalie Diaz / Roxane Gay / Adam Gopnik

Ursula Hegi / Matthew Klam / Patricia Marx / Patricia McCormick

Sharon Olds / Roxana Robinson / Roger Rosenblatt / Frederic Tuten

Emma Walton-Hamilton / Meg Wolitzer / Maryrose Wood

MASTER CLASS  ♣  WORKSHOPS  ♣  RESIDENCY 

stonybrook.edu/writers 


BE DISCOVERED! 

Submit to the Ploughshares Emerging Writer’s Contest

Fiction, nonfiction, and poetry

One winner in each genre will win $2,000 and publication in Ploughshares

Submissions open March 1, 2017 – May 15, 2017

Visit www.pshares.org/submit/emerging-writers-contest

Ploughshares @ Emerson College 

featured image: hdwallpaperbackgrounds.net

Reflections: Staggerlee wonders by James Baldwin

Reflections: Staggerlee wonders by James Baldwin

Feb. 27 / 17

Hello! I wanted to share a poem by James Baldwin to celebrate Black History. Notice that I didn’t say Black History Month. Black History, Native, Hispanic, Asian…..is all American History. 

Staggerlee wonders – Poem by James Baldwin

I always wonder
what they think the niggers are doing
while they, the pink and alabaster pragmatists,
are containing
Russia
and defining and re-defining and re-aligning
China,
nobly restraining themselves, meanwhile,
from blowing up that earth
which they have already
blasphemed into dung:
the gentle, wide-eyed, cheerful
ladies, and their men,
nostalgic for the noble cause of Vietnam,
nostalgic for noble causes,
aching, nobly, to wade through the blood of savages—
ah—!
Uncas shall never leave the reservation,
except to purchase whisky at the State Liquor Store.
The Panama Canal shall remain forever locked:
there is a way around every treaty.
We will turn the tides of the restless
Caribbean,
the sun will rise, and set
on our hotel balconies as we see fit.
The natives will have nothing to complain about,
indeed, they will begin to be grateful,
will be better off than ever before.
They will learn to defer gratification
and save up for things, like we do.

Oh, yes. They will.
We have only to make an offer
they cannot refuse.

This flag has been planted on the moon:
it will be interesting to see
what steps the moon will take to be revenged
for this quite breathtaking presumption.
This people
masturbate in winding sheets.
They have hacked their children to pieces.
They have never honoured a single treaty
made with anyone, anywhere.
The walls of their cities
are as foul as their children.
No wonder their children come at them with knives.
Mad Charlie man’s son was one of their children,
had got his shit together
by the time he left kindergarten,
and, as for Patty, heiress of all the ages,
she had the greatest vacation
of any heiress, anywhere:

Golly-gee, whillikens, Mom, real guns!
and they come with a real big, black funky stud, too:
oh, Ma! he’s making eyes at me!

Oh, noble Duke Wayne,
be careful in them happy hunting grounds.
They say the only good Indian
is a dead Indian,
by what I say is,
you can’t be too careful, you hear?
Oh, towering Ronnie Reagan,
wise and resigned lover of redwoods,
deeply beloved, winning man-child of the yearning Republic
from diaper to football field to Warner Brothers sound-stages,
be thou our grinning, gently phallic, Big Boy of all the ages!

Salt peanuts, salt peanuts,
for dear hearts and gentle people,
and cheerful, shining, simple Uncle Sam!

Nigger, read this and run!
Now, if you can’t read,
run anyhow!

From Manifest Destiny
(Cortez, and all his men
silent upon a peak in Darien)
to A Decent Interval,
and the chopper rises above Saigon,
abandoning the noble cause
and the people we have made ignoble
and whom we leave there, now, to die,
one moves, With All Deliberate Speed,
to the South China Sea, and beyond,
where millions of new niggers
await glad tidings!

No, said the Great Man’s Lady,
I’m against abortion,
I always feel that’s killing somebody.
Well, what about capital punishment?
I think the death penalty helps.

That’s right.
Up to our ass in niggers
on Death Row.

Oh, Susanna,
don’t you cry for me!

2

Well, I guess what the niggers
is supposed to be doing
is putting themselves in the path
of that old sweet chariot
and have it swing down and carry us home.

That would help, as they say,
and they got ways
of sort of nudging the chariot.
They still got influence
with Wind and Water,
though they in for some surprises
with Cloud and Fire.

My days are not their days.
My ways are not their ways.
I would not think of them,
one way or the other,
did not they so grotesquely
block the view
between me and my brother.

And, so, I always wonder:
can blindness be desired?
Then, what must the blinded eyes have seen
to wish to see no more!

For, I have seen,
in the eyes regarding me,
or regarding my brother,
have seen, deep in the farthest valley
of the eye, have seen
a flame leap up, then flicker and go out,
have seen a veil come down,
leaving myself, and the other,
alone in that cave
which every soul remembers, and
out of which, desperately afraid,
I turn, turn, stagger, stumble out,
into the healing air,
fall flat on the healing ground,
singing praises, counselling
my heart, my soul, to praise.

What is it that this people
cannot forget?

Surely, they cannot be deluded
as to imagine that their crimes
are original?

There is nothing in the least original
about the fiery tongs to the eyeballs,
the sex torn from the socket,
the infant ripped from the womb,
the brains dashed out against rock,
nothing original about Judas,
or Peter, or you or me: nothing:
we are liars and cowards all,
or nearly all, or nearly all the time:
for we also ride the lightning,
answer the thunder, penetrate whirlwinds,
curl up on the floor of the sun,
and pick our teeth with thunderbolts.

Then, perhaps they imagine
that their crimes are not crimes?

Perhaps.
Perhaps that is why they cannot repent,
why there is no possibility of repentance.
Manifest Destiny is a hymn to madness,
feeding on itself, ending
(when it ends) in madness:
the action is blindness and pain,
pain bringing a torpor so deep
that every act is willed,
is desperately forced,
is willed to be a blow:
the hand becomes a fist,
the prick becomes a club,
the womb a dangerous swamp,
the hope, and fear, of love
is acid in the marrow of the bone.
No, their fire is not quenched,
nor can be: the oil feeding the flames
being the unadmitted terror of the wrath of God.

Yes. But let us put it in another,
less theological way:
though theology has absolutely nothing to do
with what I am trying to say.
But the moment God is mentioned
theology is summoned
to buttress or demolish belief:
an exercise which renders belief irrelevant
and adds to the despair of Fifth Avenue
on any afternoon,
the people moving, homeless, through the city,
praying to find sanctuary before the sky
and the towers come tumbling down,
before the earth opens, as it does in Superman.
They know that no one will appear
to turn back time,
they know it, just as they know
that the earth has opened before
and will open again, just as they know
that their empire is falling, is doomed,
nothing can hold it up, nothing.
We are not talking about belief.

3

I wonder how they think
the niggers made, make it,
how come the niggers are still here.
But, then, again, I don’t think they dare
to think of that: no:
I’m fairly certain they don’t think of that at all.

Lord,
I with the alabaster lady of the house,
with Beulah.
Beulah about sixty, built in four-square,
biceps like Mohammed Ali,
she at the stove, fixing biscuits,
scrambling eggs and bacon, fixing coffee,
pouring juice, and the lady of the house,
she say, she don’t know how
she’d get along without Beulah
and Beulah just silently grunts,
I reckon you don’t,
and keeps on keeping on
and the lady of the house say
She’s just like one of the family,
and Beulah turns, gives me a look,
sucks her teeth and rolls her eyes
in the direction of the lady’s back, and
keeps on keeping on.

While they are containing
Russia
and entering onto the quicksand of
China
and patronizing
Africa,
and calculating
the Caribbean plunder, and
the South China Sea booty,
the niggers are aware that no one has discussed
anything at all with the niggers.

Well. Niggers don’t own nothing,
got no flag, even our names
are hand-me-downs
and you don’t change that
by calling yourself X:
sometimes that just makes it worse,
like obliterating the path that leads back
to whence you came, and
to where you can begin.
And, anyway, none of this changes the reality,
which is, for example, that I do not want my son
to die in Guantanamo,
or anywhere else, for that matter,
serving the Stars and Stripes.
(I’ve seen some stars.
I got some stripes.)

Neither (incidentally)
has anyone discussed the Bomb with the niggers:
the incoherent feeling is, the less
the nigger knows about the Bomb, the better:
the lady of the house
smiles nervously in your direction
as though she had just been overheard
discussing family, or sexual secrets,
and changes the subject to Education,
or Full Employment, or the Welfare rolls,
the smile saying, Don’t be dismayed.
We know how you feel. You can trust us.

Yeah. I would like to believe you.
But we are not talking about belief.

4

The sons of greed, the heirs of plunder,
are approaching the end of their journey:
it is amazing that they approach without wonder,
as though they have, themselves, become
that scorched and blasphemed earth,
the stricken buffalo, the slaughtered tribes,
the endless, virgin, bloodsoaked plain,
the famine, the silence, the children’s eyes,
murder masquerading as salvation, seducing
every democratic eye,
the mouths of truth and anguish choked with cotton,
rape delirious with the fragrance of magnolia,
the hacking of the fruit of their loins to pieces,
hey! the tar-baby sons and nephews, the high-yaller
nieces,
and Tom’s black prick hacked off
to rustle in crinoline,
to hang, heaviest of heirlooms,
between the pink and alabaster breasts
of the Great Man’s Lady,
or worked into the sash at the waist
of the high-yaller Creole bitch, or niece,
a chunk of shining brown-black satin,
staring, staring, like the single eye of God:

creation yearns to re-create a time
when we were able to recognize a crime.

Alas,
my stricken kinsmen,
the party is over:
there have never been any white people,
anywhere: the trick was accomplished with mirrors—
look: where is your image now?
where your inheritance,
on what rock stands this pride?

Oh,
I counsel you,
leave History alone.
She is exhausted,
sitting, staring into her dressing-room mirror,
and wondering what rabbit, now,
to pull out of what hat,
and seriously considering retirement,
even though she knows her public
dare not let her go.

She must change.
Yes. History must change.
A slow, syncopated
relentless music begins
suggesting her re-entry,
transformed, virginal as she was,
in the Beginning, untouched,
as the Word was spoken,
before the rape which debased her
to be the whore of multitudes, or,
as one might say, before she became the Star,
whose name, above our title,
carries the Show, making History the patsy,
responsible for every flubbed line,
every missed cue, responsible for the life
and death, of all bright illusions
and dark delusions,
Lord, History is weary
of her unspeakable liaison with Time,
for Time and History
have never seen eye to eye:
Time laughs at History
and time and time and time again
Time traps History in a lie.

But we always, somehow, managed
to roar History back onstage
to take another bow,
to justify, to sanctify
the journey until now.

Time warned us to ask for our money back,
and disagreed with History
as concerns colours white and black.
Not only do we come from further back,
but the light of the Sun
marries all colours as one.

Kinsmen,
I have seen you betray your Saviour
(it is you who call Him Saviour)
so many times, and
I have spoken to Him about you,
behind your back.
Quite a lot has been going on
behind your back, and,
if your phone has not yet been disconnected,
it will soon begin to ring:
informing you, for example, that a whole generation,
in Africa, is about to die,
and a new generation is about to rise,
and will not need your bribes,
or your persuasions, any more:
not your morality. No plundered gold—
Ah! Kinsmen, if I could make you see
the crime is not what you have done to me!
It is you who are blind,
you, bowed down with chains,
you, whose children mock you, and seek another
master,
you, who cannot look man or woman or child in the
eye,
whose sleep is blank with terror,
for whom love died long ago,
somewhere between the airport and the safe-deposit
box,
the buying and selling of rising or falling stocks,
you, who miss Zanzibar and Madagascar and Kilimanjaro
and lions and tigers and elephants and zebras
and flying fish and crocodiles and alligators and
leopards
and crashing waterfalls and endless rivers,
flowers fresher than Eden, silence sweeter than the
grace of God,
passion at every turning, throbbing in the bush,
thicker, oh, than honey in the hive,
dripping
dripping
opening, welcoming, aching from toe to bottom
to spine,
sweet heaven on the line
to last forever, yes,
but, now,
rejoicing ends, man, a price remains to pay,
your innocence costs too much
and we can’t carry you on our books
or our backs, any longer: baby,
find another Eden, another apple tree,
somewhere, if you can,
and find some other natives, somewhere else,
to listen to you bellow
till you come, just like a man,
but we don’t need you,
are sick of being a fantasy to feed you,
and of being the principal accomplice to your
crime:
for, it is your crime, now, the cross to which you
cling,
your Alpha and Omega for everything.

Well (others have told you)
your clown’s grown weary, the puppet master
is bored speechless with this monotonous disaster,
and is long gone, does not belong to you,
any more than my woman, or my child,
ever belonged to you.

During this long travail
our ancestors spoke to us, and we listened,
and we tried to make you hear life in our song
but now it matters not at all to me
whether you know what I am talking about—or not:
I know why we are not blinded
by your brightness, are able to see you,
who cannot see us. I know
why we are still here.

Godspeed.
The niggers are calculating,
from day to day, life everlasting,
and wish you well:
but decline to imitate the Son of the Morning,
and rule in Hell.

Enjoy your Tuesday, be blessed!
featured image: National Jazz Museum in Harlem

The Iowa Writer’s Workshop 2017

The Iowa Writer’s Workshop 2017

Feb. 22 / 17

Hey! The Iowa Writer’s Workshop will be coming this summer and yes, there is information for this upcoming workshop……


cred: university of iowa

Anyone may apply for non-degree summer coursework offered; this summer, the Workshop will offer courses in two separate summer school sessions. The postmark deadline for application to both the 3- and 8-week sessions is March 1, 2017.

The IOWA WRITER’S WORKSHOP

Announces a Program of Workshops for Writers of Poetry & Prose

3-Week Session

May 16 – June 1, 2017

Fiction Workshop: Lan Samantha Chang or Paul Harding

Poetry Workshop: James Galvin

 Deadline for Submissions: March 1, 2017

8 Week Session

June 12 – August 3, 2017

Fiction Workshop: Mark Poirier

Poetry Workshop: Jane Mead

Deadline for Submissions: March 1, 2017

Contact:
  • Iowa Writers’ Workshop
  • 102 Dey House
  • The University of Iowa
  • Iowa City, Iowa 52242
  • Phone: (319).335.0416
  • Fax: (319).335.0420

writersworkshop.uiowa.edu/summer-programs

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

featured image: unknown

Weekend Scene: Writer’s Conferences….

Weekend Scene: Writer’s Conferences….

Feb. 18 / 17

Evening! Just one writer’s conference to pass along…..


cred: awp (association of writers & writing programs)

Editors, Agents, and Publishers—The Business of Writing: Seminar

Santa Fe, New Mexico, United States

Mark and Joanna demystify how the business of publishing actually works, something every writer needs to understand.

In addition to creative talent, every writer needs to posses some degree of business acumen to succeed as a published author. Understanding the roles of editors, agents, and publishers—and their interactions together—is a puzzle to unravel for your own writing style and marketplace.

This seminar, co-taught by Mark Bryant and Joanna Hurley, provides you with a comprehensive and action-oriented overview designed to deconstruct and make understandable the oft-times overwhelming business world of the written word.

Mark and Joanna, veterans of magazine and book publishing, demystify the process with in-depth discussions on the author-agent relationship, the author-editor relationship, and how to find and navigate both. They cover the best ways to break into magazine and online writing—either as a step toward book writing or an end in itself—as well as the myriad of options available to writers today to publish their books, from working with traditional publishers, smaller presses, packagers, print-on-demand, and e-books.

Guest speakers, including bestselling authors and a distinguished agent and publisher, lend their invaluable insights throughout the day to ensure that you leave the seminar with a clear path to assessing the commercial potential of your work.

Tuition includes one lunch.

 

DETAILS
MAY 20 MAY 20, 2017

Retreat

TUITION / COST:$395
SCHOLARSHIP: None Available


CONTACT: Santa Fe Workshops–Writers Lab
PHONE: (505) 983-1400, ext. 111
EMAIL: info@santafeworkshops.com
WEBSITE: https://santafeworkshops.com/workshop/editors-agents-and-publishersthe-business-of-writing-seminar/

Faculty

Featured Writers Include:

Mark Bryant & Joanna Hurley

Genres

Poetry, Fiction, Creative nonfiction, Screenwriting

Location

50 Mount Carmel Rd.
Santa Fe
New Mexico, United States
87505


Santa Fe Writers Lab

For 27 years, Santa Fe Photographic Workshops has focused on improving our abilities to discover and understand the world through photographs. More than 20,000 amateur and professional photographers have followed their passion for image-making to the inspiring high desert environs of Santa Fe.

Beginning in 2017, Santa Fe Workshops expands our experiential educational offerings to embrace the world of words with the introduction of our new Writers Lab, which we envision as a community of storytellers from all walks of life, professions, and disciplines that gather in the mountains of New Mexico and on the ever-changing island of Cuba to live the writer’s life.

Santa Fe Writers Lab, for both aspiring and established writers, begins with three, week-long workshops in Havana, Cuba in the winter of 2017 and further unfolds in Santa Fe with eight, week-long workshops as well as eight, one-day weekend intensives in May of 2017.

Inspiring guest instructors renowned in the literary world provide daily lessons on the art and craft of writing. Collaborative and constructive conversation with fellow writers and quiet time to reflect and write, all work together to provide you with one-of-a-kind opportunities to move your writing forward.

 

Just click on the sites listed to get all the information you need. It’s that simple.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

featured image: unknown

Black History in Literature….Magdala Compere

Black History in Literature….Magdala Compere

Feb. 6 / 17

In honor of Black History Month, Shadowbox will feature all forms of creativity from the minds of past, present, and future African-Americans, who continue to inspire us.


 

The Color Black (Black Pride) by Magdala Compere

As I was looking for a poem to show my pride
I saw some things that made my black skin want to hide
They take the proud color of black and turn it into lies
With the junk that fills our people’s minds

Black is the color of blindness
In which my dark path seems
Black is the color of darkness
In which I may not see

Black is the color of a blood sucking crow
And it is a color most people don’t know
Black is a color of an evil panther
And that’s the color of my ancestors

Black is the color of coal
A substance that is worth as much as gold
Black is the color of the night
In it I see the stars to bright

Black is the color of power
Black is the color of my desire
Black is the color that set us free
Black is the color of my beauty
Black is the color of my skin and
Black is the world I believe in
Black may be the color that gets you down
But black is the color that makes me proud

featured image: WallpapersCraft