3 Questions for Ace Boggess

1. What is your personal/aesthetic relationship to the poetic line? That is, how do you understand it, use it, etc.?

I use the poetic line as a way of forcing my reader to pause and breathe. I try to end lines where I want the reader to take a short breath to process what’s come before, and the stanza break for a longer breath and time to focus. I think smaller lines with quick pauses for breath help build a cadence, while longer lines keep the reader focused. In the first case, rhythm is created by silences, whereas in the latter, the words themselves create a sort of melodic flow. At least, that’s how I use them. Also, the end of a line is great for subterfuge. There’s no literary trickery I enjoy more than ending a line on a thought, forcing a pause, then starting the next line with a word or phrase that contradicts or changes the meaning of the previous line’s end. 

2. Do you find a relationship between words and writing and the human body? Or between your writing and your body?

The most direct correlation is that I have felt overwhelming social anxiety, along with other lesser, more general anxieties, all my life. Whatever twisted brain chemicals cause that–the frozen sensation around new people–is the same thing that led me to writing in the first place. The panic and fear kept me from speaking and meeting people, so I needed another outlet. That was writing for me. 
These days, reading my poetry aloud to an audience has the opposite effect. To share my words and hear the right responses of gasps or laughter at just the right moments, to know that what I intended was understood, allows me to burn off all that anxious energy, exhausting myself along the way. If I leave a reading completely spent, so tired I’m ready to collapse, I know I’ve connected. 

3. Is there anything you dislike about being a poet?

Well, I’m sure you get this answer a lot, but the pay isn’t great. Other than that, my only gripe is with editors that hold a manuscript for a ridiculously long period of time and still respond with a form letter. I’m sorry, but if you’ve had my manuscript in limbo for a year, you owe me a few genuine words, even if it’s just to say, “Jesus Christ, I’m sorry, man!” 

BIO: Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, most recently Escape Envy (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2021). His poems have appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, J Journal, Harvard Review, Notre Dame Review, Poetry East, River Styx, and many other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes and tries to stay out of trouble.

3 Questions for Lauren Camp

Miriam Sagan — 3 Questions interview with Lauren Camp

1. What is your personal/aesthetic relationship to the poetic line? That is, how do you understand it, use it, etc.

I came to poetry from careers in magazine and technical writing and visual art, and from the hobbyist perspective of jazz. I fell in love with the poetic line, which is, in a way, a hint, a color, and a sound all mixed. I’m fascinated by its liquidity, how it can move through some, but not the entirety, of a thought. Its ability to be rich in meaning, and yet to shape-shift. That it urges (depending on the punctuation or lack of it) a journey to another part of the composition. The line is a length that can be manipulated: short, long, stressed, rushed, stretched, ended, pulled forward…Perhaps a fragment, and so then, a whimsy, even when dealing in hard views. The line: a truth. There are likely to be other sounds and truths below it, if the reader will just settle in. I delight in the fact that it doesn’t hold still. It’s a direction, a mapping—but maybe also a misdirection.

2. Do you find a relationship between words and writing and the human body? Or between your writing and your body?

I’m an avid reviser. There’s a deep relaxation to that process for me, because it is all about letting go. Perhaps for a while there is no body as I reorder, cut, expand, or otherwise change course. When something good happens, something satisfying with the words and their sounds, I feel a tickle in my nerve endings. I read aloud as I revise, and the sound reverberates through me, sometimes with a friction I find pleasing, other times with tenderness —the sibilants running along, radiant stresses, the pummel of hard consonants.

3. Is there anything you dislike about being a poet?

I’m sometimes overwhelmed by the effort (and alignment of planets) that it takes to get a poem to the right audience. I’m talking about the full cycle, not strictly the submission and acceptance, but the follow-up effort to make sure (or hope) people notice it. Self-promotion is a beast compared to the luminosity of poetry writing. Yet, there is much that I love in actually being a poet: the allowance to focus wherever I choose, the realization that (because of my temperament) I can be entirely sensitive to an image, find a story in a shift of light, or claim and study a certain feeling. How else might I get such a chance to just plain feel?

Here, and Here

Been here
a while, and I haven’t yet

read all
different ways the beginning—

Life is part thus,
and part commonplace:

the rippling light
riding the edge of the porch

and so what
if the ditch ends

in rust and abrupt
obsidian? We see it all, and take

pictures of elevation,
unable to find another view. We love

the detachment, the broken

on the window.
To whom should we rejoice

about what
never happens?

(Poem from Turquoise Door, first published in Driftless Review)

Lacuna by C. David Russell and Mateo Galvano. Entering the Liminal.

I always enjoy CURRENTS NEW MEDIA at El Museo in Santa Fe–it’s innovative video and technology in a cavernous warehouse space out of the summer heat and right in my own neighborhood. This year I particularly wanted to see the piece Lacuna by C. David Russell and Mateo Galvano. I stood at its entrance, calmed by an oceanic projection on white.

I almost missed that it was an entry way into a cube, until I followed the pathway in. Both artists were interviewed and respond here–giving another layer of appreciation for the piece.

Miriam Sagan: What is the theme/concept?

Mateo Galvano: Lacuna is a gap or a hollowed out space, or it could be missing or lost parts in a literary work. A number of elements in the installation point to the theme of a physical gap, sometimes under the earth, or underneath reality. In the film that features the Bramble Puppet, the creature comes from some place in between realities. He digs in the ground and peels away the layers to find a hollowed out area, a blue-lit cave, seeming to reveal a space that is there all along if only we know how to look and listen for it.

In the installation, the viewer moves through the environment as the silk both obscures and reveals the work, depending upon the position of the viewer in the space. Films are projected upon the silk, depicting realities in another time and space. In the Water film, which is projected onto the outside wall of one side of the work, layers of clouds filmed from above, and water from various sources, are superimposed and montaged together. The image is otherworldly and suggests the notion that reality is layered and turned upside down. There are alternative perspectives if we observe the patterns of nature. The many layers, both formal and conceptual, provide the possibility of gaps to occur between the layers. Gaps of mystery or absence or longing. The idea is that these voids may contain potentialities for something new, regenerative, or valuable in some way.

It seems as if both David and I, in our individual creative practices, have been working with themes of the liminal or the idea of absence or even loss, for a number of years. So it is not surprising that this work came about and that we chose the word Lacuna as a title and as a concept to circle around. It’s a mysterious, lovely word that felt right as a title, something with questions in it.

The Bramble Puppet finds the lifeless flowers underground, and enacts a ceremony, poking them up through the ground to the world above. He climbs up to observe his cheerful work, and moves one of the flowers to another place. He seems to cherish it before planting it. The viewer might wonder if perhaps the Bramble Puppet is bringing beauty into the world, bringing innocence, transforming a potentiality into a reality, creating opportunities? It’s like he takes nothing and makes something out of it. He reminds us that sometimes all that is necessary to find the beauty of a situation is to shift the point of view. Turn the problem inside out and find your way in through the underbelly.

It is in the unknown, in the spaces of the magical, that possibilities for redemption and healing can grow.

Miriam Sagan: What inspired you?

C. David Russell: I started a series of meditative drawings in which I breathed into each one and let the image flow. What came from those drawings were fractal like figures that were both there and not there, only coming into formation. These drawings, entitled Breaths, led me to want to see if I could bring them into a 3 dimensional form and maintain the wispy ethereal qualities.

In addition, I did a 16-day residency with the New England Puppet Intensive in summer 2018; during that time I brainstormed about materials and techniques on how to sculpt the drawings. I also created the Bramble Puppet. The figure was made of sticks, wire and leather. The quality of the line in the figure had a relationship to the breath drawings but was a bit more corporeal.

I worked with the Bramble Puppet during the intensive. I learned about four principals of puppetry, the first one being breath, second fixed point, third focus and finally articulation. After the intensive I wanted to see what other possibilities the Bramble Puppet had. This led me to the idea of doing a stop-motion animated film where I would be challenged to maintain the life-like quality and the four principals of puppetry and to carry that over into the context of the digital format. I was curious to see if the Bramble Puppet would achieve the same degree of emotional connection that was strikingly evident in the live puppetry.

Mateo Galvano: We were inspired by the Bramble Puppet himself. David had created the creature from sticks while a resident at the New England Puppet Intensive in Massachusetts in 2018, and felt motivated to create a stop-motion animation film featuring the puppet. The puppet lent itself to stories, in part because of David’s skillful handling of the object. We brainstormed a narrative and David spent many hours filming to create the Bramble Puppet film.

We’ve been inspired by Currents New Media for a number of years and finally had some ideas of putting together a collaborative effort for the 2019 Festival.

Miriam Sagan: How did the collaboration work?

C. David Russell: We chose elements that had originated in our personal practice and decided which to develop as part of the project and then bounced ideas back and forth as we made sketches and had many discussions about what created meaning. After each step we looked at the work together to offer observations and feedback to each other.

Mateo Galvano: Even before the Bramble Puppet and the idea of a film about him came about, we each had several elements that we felt would fit together nicely and speak to each other in an installation format. Among other projects, David had been envisioning making a series of sculptures based on the Breaths drawings he had created and exhibited several years ago. The Breaths drawings were made from an urge to discuss the spaces between one breath and the next, and the possibilities in between those spaces. The drawings feature abstract, spindly, feathery, elongated beings, rendered in graphite and hints of colored pencil. Eventually David began making the sculptural version of the Breaths out of wire, fabric, and neoprene rubber forms he had cast and painted. He added strings, beads, paint, glue, leather, found objects, industrial materials and dyed fabric to create a group of sculptures for Lacuna. We talked about their presence in the piece as a kind of silent chorus. Also, they were congregants at a watering hole, witnessing the morning at the brightening of dawn. Perhaps they were animals or spirits or deities. Some of them resemble burnt out, white-encrusted, floating driftwood from some celestial tree.

I wanted to include experimental sound recordings I had made in which I incorporate my voice and indecipherable words into ambient soundscapes. We tried some things I had developed earlier but decided, in the eleventh hour, weeks before the opening of the festival, that I needed to make a new sound composition. The results were successful, and we felt that the sound helped to unify or tie together all the components of the installation.

As we continued to conceive of the piece, it seemed important to allow the Bramble film to take precedence. There was an anchoring effect to the narrative arc in the film, and the Bramble Puppet mesmerized us. David put so many hours into the film, and we workshopped it, with David needing to re-shoot parts of the film when necessary. We were willing to let go of my Water film or to forego sculptural or audio elements of the installation if they in some way reduced the experience of the Bramble film. However, in the end, all these components we had brought to the table were able to work together nicely in the space we had created. There was a harmony in the way our separate contributions and approaches came together.

So, included in the piece was the Bramble Puppet film and my Water Film. We used my cast plaster leaves and David added a lighting device to truly enhance the collaboratively wrought sculptural element that became The Well. We positioned David’s group of Breaths Sculptures above The Well and used my Lacuna Soundscape in a hidden speaker system behind the silk wall. All of this was placed into or onto the white Silk Cube.

Miriam Sagan: Does the piece have any secrets? A thresh hold?

C. David Russell: In my research as a professor, I have been exploring the concept of the liminal in the theater and theatrical design. I see this entire project, Lacuna, as an exploration of this research. Here are some of my notes on Liminality :
In my ongoing, current research, I am exploring characteristics of liminality in Scenography and performing objects as it relates to the ritualistic and aesthetic aspects of performance and the use of space.

The word liminal is from Latin, meaning ‘threshold,’ and refers to a transitional state or a position occupied on both sides of a boundary. Trails, tunnels, roadways, treetops, balconies, alcoves, and rivers are crucial factors in my work. Doors are full of potentialities and are often cruxes of tension. Scenic designs I have devised consist of dynamic pathways of action; the ground plan is the essential basis of the design and delineates the universe of the piece, the essential boundary. When players cross the threshold from the back stage onto the set, they enter the world of the play. The design guides the performers though the narrative.
The audience exists in a place that is both within and outside of everyday life. The notion of the suspension of disbelief is often used to describe the theatrical experience; in order for suspension of disbelief to be successful, viewers as well as performers must accept the underlying scenographic cues. My work is to provide poetic images that help facilitate this process.
The liminal contains aspects of both wonder and peril. In the ancient mystical Tarot, the Fool is blissfully unaware he is poised to step off the edge of a precipice.

The Bramble Puppet is a still from the video. All other images thanks to Tasha Ostrander

3 Questions for Lee Nash

1. What is your personal/aesthetic relationship to the poetic line? That is, how do you understand it, use it, etc.

As a poet with a broad range, at any given time I could be writing a haiku, a received form or a piece of flash fiction. This means that I could be focusing on a work anywhere between one line (a monostich) or a paragraph or more (flash). The important first step is to get my initial thoughts on screen, then I try to proceed at an unhurried pace, to find the line that is pleasing to my ear and eye, that fits the essence of the piece. In the draft stage I want to see what emerges – happily now and again the first try is pretty close to the finished product. If there isn’t a good definition then at some point I will start a revision, at which stage (for example) a sonnet may become a free verse poem, or vice versa. The process is organic, with the line taking its length and shape on the page in the most natural way possible, the line breaks setting the pace, working like gears to drive the reader along. The line needs to work with and not against the poem’s internal rhythm and cadences, to be in sympathy with its words and sounds, and the reaction the whole invokes.

2. Do you find a relationship between words and writing and the human body? Or between your writing and your body?

Yes, in the sense that we produce the fruit of who and what we are. I suspect that the traits expressed in our words are linked as much to our physiology and psychology as to our life experiences. When writing a specifically body-oriented poem (for instance, about a C-section, or a burn, or a colonoscopy), the sense of relationship between words and body is keener, simply by definition, but all poems seem visceral rather than intellectual at source. It’s a fascinating question and this body/writing correlation is something I would like to explore in more depth.

3. Is there anything you dislike about being a poet?

I often think that it increases my intensity when what I really need to do is lighten up! Saying that, I do enjoy writing light verse from time to time. To me writing is a work of faith, and this is exciting but also quite daunting. It’s not the same as having a skill; for instance, I play the flute and know I can pick up the instrument and play a piece as long as I have practiced enough. With poetry, even if you are honing your craft, understand the dynamics, and have publications to your name, you are creating something from nothing each time (as all artists are) and you cannot afford to lose your self-belief. This is not always easy. A poet must accept that the poetry business involves regular rejection and so develop a kind of impassivity to all that, yet still stay sensitive to inspiration and new ideas.


guessing his name…
the scent of jasmine
on fine rain

Stardust, February 2018

premature birth
I choose the thinnest needles
and the softest wool

Pulse, 16 February 2018

sundog an unexpected windfall

The Asahi Shimbun, Asahi Haikuist Network, 16 February 2018

morning kiss
the warm sting
of his bristles

Chanokeburi, Love Videoanthology, 14 February 2018

Lee Nash lives in France and freelances as an editor and proofreader. Her poems have appeared in print and online journals including Acorn, Ambit, Angle, Magma, Mezzo Cammin, Orbis, Poetry Salzburg Review, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, The Heron’s Nest, and The Lake. Her first poetry chapbook, Ash Keys, is published by Flutter Press. You can find a selection of Lee’s poems on her website: leenashpoetry.com. http://flutterpress2009.blogspot.fr/2017/11/new-release-ash-keys-by-lee-nash.html

Interview with Mei Mei-Berssenbrugge from Cordite Review

I’ve always loved Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge’s poetry. I have to slow down and mull as I read it. It has a quality of complexity, but one I find enticing. It might be a cousin to Language School, but is also very original, and sensual as well as abstract. Here is part of an excellent interview with the poet.

MB: I think of a poem as an energetic whole, because the way I reach an expression of energy is through language. I definitely think about the so-called idea or meaning of a poem, but for me, it is more about keeping the energy high. I also want to mention that when I write a poem, I often have no idea of what I’ve said. I make assemblages of notes and put them together, but it’s at the unconscious level that composition occurs, and I think there are more profound gestalts of understanding to be found that way. So I am not somebody who thinks complex thoughts by my will; I find them. A lot of people now say that there are more neurons in the heart than there are in the brain.


3 Questions for Nate Maxson

1. What is your personal/aesthetic relationship to the poetic line? That is, how do you understand it, use it, etc.

It’s changed over time but I think of a single line in a poem as being almost like a frame in a film, one motion on the way to a larger object. Or maybe a gear in a machine: each one has to be crafted so that it both stands on its own and so that it moves the entire thing forward. If it’s too concerned with the micro then you end up being too clever for your own good but if it strictly exists to serve the rest of the poem then it can probably be recycled into another line with minimal hurt.

2. Do you find a relationship between words and writing and the human body? Or between your writing and your body?

That’s a difficult question for me because I don’t necessarily write poetry-of-the-body but there is a connection. I draw a distinction between the spirit and the body and the former features more into my writing than the latter. However when I write too much I get physically ill, fever and exhaustion which to some extent I tend to interpret in a somewhat romantic manner which is admittedly a little ridiculous. Maybe it’s the tension between the body and the spirit that makes poetry happen, like the Smiths lyric “does the body rule the mind or does the mind rule the body?”

3. Is there anything you dislike about being a poet?

About being a poet? I like being a poet. It’s being a person that vexes me. I mean, I don’t like the non-place that poetry has in our society right now where all art gets compared to poetry but actual poetry gets left by the wayside. In that way, poetry existing is an act of resistance.


Nate Maxson is a writer and performance artist. The author of several collections of poetry, he lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

The Distance

All the chimneys in this town are expelling their defiance
Constantly against the unmeasured winter
But there are no fireplaces down below
Such simplicities go against the contract
Only smoke here
Because to labor in oblivion/ is to birth an oblivion
Pure blue chemical tidal light: to labor with oblivion/ to burn a green candle
For a pure nothing, a hollow black pomegranate
We would give our meager light
How’s that for a hymn?
I’m new to this industry
But I’m quickly learning
That all original thoughts are reduced to sand and then to glass and then fertilizer
And so on and so on
What do we have left, when we sweep away the crumbs from the table?
This disintegration can be either a threat or a mercy
I leave it in your hands, my familiarity: a feather for your instrument
(Where have I heard it before?
Silver bird singing to young ears/ I should no longer be able to eavesdrop on such delicacies)
Where the distance backs into itself and each end of the uroboros thinks the other one is a ghost
Where the cold blooded and the shy congregate quietly for Sunday school
The dreamland archipelago 

Introducing Flip Flop: Haiku Collaboration with Miriam Sagan and Michael G. Smith

Available for $10 with shipping or $5 in person–write msagan1035@aol.com for details.


Flip Flop Interview

1. Why did you decide to not attribute each haiku to an individual author? What is it like to see that in the finished book?

Miriam – It’s rather magical to see it in the finished book. The process was one of deep collaboration, where the individual voices can merge as well as being distinct. It takes away some of the egocentric energy of writing to have the haiku unattributed. When I was a kid, I thought “anon” was the name of an actual writer—I didn’t realize it meant “anonymous” unit my mom explained that! Anon might be the greatest writer of all! Our work isn’t anonymous, but it doesn’t have a fixed author—which ask draws the reader in.

Michael – We wanted readers to focus on the haiku and their connectivity. Of course, our individual prefaces provide signposts pointing to who might have written a certain haiku. Further, readers might discern flavors and patterns among the haiku and have an inkling from whose pencil it flew from. Finally, having only haiku on the page reinforces Flip Flop is book of haiku that hopefully speaks to some of the commonalities of human experience. Attributions would be a distraction. I’m quite pleased with the result.

2. Did the process of collaboration change how you view and/or write haiku? In what ways?

Miriam – The process of collaborative haiku sequences is a bit like renga, or linked verse. One thing leads to—inspires—another. Michael and I actually wrote a renga, but it ended up being more of a part of our working together than something that stood on its own. I’ve always seen haiku as an offshoot of renga, so this continued that feeling.

Michael – Most definitely. I found it enlightening to see how my haiku elicited unexpected and fresh responses from Miriam, and how they changed the direction of subsequent haiku. Thus the creating and writing process was more akin to the randomness of life, one whose every erratic moments are still linked to an infinite number of things. I am now more attuned to the creative tension and triangle linking subject, writer and reader of haiku. The result is that I aspire to make my haiku ones that a reader can use as a launch pad for a haiku of theirs.

3. Did the collaborative process feel any different when you were on opposite sides of the Earth versus being “co-located” in Santa Fe? If so, how and what effects did this have on your haiku?

Miriam – I think it was actually more intense. The desire to communicate by “letter” (in this case email) was stronger and so the haiku have a kind of epistlatory feeling. Also, what Michael was seeing was unfamiliar, foreign, far-away…his imagery made me see more familiar surroundings freshly.

Michael – I was quite comfortable with our correspondence and the haiku we were writing. It was fun imagining the scenes and images Miriam conjured and how they related to the new, interesting and very different (relative to my western experiences) things I was seeing in Nepal and India. Conversely, there was a tremendous amount of overlap between cultures. Hence, I had a plethora of material to work from.

4. The best haiku generally is the result of a spontaneous event. Your book being composed of several themed sections, how did it feel to write haiku framed by a theme? Did this help or hinder spontaneity?

Miriam – Pascal said—inspiration favors the trained mind. I’ve followed that much of my writing life. I like a theme, a project, a prompt. It seems to help insertion, and in a way it creates MORE spontaneous event, just because I’m looking.

Michael – Being a scientist and a Zen Buddhist I take little as fixed in time and space. The themes supplied a focus to examine the freshness that spontaneity provides. For example, how did swimming look through the lenses of my physical disabilities, or if I wrote the Beatles “A Day In the Life” what might I have included? I’ll note that the latter theme helped me examine my daily routines a little closer, and that continues as a fun and rewarding experiment.

Inside Story by Julia Goldberg

1. Julia–you’ve just published your first book–INSIDE STORY. The focus is a guide to writing creative nonfiction. I found the tone and approach very helpful. What in particular can the reader expect to learn?

My hope is that the book has appeal to many different types of creative nonfiction writers, from students to working writers and everyone in between. Inside Story delves into various categories of nonfiction—from memoir to journalism to the lyric essay. Each chapter endeavors to provide explanations about craft, writing exercises as well as references and resource lists. So, it’s a way to both learn more about the genre but also very much a practical guide to reporting and writing creative nonfiction. I have read many craft books myself, so I tried to distinguish my book in terms of it sounding like me—it has, I hope, much of the information one might find in a textbook, but it has a voice as well.

2. Was it easier–or more difficult–to write a book than you expected? You’ve been an editor in numerous capacities, including the Santa Fe Reporter but this is a different kind of endeavor. What surprised you?

I was surprised at how challenging it was! I’ve written on deadline my entire adult life and have written many long-form reported pieces. I worked as an editor on another book (Best Altweekly Writing, 2009-2010 from Northwestern Press). So I am familiar with many of the components needed to write a nonfiction book, such as research, reporting, organizing and, of course, the actual writing. But the accumulative process—writing for hours every day, day after day, and still not being finished, was a challenging—invigorating and difficult—experience. It set a bar in terms of my appreciation for the stamina it takes, for sure.

3. Anything else you want to add?
The book isn’t just my take on reporting and writing. I’ve been lucky in my career to both meet and read many amazing writers. I interviewed and reference numerous people for this book, whose own perspectives and experiences are in each chapter, and I’m very grateful for that.

4.How can readers buy a copy?
If readers are in Santa Fe, they can buy it at Collected Works. The book also is available on Amazon and all other online retailers. I’m also doing a giveaway on Goodreads May 24-June 23, so they can enter and maybe win one!

Amazon link: https://www.amazon.com/Inside-Story-Everyones-Reporting-Nonfiction/dp/0997020776

Goodreads giveaway link: https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/237632-inside-story-everyone-s-guide-to-reporting-and-writing-creative-nonfict

What Are You Reading and Where? Part 2

Do Mi Stauber: Ellis Peters, The Knocker on Death’s Door (one of her George Felse mysteries, because I just finished all the Brother Cadfaels and couldn’t stand it). In the hospital with my daughter, who is going to be okay.

Rachel Ballantine: Color about the history of artists colors. in bed.

Marjorie Kamine: Sapiens while dog sitting in Abiquiu

Debbi Kapp Brody: I am reading several things right now, but the ones that might interest you most are; Leaping Poetry (Robert Bly) and Revisioning Activism (David Bedrick, JD, Dipl PW) Finished Remarkable Creatures by Tracy Chevalier and Split Second by Douglas Richards yesterday. Where? Everywhere, home, work, car, etc.

Kate McCahill: SFLR proofs at my kitchen table!

L.j. Mulry: Tana French, In the Woods, at night in bed.

Wednesday Nelena Sorokin: The New Yorker in my dining room, and The Gift by Lewis Hyde and What is Art For.

Devon Miller-Duggan: The Liddard book on Chaco/Mesa Verde ( at the breakfast table) and a right-wing post-apocalyptic trilogy (before bed).

Jane Shoenfeld: The human stain. Philip Roth. Dingle, Ireland

Linda Durham: Secondhand Time (The Last of the Soviets) by Svetlana Alexievich. It’s so rich! I have been reading it aloud to myself–off and on–in the bathtub (good acoustics) with a Russian-ish accent.

David Oates: Haiku and Inspector Rebus novels.

Nancy Sutor: The Mother of All Questions by Rebecca Solnit. Volcanoes by David M Pyle. And Transatlantic by Colum Mc Cann. Day bed in my studio and night bed in the house

Jane Rosemont: The manual to my new camera, in every room of the house.

Jeanne Simonoff: smart phone in orthopaedics office Taos

Marie Longserre: “NOFAs – Notices Of Funds Available” – several 100 page documents from the US Department of Commerce and others – in bed at night. Supplemented with an occasional paragraph or two of “Fortunes Children, the Fall of the House of Vanderbilt” – in bed in the middle of the night if the NOFAs keep me awake.

Virginia Oppenheimer: The Exiles Return by Elizabeth de Waal, about post war Vienna, in my living room, taking a break from gardening

What Are You Reading And Where?

I was having a cup of coffee with a friend who was telling me about his travel plans, and also about what he was reading. This led me to muse on where we read as well as what. Putting the question up for crowd sourcing led to great answers! I’m going to share them in a set of ongoing posts.


Janet Brennan: Anne Hillerman, Song of the Lion. Read several chapters each night.

Isabel Winson-Sagan: 2nd sex on the couch with a tiny dog

Michelle Holland: The Museum of Extraordinary Things, Alice Hoffman. Listening to the audio tape on my commute from Chimayo to teaching every weekday at Los Alamos High School. I’ve been listening to novels rather than the news for the past four months or so.

Judith Sherman Russell: Space operas sitting in the car waiting.

Hannah Duggan: Saga Vol. 2, in my bedroom.

JenMarie Macdonald: The Neapolitan Quartet next to my napping babe

Wednesday Nelena Sorokin: Half a Yellow Sun, in my bedroom.

Nate Maxson: Disgrace by Coatzee. On the bus.