Saturday, August 1, 2015

Martha's Vineyard Redux —the Eighth Year

Panorama from top of the Cape Poge lighthouse, Chappaquiddick, Martha's Vineyard, with Erica

The Kast family week on Martha's Vineyard was just a wistful wish the year I turned 70. "You can have it," said my daughter, Erica, and I did. Our motley mix includes the progeny and friends of many marriages, ranging in age from 2 (great-grandson Avi and granddaughter Arisha) to 77 (me). Some come now and then, some every year, some came once and not again.  Births and deaths have altered us, but the event perdures.
Containers, New Bedford
Kathy and Carter

Carter doing Barre
This year I spent the previous week with Carter Frank and Kathy Koch on Cuttyhunk, a tiny island with neither cars nor stores just off the Vineyard. Thus the crane in New Bedford hoisting containers of supplies onto the Cuttyhunk ferry. Carter did a barre each morning on the porch, followed by Cunningham 6's and Tai Chi. I wrote, all read and hiked and swam.

Richard and Maggie on porch

 Staying in Matthew Deyo's East Chop house on Martha's Vineyard (the place we like the best), we cooked each night with produce from the West Tisbury Farmer's Market, swam on Jetty Beach (even Richard got wet once, and Avi loved the water). We kayaked on Sengekontacket Pond (Joan's first time), rode the ancient carousel, bought fish to grill in Menemsha and ate a lobster roll along the harbor.

Ari, Avi and Oliver on Jetty Beach

Kim, Joan and Erica loved the stronger surf on Longpoint Beach, and I, as you can see, preferred to watch.

My son, Anton flew six hours each way to join us for a day, just in time for the family portrait.  Granddaughter Emma, interning for Bernie Sanders; had the fun but missed the portrait; Aza was en route to Asia; Tom and family had just settled outside Vienna and could not come. 

Maggie at Longpoint Beach (photo by Erica)
Inside Cape Poge Lighthouse
 Erica and I made our first trip to Cape Poge, way out on the tip of Chappaquiddick, where Oyster Catchers feed.
Oyster Catcher

Erica, Maggie, Kim, Eun, Joan, Oliver in back row; Anton, Avi, Ari,  Richard in front

Menemsha Panorama, Kim and Maggie (photo by Erica)

Thursday, June 11, 2015

Climbing the Learning Curve

Over the last two or three days I've hoisted myself up a steep learning curve, one handhold after the other, and craned my neck to see the widening view. With terrific boosts from Ilan Mochari, fellow Fomite writer and author of Zinsky the Obscure; and from Lynne Griffin, writer and faculty member of Grub Street's Launch Lab, I'm beginning to get it.

Galleys labelled for submission
In this landscape, two worlds intersect: the one of pre-publication reviews and the other of indie presses. Fomite Press has given me the advantages of skillful, personal editing and cooperative decision making, but cannot possibly do the marketing traditionally done by a major publishing house, where submission for pre-publication review happens automatically. In that scenario, the publisher recommends the book in glowing terms, prepares galleys in a set format that includes marketing plans, and commissions an in-house publicist to do the footwork: package the galleys with that enthusiastic letter and a press release and send them out.

The job of the writer with an indie press is to reiterate this process, playing the roles of publisher, publicist and author as well. In other words, write that hyperbolic letter, no matter how much it may make you squirm, put it on the publisher's letterhead (with their permission of course), send it to the publisher for signature and mail it out with a set of galleys. Most important of all, do this three to four months before the book's release date. Often galleys will have marketing plans on the back, and some will have additional information on a title page. If yours don't, you can include this information in your cover letter.

Back cover with information on marketing campaign.

This title page is hard to read but includes length, price and appropriate ages.
Another back cover.
 Finally understanding this has persuaded me to defer my publication date so I can meet the four month deadline for Publisher's Weekly, Library Journal and Booklist. It doesn't guarantee that I will get reviewed, but I'm giving it my best shot. And before these three, I'll pay for a Kirkus review and hope I get a juicy or at least usable quote to use along with my wonderful blurbs, for which I am extremely grateful.

Sunday, May 3, 2015

You Will Judge a Book by its Cover

Lucifer at the Starlight: Poems by Kim Addonizio
You will judge a book by its cover, and so will every stranger who comes upon your book. Suddenly all those carefully crafted words must speak a visual language, must compress themselves into a single image. The cover on the left is one of my favorites for the way it integrates title and author's name into a single, clear object. It's hard to read in this reproduction, but the author's name is on the matchbox and the title on the ashtray.

The Crack between the Worlds: Memoir
   My novel, A Free, Unsullied Land, will be published by
Fomite Press, and Donna Bister, half of the Press' partnership, has asked for photos that represent the novel's three locations: Chicago, Alabama and New Mexico, as well as its time period, 1930. A central event is the protagonist's trip to Scottsboro, Alabama, to protest the unfair conviction of the nine so-called Scottsboro Boys.

I'm looking at photos, but I fear clutter and confusion. I was blessed with the cover of my memoir, above, a photo of myself at thirteen. It speaks to the child that every viewer once was as well as a sense of movement shared by many. For my novel, I hope to find something equally simple and compelling. So I search among book-cover websites and try to define what I like. The best ones, to me, function as two-way icons. They represent the book to the viewer but also speak to something in the viewer, inviting him or her into the book.

Against Happiness—
In Praise of Melancholy
Against Happiness' cover is a sort of visual pun. The viewer will have the joy of recognition, compounded by whatever positive or negative feeling she has about smiley faces.

The Disappointment Artist: Essays
The Disappointment Artist's cover is a single visual example of the book's subject. It will awaken vivid memories of taste and touch as well as feelings of floundering in many readers. I like The Road's cover best of all for the way it uses scale. It makes the viewer feel how small he is on the scale of trees and roads. My novel's title, A Free, Unsullied Land, suggests a vast landscape, but I shrink from the Southwest's gorgeous but well-known red-rock vistas. Perhaps a plain background with a sense of translucence and shading from top to bottom, like a sky without clouds. Perhaps a black-and-white image of a march protesting the unfair Scottsboro convictions layered in half-tone over part of the sky.
The Road:Novel

Meg Wollitzer, in her essay "Second Shelf," wrote about the tendency to relegate so-called women's fiction to that lower shelf, and she talked about that genre's typical covers: "Laundry hanging on a line. A little girl in a field of wildflowers. A pair of shoes on a beach. An empty swing on the porch of an old yellow house." But I would not exclude any of those images or demand the big, bold type face often reserved for novels by well-known men, as long as I can find the right face to put on the body of my work.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

A Novel's Journey: Bringing What Could Have Been to Life

Easter Mass

After a joyful, dance-filled Easter Mass a few weeks ago I got on a plane and flew to Vienna, then took a train, fighting sleep, to the Austrian town of Klagenfurt am W├Ârthersee, near the Italian border. There my son Tom, his wife Katya and their two-year-old baby Arisha met me. "Hallo," she said, greeting me with the friendly wave she bestows equally upon friends and strangers.
Arisha and mango ice cream
For a week I responded to her invitation, "Mmplay?" each morning on awaking. She'd take my hand and lead me to her room, where we'd take a bus, go to Europa Park and  have a picnic, all without leaving home.

When I returned to Chicago, I was sucked into the maelstrom of pre-publication for my novel, A Free, Unsullied Land, forthcoming from Fomite Press. I arranged the launch October 16, 7:30 pm at Women and Children First Bookstore, 5233 N. Clark St., Chicago, and marveled at the bumpy journey the book had made from conception to launch.

The Crack between the Worlds
In 2007, thinking my memoir, The Crack between the Worlds: a dancer's journey of loss, faith and family, would never see the light of day, I traveled with writing friend Tsivia Cohen to Tepoztlan in Mexico. We spent a week in the beautiful house and around the pool of my long-time friend Silvia Pandolfi, writing mornings and exploring the markets and byways of the town afternoons. As I wrote, I was sounding out the subject matter of my parents' time and place, Chicago 1930, to see if I could make it into fiction. It was like taking depth measurements, asking: can I probe this moment or this feeling and find its living heart?

Three years earlier, my mother had died, and I'd acquired correspondence from her youth. In those pages I met a young woman I'd never known. She was smart, irreverent, in love with poetry and word-play, but also fragile, oppressed by her own dominating mother and dangerously affectionate father. The mother I knew growing up had already sacrificed that young girl's saucy daring for stability, and she'd raised me and my sister with calm care. Reading the letters I wanted to give that girl a chance to enter into the struggles of her time, find her voice and speak her mind, to do the things my real mother never dared. In Tepoztlan I tried out moments, scenes and feelings, searching for the ones that rang a bell. I ended up with text like scrambling eggs, lumps of specificity barely taking shape in a thick and formless muck.

Arisha and Maggie in the back yard, Klagenfurt
in 2009 my memoir was published, and a year of book promotion followed. Meanwhile, my novel simmered acquiring two narrators, a man and a woman. I read Douglas Glover, Charles Baxter, E.K. Brown and others on the novel and took an early version of the story to my writing group and  friends who volunteered to read. The best advice I got was to drop the male voice and leave the story to my sassy protagonist, and this I did. But the book-in-progress had promises to keep and miles to go.

Flying back from Austria less than a week ago, I only wished Arisha could have joined the jubilant children at the Easter Mass, dancing in the aisles and on the stage at the back of the gym. But I can take a page from her book of adventures, where Europa Park is no less exciting in her room than in the real world. For the distance between what could have and was is precisely what first lured me to my mother's letters and now fills the pages of my novel.

Waterworks in Europa Park, Klagenfurt, where children can build damns, pump water, create and empty lakes

Thursday, July 17, 2014

Seventh Summer Week on Martha's Vineyard

Egret on Sengekontacket Pond (photo by Jordan Miller)
Lola above Inkwell Beach
Lola and Anton in Menemsha
Lola Morell, my granddaughter, was reading Counting by 7's when the extended Kast family assembled for the seventh time last week on Martha's Vineyard. Seven, fourteen . . .it's hard, but no harder than explaining how and why we convene, fourteen of us this year. We have the usual measure of jobs lost or found, divorces threatened or accomplished, lovers abandoned or sought, babies borne, illnesses survived. Most of us share a last name, but there the common features end. Some travel all night to spend two days. Some come once or twice and not again. Some stay the week. Some swim. All cook. Most men play chess at night and sleep by day.
This year they did the dishes daily.

left to right: Erica, Maggie, Ari, Avi, Byron, Oliver, Richard, Kim, Eun
Perhaps the family's origin in conflict knits our shaggy group together. I was the third wife of Eric Kast, an Austrian Jew kicked out in 1938. The sons of his first two marriages married once or twice and produced four children altogether. My bio-children total three, with three grandchildren from the lot. We are four generations in this photo, from me, the oldest, seventy-six, to Avi, seventeen months.Avi's dad, at forty-one, is five years older than his aunt, my youngest daughter, Erica.

Ari and Avi

Missing from the group photo: Anton and Lola, friends Sasha and Jordan. (Just try herding cats.) Twenty-one, twenty-eight, thirty-five.

Seven years ago I wished for a reunion for my 70th birthday. Thrown together, far from land, the family sensed utopia, a noplace where the days lacked names, and hours took a break. It's still that way for me, but my time out is located in a very real and complicated place—an island threatened by drowning in the rising waters of its sea as well as the rising prices of its land.

Terra incognita
For others in our group, the towns, wild lands and beaches of the island are still terra incognita, the week delimited by a room, a chess board and a bed. Forty-two, forty-nine, fifty-four.  Our distinct interests lead us on separate paths. I think this is what keeps us coming back.
VW covered in ivy, Oak Bluffs

Sasha and Erica on Sengekontacket Pond

Erica and Kim the furthest out at Longpoint Beach

Friday, July 4, 2014

You Can Get Away From It All—and Find It Too on Martha's Vineyard

View of Pond from deck of Lewis Camp
I just ended a week with Carter Frank and Jan and John Leary in the Lewis camp on Deep Bottom Cove of Tisbury Great Pond. During the '40s I spent some summers  on this  pond, and the biggest change I noted is in the regrowth of trees, so that cabins are now hidden deep in foliage, connected by rutted dirt roads that keep them free from the Vineyard's infamous crowds. The island has more enclaves, ponds, forests and reserves than I could discover in a lifetime, and I am grateful to organizations like the Trustees of Reservations and the Land Bank Commission for keeping them safe from development.
Carter swimming
 Carter and I were once modern dance colleagues. Now she's a swimmer, Tai Chi practitioner and photographer. I do yoga and write. Jan also writes. John paints and takes photos. The four of us planned to work half the time and play the other.

The first night, eating scrambled eggs by candlelight, we learned to  light the camp's gaslights over the stove and to wash up in the dark. After that it was battery-powered lanterns or candles to light the way to bed and nothing but sleep from sundown to dawn. As an early morning riser and writer, I led the way both down and up.

Dining room table with candles.
Quickly we all adapted to life without internet or TV, though all had better cell coverage than I and stayed in touch with kids and friends. The days began to flow, with trips to the West Tisbury Farmers Market for Carter and me and runs to Menemsha for John and Jan, yielding great dinners of striped bass, cod, and mammoth shrimp and scallops. Baby zucchini and turnips on the grill were John's special treat. I've never spent a week with such easy sharing of cooking, shopping, and cleaning up.

Carter in kayak
The brackish pond is separated from the ocean by a narrow strip of land, and Carter took a kayak twice the whole way to the beach.The rest of us made smaller, easier water forays and walked the distance to the ocean through the Longpoint Wildlife Refuge.
Carter and Jan at market

Longpoint Beach, sparsely populated, abuts its own pond, so you can look in one direction out to South America and in the other take a calm, stillwater swim.

We all swam in the pond off our own slim sandy beach. 
Carter on Longpoint Beach
In August, when the pond is opened to the ocean, tides flow in and out, and this beach gets long and flat. The practice of breaching ponds goes way back, and in my memory it was done by men with shovels in the '40s. All helped out. A video of the cut at Edgartown Great Pond can be viewed on Facebook at

Pond and ocean breezes kept our decks free from bugs, and often we were happy to spend hours reading books (or Kindles). Unlike some summer rentals, the Lewis camp was full of family lore: photos, artifacts, kitchen batterie to die for, cookbooks, books for children, games we didn't even start to play. I accomplished what I hoped: to prepare a novel manuscript for Kevin McIlvoy's "novel workout" in the fall, and Jan also finished one whole revision of her novel. Carter could be seen each morning doing Tai Chi on the deck, and John's camera on its tripod was set up indoors and out.
Stairs to second floor
At such a place you feel a guest in someone's home. I want to do the whole thing once again.
Deck, Lewis Camp

living room, Lewis Camp

Monday, January 13, 2014

Puerto Rico Redux

Calle del Sol in Old San Juan

When I was a college student in the '50s I visited San Juan for a few weeks, and last week I was back, attending the "resident" part of a Vermont College of Fine Arts low-residency MFA—Writing program, of which I am an alum. Even sixty years can't change the narrow, cobblestone streets of Old San Juan or the Spanish colonial architecture, the 16th century citadel of El Morro or the closely packed crypts and statues of the Cementario Santa Maria Magdalena. But traffic now chokes the streets. Signs indicate ongoing projects to improve La Perla, the infamous slum, but brilliantly colored houses still conceal poverty and drug trade, all washed by ocean surf.

Cemetary Maria Magdalen
La Perla
U.S. fast food and clothing chains have invaded Old San Juan, and diamond merchants have proliferated, shop after shop catering to the flood of tourists that pour from giant cruise ships each day. To feed these travelers, San Juan's restaurants serve "Latin fusion," as the guidebooks call it, but really it's placeless, homeless food that shoves aside the native comida criolla. In Old San Juan I yearned for remembered beans and rice flavored with sofrito, a mix of ham, root vegetables and native achiote; soupy asapao; green plantains fried crisp and ripe ones stewed to a sweet caramel.

Casa del Libro
El Libro y su Encuadernacion
Artist's Book: Creacion del Mundo/Creation of the World
 Beneath the glitzy, Americanized surface, leading Puerto Ricans lead their lives with depth and dedication. We visited the Casa del Libro, founded in the '50s, a museum housing a collection of rare books published from the 15th century on and preserved from the ravages of tropical climate. This history is told in a gorgeous volume called El Libro y su Encuadernacion, The Book and its Binding. An exhibit of artists' books from many lands included a beautiful illustration from the biblical Song of Songs: "I sought him whom my soul loves. I sought him, but I found him not."
Artist's Book: "I sought him, but I found him not."

Workshops and lectures with faculty Richard McCann and Mary Ruefle, outstanding writers and teachers,  were held daily wherever we were. We were privileged to meet Hector Feliciano, world citizen and author of The Lost Museum: the Nazi Conspiracy to Steal the World's Greatest Works of Art. Hector invited us to his airy, spacious house and up to his roof, telling us the story of his long search and the obsession required to unearth each vanished work of art. Equally contemporary was Yolanda Pizarro's passionate attention to the stories of Puerto Rico's enslaved black women, told in her book, Las Negras. Lecture became workshop as she urged us to consider our own names, their origins, meanings and the ways they define us. She asked us to write a short poem about the names. I wrote:

My middle name is Helen, hides
My grandma, also Helen, who conceals
In turn the girl who shamed her by 
Her girlish birth, while
Wedging her name between my first and last.

These lines turned out to encapsulate my novel, I Never Knew You Had a Girl, in which the protagonist, based on my mother, suffers the self-loathing that comes from having a mother who doesn't think much of girls.

El Yunque

Morning Sun on Bamboo

Americanization ends at the edge of El Yunque, the rainforest, where we spent the second four days. Though a U.S.National Forest, El Yunque is also a world unto itself, a place where bamboo whispers, life-giving water flows day and night, and plants win. Excellent local guides, Robin and his son Daniel, have befriended the plants and know the names and habits of each. They break off bits of edibles for us to crunch and offer pods of bromeliads for us to nurture back home. Waterfalls tumble down the steep mountains and pool in cool basins, one just below the Casa Cabuy, the Ecolodge where we stay. There cook Carmen prepares marvelous comida criolla: papaya and mango for breakfast as well as eggs and avena, oatmeal cooked with milk and sugar, served soupy. For lunch and dinner we eat beans, rice and fish or chicken, once pork, always plantain, green and crisp or ripe and mellow.

 Who would have thought a writing residency would require rock scrambling skills? I didn't, and didn't believe it until I stripped to my bathing suit (No phone? No photos?), noticed my glasses ("I'll take them," said Mary, and stuffed multiple pairs into a plastic bag, the bag into her swimsuit), and edged bleary-eyed down a mud path to slippery rocks and water. If the current was mentioned I didn't hear it over the rumble of cascading water. Nearly across I saw the bank retreat and called for help. A stranger dragged me and two others over the wet and moss-covered rocks to the shore.                                                         
Carolyn, Richard and Jude, waterfall at Casa Cabuy
Mary at the pool below Casa Cabuy
Waterfall in the Rainforest
                                               Picture ascents where there's nothing to grasp and footholds are slippery even when dry. Imagine steep descents of eight feet on one's seat, where only the total compression of knees can resist the insistence of weight. My knees don't compress and wrist tendons resist the helpful and needed assists that I got. A world unto itself, indeed! So well known to Robin that he saw no need to warn or explain, but knew the best move for each rock on the path. Our goal? Taino pictographs, attributed to first inhabitants. "They look better at dawn," said Robin, swiping them with a wet towel. "Look now, when they're wet. Use your imagination." He suggested a dive neath a thundering waterfall and hinted that those undesired are sometimes thrown in. We still had to return the same way that we came, and Mary and I exchanged a big hug at the finish.
Luquillo Beach

A day on the beach capped our week, romping and swimming and eating at the beach's famed sixty kiosks with our fellow students, Richard, Mary, and our organizational guru, poet Pam Taylor. The camaraderie of all was just as infectious and lively as the workshops and lectures had been perceptive and challenging.

VCFA Encampment on Luquillo Beach: Sophfronia, Mary, Shanalee, Carolyn, Partridge, Lillian, Richard

Evidence: I was there