Rachel Beanland’s Florence Adler Swims Forever by Heather Routh

$25.99; 306 pages
Simon & Schuster
ISBN: 978-1-9821-3246-0




Rachel Beanland’s Florence Adler Swims Forever
by Heather Routh

Rachel Beanland’s debut novel is based on a real-life family story, passed down through generations. It explores the lengths a mother will go to in order to protect one daughter while silently suffering the loss of another. In Atlantic City in 1934, Joseph and Esther Adler’s youngest daughter, Florence, drowns while training to swim the English Channel. Eldest daughter, Fannie, is on strict hospital bedrest due to a high-risk pregnancy. Fearing that the news could cause Fannie to lose the baby, after losing one the year before, Esther decides to keep the tragedy from her for the remainder of the pregnancy—the entire summer. 

This becomes more problematic than Esther could have guessed. The news must be kept out of the paper, as well as their close-knit Jewish community, and the doctor and hospital staff are sworn to secrecy in order to minimize the risk of Fannie finding out from someone outside the family. This leaves the family without a support system to help them grieve. Soon they become deeply entwined in a web of complicated lies to cover Florence’s absence. Although this is done from a place of love, the effect isolates Fannie further. Everyone must guard what they say. It becomes easiest to avoid visits with her altogether, including the nurses on her ward, making only the necessary daily rounds but no longer staying to chat the way they once had. Her husband, Isaac, finds it a convenient excuse to visit only a few days a week and very briefly. Poor little 7-year-old daughter, Gussie, is kept away from her mother during a most confusing time.

I was most intrigued by the idea of writing a historical fiction piece where so much time had passed since the actual event, providing time to erode facts as well as open the possibility for exaggeration of elements due to repeated retelling. How does one find balance between preserving the family memory and building a compelling story? Beanland answers this by providing a thought-provoking tale filled with complicated and beautifully flawed characters. According to the author, a few characters are composites of real family members, while others never existed outside the author’s imagination. Yet they all come to life in the book, drawing the reader into tangled relationships and family drama.

Each chapter is told from a different character’s point of view, weaving in their story, their connection with Florence, and how they are coping with her death individually. We learn a lot about Florence through their eyes. It also provides a nice comparison between the characters, such as Stuart’s desire to prove his differences from his father—he is unwilling to use his family name as a leg up in life, preferring to work hard to achieve his own success. On the other hand, Isaac, who comes from humble beginnings, prefers to scheme and plot to get ahead, most often to the detriment of those closest to him. He is always looking for the next big thing that will provide the most reward with the least amount of effort. Although Esther is a devoted wife and mother, she is extremely judgmental, often unwilling to uncover the entire story before misjudging those around her. Many of her decisions seem selfish and rash. Meanwhile, her husband Joseph is much more level-headed and willing to help anyone that might need it. Sisters Fannie and Florence are separated by more than just age, but also by their life goals and dreams, each unable to see the value in the other’s choices. 

Beanland has done a remarkable job recreating 1930s Atlantic City for readers—immersing us in wonderful detail of the lifeguard stations, the boardwalk with the bizarre Couney’s incubator exhibition, and the family-owned beach hotels—as well as the growing bureaucratic struggle American Jews undertook to help their European family and friends emigrate from Nazi Germany while they could. One can almost feel the hot, muggy coastal climate and cramped living conditions adding to the tension and frustrations the family is experiencing.

Florence Adler Swims Forever is a well-written, poignant historical fiction from a gifted storyteller exploring a family’s love and sacrifice in an uncertain time. It is well worth the read.


Heather Routh is a Marketing and Advertising Copywriter and Social Media Strategist. She lives in the Rocky Mountains with her three sons and three dogs, and is obsessed with 70s rock albums, classic muscle cars, and murder mysteries. She is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing from Sierra Nevada University.

We May Not Have To Walk Alone: A Response to Kimberly Ann Priest’s Still Life by Sara Paye

Copyright © November 2020
$12, 33 pages
PANK Books
ISBN is not yet available





We May Not Have To Walk Alone: A Response to Kimberly Ann Priest’s Still Life
by Sara Paye 

Readers of Kimberly Ann Priest’s Still Life will walk through (not over, around, or under) victimhood to pedophilia. The cover image warns, while the yellow circle in its upper left-hand invites. The setting must be winter, for bare trees enshroud a black and white photograph of a one-story house, with a porch and gravel lot in front. Our narrator creates poetry from the point of view of someone in a small, quiet town, where nothing needs saying, where silence wins. 

Throughout Still Life, Priest outlines and draws images that captivate the imagination, so the reader seeks to turn through pages as a participant, to walk though scenes with caution and curiosity. She writes, “their fingers probing like dental tools inside a timid orifice” (12), and instantly the reader is in an uncomfortable dental seat, violated, made to believe it is all so necessary. A lie becomes rote, supposedly “for good.” The reader will have the opportunity to come to these profound conclusions through Priest’s gracious prose-like poems.  

From the first page, Priest shows specific and personal scenes describing her pedophile as master of some small space: the humid bathroom, the kitchen while making breakfast, or perhaps the front lawn, scattered with toys. In my pedophile is performance ready, the pedophile carefully corrects an analog clock, and Priest provides a striking image.

he reshapes the face of the clock… the 0 in 10 sucking in its sides to impress his audience as he squeezes his hand around the 6 / reaches for a 5 / changes his mind // asks for a 4 / drinks soda water out of a cup // the 3 taking a deep breath / noticing the outline of the 1 (Priest 15)

As the final line reads, “noticing the outline of the 1,” there is a slight innuendo or associative thought that allows the reader to almost become triangulated as an involved character in the vignette, helpless to protect. 

A poem which reflects the lasting pain of sexual assault is my pedophile times all my future orgasms

if he says we have time it is the shape of the glass // how it is blown with air // how the glassblower covers its mouth and handles its bulb // how light is a word for knowledge / weight / and touch // how all are invisible // and if I believe it is time it is the bubble / the oxygenated seed (Priest 16)

Sexual trauma which takes place years ago informs the present and future. As readers lament, Priest’s writing consoles. For some readers, their left hip will remember trauma better than the conscious mind. Knowing that we are not alone in this phenomenon is a solace. When reading my pedophile dates all my future partners, we may consider how walking around unseen but longing for visibility is suddenly as perplexing as it is pivotal to Priest’s work. 

the bourgeois matter of a latte / smiling emoji / gleaming bright teeth // how it makes a horror of laughter / its simpering witnesses texting themselves clean // the excuse of himself in the bathroom / the break room / the Ramen noodle joint near the corner of Mac and Albert streets (Priest 22)

There is a sense that everyday things like latte foam or the ability to walk to a favorite restaurant are experienced now as memory-tainted privileges, and the reader is aware that freedom is not the reality for everyone. When past trauma influences memory, psychological trappings may keep us from walking forward. 

Priest offers a direct poetic style in her phrasing that is accessible and reads with fluidity. Her use of shorter and longer lines coupled with forward slashes or double-forward slashes helps the reader pace and process the content as seen here in the first poem presented in the chapbook, my pedophile is obsessed with details, as well as with others.

the hard wood floors / he says / are essential // having nothing to do with my hands or my feet / or how they are connected to my body // or how he wants the right to space everything symmetrically // rearrange a life in the most appropriate way (Priest 3)

The imagery and choice of subject are tactile, sensory, and bring the reader right into the present moment with the narrator, her acute observations, and her questions. A perfect example of this is in my pedophile feels the need to dance

wraps himself in yards of cellophane / shoots himself full of tiny white spines // from where? // unknown // but this is too much to juggle // too much to jugular / gesticulate / ejaculate / believe // so porcupines are freed and this seems to satisfy the audience / disinterested (Priest 21)

Priest expresses the title’s literal concept with phrases like “a couch fainting with love” (10). The inanimate object takes on the emotion and ability of a person. If inanimate objects embody emotion, as is often the perceived result of trauma, then perhaps those bodies who inflict trauma may too be stilled or frozen by way of always being on their victims’ minds—perhaps they become Still Life. As with the dance, so with the clock, and Priest has a masterful way of describing lewd acts juxtaposed with daily living experiences so that the poetry is, for the most part, in the allusion. Priest’s poetry eases the reader into understanding that they are not alone. There is solidarity in knowing how thoughtful and precise language may free us from memory-frozen places. 


Sara Paye (she/they) of Las Vegas, Nevada, is an awarded writer and Creative Writing MFA candidate at Sierra Nevada University. Paye’s published works are in Funicular MagazineThe Stay Project, and The Ice Colony. See website at sarapaye.com.

Interview with Melissa Matthewson

Melissa Matthewson is an author who does not shy away from topics that are difficult to write about, and her first book, Tracing the Desire Line, a memoir in essays, is a testament to that fact. Matthewson’s work is the intersection of parts of her life: her interest in nature and the environment—she holds two degrees in Environmental Sciences—finding its way into her work as she writes about life on the farm that she shared with her husband and children, and her study of literary craft—she earned her MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts—developing a lyrical, compelling, and risky story about a marriage and family and life from which she wanted more.  

After recently reading Tracing the Desire Line (Split Lip Press, 2019) I had the good fortune to get to speak with Matthewson about her book, which has just recently celebrated one year in publication. Matthewson is friendly and open, and her long curly hair blew in the breeze of the Oregon outdoors as we FaceTimed, each of us with a glass of wine in hand. She was generous with her time and thoughtful in her answers as I asked about the writing and publishing of her book.

The memoir explores many roles of the narrator’s life, but at the core of the story is the decision that Matthewson and her husband make to challenge traditional boundaries and open their marriage. I asked Matthewson about publicly sharing this intimate story, and she acknowledged  that yes, it was difficult to expose vulnerable parts of her life, especially having young children (they have not read her book yet, but they have been at a few of her readings where she carefully selected parts about them to share with her audience). She told me that when her children are old enough to understand relationships and marriage that she will encourage them to read the book.

Matthewson also indicated that writing about very personal topics does not come without a cost: she and her mother did not speak for several months after the book’s release, as her mother’s views on marriage and sexuality did not line up with her own. Over time, though, they have been able to work through their differences. I asked about other family members’ reactions to the book:  her in-laws told her it was a beautiful book and reading the memoir made her husband cry. He, of course, had read excerpts along the way, and several essays from the book had been published previously, but he found the entirety of the book quite moving.

No spoilers here, but I will share that Tracing the Desire Line does not answer every question a reader might have about Matthewson’s marital journey. I wondered if at her readings audience members asked about “what happened next”. She told me that sometimes she’d avoid answering a question if it strayed from the confines of the book, but that mostly the audience was connected to the material she shared and that felt fulfilling.  

Matthewson began writing essays about her life as she pursued her MFA, and she said that it took her seven years to find what she felt was the narrative through-line of her collection of work. As Matthewson compiled her work, she indicated that she had to fill in gaps where a reader might not follow the story and also that each essay can stand alone, but together, as a whole, the book makes a story.

After two years of restructuring what she had written, Matthewson found that because the structure of her book was nonlinear, fragmented, and experimental, it was a hard sell for big publishers. So she submitted her work to university and small presses. There were two publishers who wanted to buy it, and she decided to go with Split Lip Press.

She chose this smaller independent press for two reasons: they tend to work with first-time authors, and the editor she worked with helped her immensely. But also, Matthewson liked what the press focuses on: boundary-breaking prose books, work that questions truth, and writing that reinterprets what we know. Because Tracing the Desire Line pushes boundaries of what a marriage “should” look like and seeks to redefine a woman’s role as wife and mother, it makes sense that Split Lip was the right fit for her.

I asked if Matthewson has begun her next book, and if so, where she finds her inspiration for writing. She told me that she is very connected to nature and tries to walk about two hours a day.  She also shared that when she is feeling stuck, she reads or watches films to take in stories, and also that music is a huge source of inspiration for her. Despite writing about her own life, Matthewson told me that she has always been able to separate herself a little from the art, even in the crafting of it, which helps.  

As our conversation wound down, we laughed that she has a running joke with people in her life that “everything is on the table to write about”. As my last question, I wondered if her next book would be equally risky. She smiled and said, “Well…it’s exploring love, sexuality, and nature…so yes!”


PamAndersonAfter 30 years of helping young people with their writing as a high school English teacher, Pam Anderson retired and decided to finally dedicate energy to her own work. She is presently pursuing her MFA in creative nonfiction at Sierra Nevada University. Her essays and criticism have appeared in the Manifest-Station, Bookends Review, and Chicago Review of Books.

Book Review: Charles Leerhsen’s Butch Cassidy: The True Story of an American Outlaw

$28; 320
Simon & Schuster
ISBN: 9781501117480





Charles Leerhsen’s Butch Cassidy: The True Story of an American Outlaw
by Scott Bradfield

This charming, unpretentious biography of Butch Cassidy’s life shows that at least several events in the charming, unpretentious 1969 film (scripted by the great William Goldman) were fairly accurate. For example, Butch was reportedly charismatic, blue-eyed and handsome, if not exactly in a Paul Newman-ish sort of way; the Sundance Kid (alias of Harry Longabaugh, who committed some early crimes in Sundance, Wyoming) was blond and surly—much like a typical sixties Robert Redford performance; and the third wheel on the relationship, Ethel Place (often mis-referred to as Etta, and played by Samantha Ross) was both beautiful and glamorous. Born and raised in Ireland, Ethel originally came to America searching for her errant aristocratic father [1365], and one typical contemporary described her as “good-looking, a good rider, and an expert with a rifle” [3129].

Even the movie’s second-most memorable scene—depicting the robbery of the No. 1 Overland Limited near Wilcox Station, Wyoming on 2 June 1899 [2647]—resounds with verisimilitude, right down to the stroppy clerk (memorably played by the great character actor, George Furth) refusing to open his car door to the “Hole-in-the-wall gang.” And so they blow open the car with him in it. (“I work for Mr E.H. Harriman and he entrusted me to—” Boom.) The Union Pacific’s owner, E. H. Harriman, even organized a “mobile posse” to ride along in a separate train—but they were far from the “super posse” devised by Goldman. Rather it was the Pinkerton Detective Agency who vigorously pursued Butch and his gang—so much so that many years later they were still attributing crimes to Butch that he never committed.

But unlike a good script, Bitch’s life lacked compression. Born Robert Leroy Parker to a Mormon family in Beaver, Utah (his parents didn’t practice polygamy, but still managed to produce thirteen children), he spent his youth performing conventional jobs around ranches, horse-stables, and cow-herds; and as he grew older, his spontaneous desire for wild travel and even wilder friends led him to occasional bursts of cattle-rustling, horse-stealing, and the robbing of banks and trains. For while Butch was a dependable worker during the periods when he was dependable, there was something about dissolute living that always called him back again—especially when it came to boozing, faro-playing, girls, partying, and stealing. Then, of course, there was just the plain dumb ease of outlawry during the cattle-boom years when Wyoming and Colorado were filled with gun-and-booze-crazed cowboys. In one of Butch’s first big jobs—the payroll wagon for the Pleasant Valley Coal Company in Castle Gate, Utah—his randomly assembled “gang” could depend on the bi-weekly delivery of $8000 by two men whose pistol-hands were occupied with moneybags. And if the delivery didn’t arrive as scheduled, the company blew a loud steam whistle to let their employees (and any robbers who might be lying around) know exactly when it did [2535]. Piece of cake.

As wild west historian Dan Buck noted, “those boys may have been wild, but they surely weren’t much of a bunch” [2542.] Butch attracted lots of loose men and women who regularly entered and departed his orbit, and those who lived to recall Butch for the public record (they tell us he was fond of Tiffany watches, dandy-ish duds, bowler hats and clean shaves) usually recalled him fondly. One former gang member called him “the wisest of all the outlaws I knew,” and even a Wyoming judge who convicted him (and later wrote a letter to the governor seeking his pardon), described him as “a brave, daring fellow well calculated to be a leader” [227]. And while it’s not entirely certain how many banks and trains Butch robbed, his haulings were often munificent—when he and Sundance opened their first bank account in Bolivia in 1900, their savings amounted to a quarter million dollars in today’s currency. Yet he was never known to take another life. As one of his partners noted: “Our greatest defense was our reputation as bad men” [189.] When Butch and his men told bank tellers and train guards to “throw ‘em up,” they got throwed.

As Leerhsen argues, Butch’s popularity may have been even more effective with men than with ladies; and there exist reports that he and many of his fellow male riders—such as long-time friend and partner, Elzy Lay—may have shared a good deal of “mutual solace” [741]. In other words, if Butch’s story was dramatically filmed today it might involve a lot less Jules et Jim and a bit more Brokeback Mountain.

Nevertheless, Butch never stayed in the same place for very long; and each brief flurry of robberies was followed by longer periods of hard, relatively humble work. Butch helped out (Shane-like) on ranches; acted as a foreman on cattle-drives; and for several years before his death, established a large horse-breeding ranch in Chubut, Bolivia with Sundance and Ethel Place, where he was remembered as a clean and prosperous community-member. (“They had a washstand with a fine pitcher and basin,” one neighbor recalled, “and she put drops of perfume in the water. They set the table with a certain etiquette—napkins, china plates.”) But even after years of clean living, Butch couldn’t leave the wild life behind. “There’s no use trying to hide out and go straight,” he once said. “There’s always an informer around to bring the law on you. After you’ve started, you have to keep moving all the time and spring a holdup in some new place. That way you keep the fellows guessing.”

Eventually, Butch and Sundance relapsed into their old ways; they were spotted with a stolen mule, and surrounded by a small town mayor and his townspeople. But that’s where the similarity ends. Instead of a glamorous freeze-frame shootout, Butch privately shot his old friend in a motel room and then himself. Death didn’t scare Butch so much as being locked up.

Leerhsen’s fun, amiable new book does a concise job of sorting what little is known about Butch from all the balderdash generated over the century by dime-novels and weird-historians. (One “buff” went so far as to speculate that Butch was a “clone” who did everything from ride with Pancho Villa to teach Lawrence of Arabia “how to derail trains” [670]). But then, who needs hyper-imaginative Butch-buffs? As Leerhsen makes clear—Butch Cassidy’s real life was filled with a lot of better, wilder stories than a bunch of silly clones.


Scott Bradfield is a novelist, short story writer and critic, and former Professor of American Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Connecticut. Works include The History of Luminous MotionDazzle Resplendent: Adventures of a Misanthropic Dog, and The People Who Watched Her Pass By.  Stories and reviews have appeared in TriquarterlyThe Magazine of Fantasy & Science FictionThe New York Times Book ReviewThe Los Angeles Times Book ReviewThe Baffler, and numerous “best of” anthologies. He lives in California and London.

He has stories and essays forthcoming in The Weird Fiction ReviewThe New StatesmanThe Best From Potato Soup JournalDelmarva ReviewThe BafflerThe MothAlbedo OneThe New RepublicThe Los Angeles Review of Books, and Flash Fiction Magazine.

He has written several screenplaysfor Universal, Sony Pictures, Roger Corman’s ConcordeNew Horizons, and several independent film companies, including filmed adaptations of his short story, “The Secret Life of Houses” (for PBS) and his novel, “The History of Luminous Motion.” The short film adaptation of his story, “Greetings From Earth,” was featured at the 2007 Tribeca film festival.

In addition, he presents a weekly YouTube podcast on books entitled “Reading Great Books in the Bathtub.”

Interview with J. Scott Price – Brian Turner Prize Winner Finalist

J. Scott Price is a finalist for the Brian Turner Literary Arts Prize in the Spoken Word category.


Hannah Harris: Why do you write?

J. Scott Price: It would be too cliché to say, “Because I have to,” because I don’t.  I spent a great deal of time not embracing my embryonic writer, and successfully not writing, so I know for a fact my life would go on without writing.  For the vast majority of my life, I would only write occasionally, usually only around significant emotional events, and I didn’t believe writing was a true path for me until just a few years ago when I began very tentatively dipping my toes into whatever writing water I could find around me. I grew on every level through these explorations and discovered something Larry Levis wrote about his own internal dialogue in his book The Gazer Within that I’ve taken as my guidepost: “You will either be a poet, and become a better and better one, or you will not be a poet.”  So, with that mantra echoing inside, I gave myself full permission to be an apprentice writer, and was accepted into the Vermont College of Fine Arts (VCFA) low-residency MFA in Writing program.

So despite my slower start, I write these days because I’ve come to know—belatedly, but happily—that my life is much fuller and more enjoyable with writing in it; that by taking the thoughts that occur to me while processing the world, recording them as scribbles then coming back to them to see what might be of use, I can work with these thoughts until they become something I am happy to have helped birth and may be of some small value to another.

I write because I can’t stop thinking (I tried that at one point, and it didn’t turn out too well), and because writing has been given to me as a gift, a tool to help better understand myself and my actions, and those of others. The physical act of processing these thoughts through writing helps me gain clarity on my experience, and hopefully respond better going forward.

HH: A piece of writing is, essentially, a collection of the series of choices the writer has made. How do you make the final choice: deciding when a piece of work is done? How do you know when something you’re working on is ready?


JSP: I rely on time, as often as a I can, as my primary assessment tool. I try to let pieces sit for a month or so and then revisit them, as that allows me to read them with more or less “fresh eyes” and see what’s working or not.

Interestingly, as I am developing, I am relooking poems that I had left as complete because of something I learned from a mentor. The mentor used Philip Levine’s “Agnus Dei” to illustrate how a beginning poet might have stopped at several points in this poem, thinking the poem complete, and how Levine kept it going to achieve a much better poem in the end. This leaves me willing to grow as a poet by not stopping at the earliest convenience just to see if the poem has more to say. My results are mixed, at this point, but it’s been a fun part of my growth to revisit my earlier concept of “done.”

Very rarely a poem will just flow and come out more or less complete.  But I don’t count on that or plan for it; I just accept it as a gift when it occurs. Mostly I’ll take a piece as far as my current mind can take it, then I’ll put it aside. Interestingly to me, I’ll find over a several-months period that what I thought were isolated pieces actually fit together into a larger whole my mind was working on and I didn’t even realize it.  

I recognize that I am still developing my eye and ear, that I still create false starts and false endings, and that this “training wheels” writing, as it’s been described to me, is a necessary part of my development as a writer, and for the poem to get to what it is trying to say. So I still rely on trusted readers in my local monthly poetry group and my MFA advisors and peers to help teach me what works and what doesn’t.  

Ultimately, though, the final decision is mine, and, again, time is my ally.  When I come back to a poem and am happily startled, that’s a pretty good indication to me that it’s done what it set out to do.


HH: Likely all of us can point to other writers who inspire us, but what, outside of literature, compels you as a writer? Where do you encounter, or glean, the motivation to work in your daily life?


JSP: My writing is driven by living, by being in the world, fallible, and attempting to improve. To write, I’ve come to believe, one must live first, then reflect on that experience, and see what is worth sharing that may be of value to another. That’s all there is to it for me. I live my life as best I can and the byproducts of that living are reflections that I now do my best to capture more often than I do not. I then enjoy the wordplay game of taking those thoughts and refining them into poems.


HH: What are you reading right now?


JSP: I am playing catch-up now that I’ve begun an MFA program. I’m spending a great deal of time reading craft books and individual poetry collections. The Poem In Its Skin by Paul Carroll, Claims for Poetry (ed. Donald Hall), A Field Guide to Contemporary Poetry and Poetics (ed. Stuart Friebert & David Young), The Making of a Poem by Mark Strand and Eavan Boland, and William Stafford’s You Must Revise Your Life are just a few of the craft books that have offered incredibly helpful insights.

I also use Twitter to find poets and poetry-related discussions, which most recently led me to Leila Chatti’s Tunsiya/Amrikiya, Victoria Chang’s Barbie Chang, and Equilibrum by Tiana Clark. I recently finished Terrance Hayes’ Lighthead and Nicole Sealey’s ordinary beast, and will soon begin Traci Brimhall’s Saudade and Chloe Honum’s then winter.

I’ve become a huge fan of Poetry magazine, which I enjoy each month when it arrives, and am impressed with the diversity of forms, subjects, and poetic voices. I think it truly gives me a better feel for contemporary poetry.  


HH: The idea of being a writer and the act of writing are two very distinct things. How has your perception of what it means to be a writer changed over time?


JSP: Claiming the term “writer” or “poet” for myself has been one of the hardest processes I’ve ever encountered. It’s as if every level of my being—except the deepest, perhaps—has placed roadblocks onto my path. I have no idea why—certainly theories, but no real answers—so it’s been a slow and painful process requiring constant vigilance on my part, constant baby steps forward, and the support of my fellow writers and mentors to help me be more comfortable with staking my small claim in this world. And I am so grateful to them all for their help.

So perhaps my biggest epiphany has been no longer holding the image of writers as cloistered minds thinking great thoughts apart from the world, but rather the understanding that writers are people just like the rest of us, living their lives as best they can, but with the discipline to capture and refine their thoughts…and the courage to share them with others. 

I’ve grown to love the act and art of revision, and I have given myself complete permission to write horribly most of the time, and to go back and find the good parts as I revise. Previously, I would cherish every word I wrote down, but now, writing consistently, I’ve realized it’s okay to not take a piece to “completion.” Sometimes, a potential poem just simply runs its course and I can let it go, having gained value in capturing it, working with it, and then setting it aside. Who knows, items like that may be part of a larger whole later on, or maybe those “false starts” are just tools to keep the machine lubricated and running so that I am better prepared to create moving forward.

So my second perception shift has been realizing writing truly is a process—not an event—and also a skill that can be learned and improved upon. But I have to put in the work, be teachable, and allow myself to fail consistently along the way.





Fine Dining


The bare skinned belle sits silently 

across from me as we

slowly consume our meal.


Saying nothing, we converse,

    and the candle flutters

  as a salt breeze ruffles

   the curtain.


She smiles at me as we rise,

and a half-eaten muffin 

is left on the plate.



A Thought While Driving


A God shaped hole in my soul,

unfilled by my will,

keeps me stumbling

‘til Ego’s subdued

by an ethos pursued

in love and humility.


Sanity, peace, and stability

are found when I let go

my drive to control

a soul

that already knows

the truth.


J. Scott Price is a former career soldier turned writer and earned a MFA in Writing, and a Publishing Certificate, from the Vermont College of Fine Arts.  He’s currently working on a biography of the poet William Meredith.  He’s a dedicated poet-in-trainingand will be the rest of his lifeand is currently exploring the idea of finding a publisher for his own first poetry collection. He’s particularly intrigued by the concept of literary lineage and is always looking to connect and discuss most any writing related topic, so please do reach out via LinkedIn, social media (@ABoyAndHisSons), or www.jscottprice.com. He is very grateful for the time he was able to spend as a Virginia Center for the Creative Arts Fellow, as well as for the bi-weekly writing group he leads for veterans and military family members.


Interview with Anna Weaver – Brian Turner Prize Winner Finalist

Anna Weaver was a finalist for the Turner Prize in the Spoken Word category. Her poem can be found in the 2017 issue of the Sierra Nevada Review.


Hannah Harris: Why do you write?


Anna Weaver: Because when I think have something to say, I enjoy the work of finding what feels like a true way of saying it. Because diction and grammar and punctuation and etymology and tropes and forms are my enduring intellectual loves. Because of the feeling when you stick the exquisite balance between following and breaking rules. And because I love both the invention and the tinkering that comes after, interrogating commas and whatnot, to get all the pieces in place.


HH: A piece of writing is, essentially, a collection of the series of choices the writer has made. How do you make the final choice: deciding when a piece of work is done? How do you know when something you’re working on is ready?


AW: I rely heavily on how it sounds out loud and on reading it to people live. I have a very close friend and fellow poet who serves as a kind but honest first listener. He’s got a keen ear for lines that aren’t doing any work and other missed opportunities, and we value the same aesthetic so if I’m hitting notes the way I want to, he’ll hear them and it shows in his eyes.


After it passes that test, I typically perform it at my local open mic. The audience reaction, or lack thereof, will often expose the good and the weak. And even if they don’t react, I hear it differently when I know someone else is listening…much like you notice your own house acutely when unexpected guests come over.


Lastly, as a performance poet, I memorize most of my work. During the week or so of constant repetition it takes to commit a poem to memory, any loose or missing words will announce themselves. That’s the very last step, almost always (though there have been exceptions).


Once memorized, a poem tends to stay put.


HH: Likely all of us can point to other writers who inspire us, but what, outside of literature, compels you as a writer? Where do you encounter, or glean, the motivation to work in your daily life?


AW: Chiefly from open mic events. I run one locally and have been to others from Southern California to Maine and parts in between. Every time, I’m surprised at what my city or another has to offer by way of creative obsession and talent.


These are people with day jobs, but at night and on weekends and between shifts, we write songs and stories and poems and I doubt any of us knows quite why. It’s damn sure not for money, and it’s not because we don’t need the sleep.


I get energy from them. I get ideas, too. Killer lines, juicy words, new ways to look at old things. And I get a kind of permission to keep trying from their persistence and from the camaraderie and what, to me, amounts to a kind of artistic love affair with each other.


HH: What are you reading right now?


AW: Stephen King’s On Writing and the latest issue of Rattle and A Man Called Ove.


HH: The idea of being a writer and the act of writing are two very distinct things. How has your perception of what it means to be a writer changed over time?


AW: My father is a fiction writer who had some critical success (NEA grants, The O’Henry Prize, a movie made of his first novel, that sort of thing). So I was imprinted literally from birth with the idea that being a writer was an Actual Job, not some ephemeral business of muses or dreamy bliss- or truth-seeking.

You went to your office all week (he was Chair of the English Department at Oklahoma State), and at night/on weekends you either sat on the couch Reading Manuscripts while watching sports or closed the door to your office and Made Typing Noises. Your briefcase was full of Writing, yours and other people’s. Your friends were all Writers. And from time to time, boxes of Your Books turned up at the house, and you went to bookstores and Gave Readings.


I also write for a living (marketing content for a software company). I do my creative writing nights and weekends and I read my work to audiences. I do the work of submitting, with some success, which gives me tangible proof to arrange on a shelf and share with friends—most of whom are also poets or songwriters—and some sense of having passed a test.


For me, “being a writer” comes down to the doing—not some wistful philosophizing. So although it took me a couple years of that doing to feel comfortable saying “I’m a poet,” the idea of being a writer, for me, hasn’t changed much in 49 years.


If I’m doing the work of writing, I’m a being a writer.





Raised in Oklahoma, Anna Weaver writes as a former soldier in the US Army Reserve, a mind solidly imprinted by 20 years under big sky, and a woman “with loyalties scattered over the landscape.” Her poems have appeared in Connotation PressO-Dark-ThirtyOneRat’s Ass Review, and elsewhere, earning nominations for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best New Poets award. An avid performance poet, she runs an open mic in Raleigh and has performed her poetry in 27 states and the District of Columbia. So far as Google is concerned, Anna is America’s only open mic tourist.  She lives in North Carolina with her two daughters. Find her at openmictourist.com.