Posted: January 6, 2020 Filed under: Blog Content, Books, Creative Nonfiction, Memoir, Nonfiction, Self-Help, Writing, Writing to be Read | Tags: Creative Nonfiction, essays, How To, Memoir, Self-Help, True Story, Writing to be Read
Nonfiction is the stuff texts books are made of, the straight-out boring stuff that puts you to sleep, right? Not necessarily. Texts books don’t have to be boring. Nonfiction that is written creatively can capture the reader’s interest or immerse them into true life stories. From memoir, to self-help and how-to books, and yes, even text books can be highly entertaining.
True life circumstances and facts determine the story in nonfiction, yet nonfiction authors are faced with the same challenges as fiction authors to bring the characters and setting to life in the readers mind, or portray the information they wish to relate in a manner which readers can relate to. Both fiction and nonfiction authors strive to grab readers attention, now, in this digital age more so than ever before. But there are differences, as well.
To start off 2020, we’re going to delve into creative nonfiction in January. We have a pretty good sampling on the different forms that creative nonfiction might take. My author guest on “Chatting with the Pros” is bestselling author and memoirist, Diana Raab, who believes in the healing powers of writing. I will also be interviewing an author team, Mark Todd and Kym O’Connell Todd, who wrote Wild West Ghosts, one of the most informative and entertaining how-to books I’ve read. I will also be reviewing a true crime book, Missing: Murder Suspected, by Austin Stone, edited by his son Ed after his father’s passing, and a book on writing, On Being a Dictator, by Kevin J. Anderson and Martin Shoemaker. I do hope you will join us and help get Writing to be Read off to a good start for the year ahead.
For additional samplings of creative nonfiction see the following interviews and reviews:
“Chatting with the Pros: Interview with Nonfiction Author Mark Shaw”
“Interview with author Mark Shaw”
“Interview with author B.Lynn Goodwin”
Review: How I Sold 80,000 Books: Book Marketing for Authors by Alinka Rowkowski
“Interview with multi-genre author Brenda Mohammed”
“Interview with nature author Susan J. Tweit”
Review: How to Become a Published Author, by Mark Shaw
Review: The Well-Fed Writer, by Peter Bowerman
Review: Stress: How Stress Affects Your Life and How to Manage It, by Dr. Christine Rose
Review: Hack Your Reader’s Brain, by Jeff Gerke
Review: Horror 101: The Way Forward (Crystal Lake Publishing)
Review: Hollywood Game Plan, by Caro;e Kirschner
Review: Simplified Writing 101, by Erin Brown Conroy
Review: The Road Has Eyes, by Art Rosch
Review: The Reporter Who Knew Too Much, by Mark Shaw
Review: Denial of Justice, by Mark Shaw
Review: Courage in the Face of Evil, by Mark Shaw
Review: Letters of May, edited by Julie Alcin
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Posted: August 28, 2019 Filed under: Inspirational, Poetry, The Many Faces of Poetry, Writing | Tags: essays, Humor, mushrooms, Performance, Poetry, spacetime, The Many Faces of Poetry, timespace, Writing to be Read
In the 90s I lived in Marin County, in the San Geronimo Valley. The Valley is something like heaven. It’s undeveloped land full of hiking trails, hills and valleys, winding roads and custom built wooden houses. It has its own culture. The San Geronimo Valley Cultural Center is a meeting hall and multi-purpose space where events can happen. Some of the Center’s regular features are readings of poetry. It’s a frequent venue for local bands. I participated in a lot of the Cultural Center’s events. I appeared frequently for poetry readings. I assembled my band, “The Cryptic Research Orkestra” and played songs like “Barking Platypus At Midnight”.
It’s gratifying to be known, to have a small following of people who will show up because my name is on the flyer that is pasted up and down Sir Francis Drake Boulevard.
On this night my “peeps” were there, all the fans who knew that I might provide the unexpected, or do something funny, play drums or read poetry.
My poetry first finds expression in one of my black notebooks. These are bound books of clean pages, two hundred pages per volume. I purchase them at book stores or online. My closet is home for a dozen of these volumes. I keep the latest two or three books in my top drawer, so that I can read from them at live shows. Eventually I type my poems into the computer and add them to my master volume.
When it was my turn to read I carried one of the volumes onto the stage while I put the other two behind me, behind my drum set. Then I did my thing: I read. I entertained, enchanted, lala lalala, I sprouted wings and floated to the ceiling. When the mushrooms began to wear off I realized that I had read a single poem of eight lines. It had seemed like twenty minutes. Don’t perform on psychedelics. It promotes delusions and confusions. Anyway, I had a spare fifteen or twenty minutes left, so I turned to claim one of my other books. I saw a tall furtive figure creeping off the stage with my two notebooks in hand. “Hey!” I yelled and he took off on lanky legs, flying like an antelope. I ran in pursuit but when I got through the door there was no sign of him.
Why would anyone want to steal my books of poetry? Was this a case of lunacy, over -the- top fan-dom, both, or neither? Was the thief going to read my poems and claim them as his own? I would never know. I spent days musing on the nature of my loss. I hadn’t computerized those books yet. My memory was inadequate. I knew there were some really good poems in the books. One of them was a game I played with time, space and words. The words occupied strategic parts of the page. The poem began in the upper left corner and said, “From which Point Of View” then it dropped to the middle of the page and said “Ever Shifting”, then dropped to the left bottom corner, said “Changing” and that’s all I could remember of how I structured this marvelous statement about the ephemeral nature of reality.
I had lost all those poems. Shit. I felt hollow in my belly, like I was hungry, but it was more like a mist of needle-like molecules of loss. Emptiness. Helplessness. I could never get back those poems. From that moment forward I vowed to make back ups. And I said goodbye to two or three years of excellent poetic momentum, my precious “middle period”, before I got old and detached from the world. Before I could see the world as a toy or board game or a scratchy reel of film from the twenties. Because…that’s what the world is, isn’t it? A game? A farce? A fraud.
A test of love, of strength, a breeding house of character. The world is so many things that as I age I appreciate senility…I mean, how much crap can a mind contain, anyway? This is why the memory folds like an origami and seemingly disconnected concepts join up in new ways. Origami. Poetry. Aha! I remember! My “from which point of view” poem was supposed to be folded up, then opened in a strict sequence. But I’ll never reconstruct that. It’s gone.
Here’s one that’s not gone.
I talk to the world
I know, I know,
you’re wondering what
it all is,
why it’s so damned
and why you can’t just
and make it good
why it’s so freaking hard
to work out
why there’s no answer: no,
not even an answer,
just a way
that isn’t painful
out of tune….
I know, I know…
What the hell is it?
What started it to go this way
and not some other
some way deeper,
than the squalid human consequences
of being here
with all this motherstuff
What is it that made our world
that to get a drink of water
to own a house
to dig a well
to marry a total stranger
means ten generations
of violent feud
to human beings
how did we miss everything
why aren’t we quiet enough
to see a hundred fifty shades
in a sunset cloud
why are we so noisy
so sloppy and clumsy
why do we breathe all wrong,
BREATHE ALL WRONG
what does it take
to be right with the world?
Look in the eyes of your baby.
Remember what you see.
Try very hard to remember
look in the eyes
of your lover
remember what you see
and its intricate rich depth,
It’s so easy to forget
it takes but a heart beat
were we talking about love?
I don’t remember.
There was something that confused me,
and now, see,
A Midwesterner by birth, Arthur Rosch migrated to the West Coast just in time to be a hippie but discovered that he was more connected to the Beatnik generation. He harkened back to an Old School world of jazz, poetry, painting and photography. In the Eighties he received Playboy Magazine’s Best Short Story Award for a comic view of a planet where there are six genders. The timing was not good. His life was falling apart as he struggled with addiction and depression. He experienced the reality of the streets for more than a decade. Putting himself back together was the defining experience of his life. It wasn’t easy. It did, however, nurture his literary soul. He has a passion for astronomy, photography, history, psychology and the weird puzzle of human experience. He is currently a certified Seniors Peer Counselor in Sonoma County, California. Come visit his blogs and photo sites. www.artrosch.com and http://bit.ly/2uyxZbv.
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