Saturday, October 20, 2012

Mid-October : Autumn in upstate New York

   Durand Eastman Park photo by K. Iuppa

What a busy, busy, busy week. We're mid-semester.  Classes are humming along.  Harvest is starting to
wind down now.  All the shelves are stocked and freezers are full. The taste of summer will be ours in the middle of February.  This weekend will be dedicated to grading papers and writing.  Mantra: "I have promises  to keep.  Miles to go before I sleep."

At Fisher this week, James Whorton Jr. read from his recently released novel Angela Sloan. My classes read this novel and thoroughly enjoyed it.  Stylistically, the chapters are short, 1-3 pages long.  Consequently,
the reading is as addictive as eating an exceptional bag of potato chips-- you can't put it down!

The story is an adventure.  The narrator is 14-year-old Angela Sloan, who is adopted by Ray Sloan, retired CIA agent, after the murder of her family in the Stanleyville massacre in the Congo in 1964.  The novel begins in its engaging epistolary style. Some shocking things happen.  I like the way it explores identity, concept of family, love, friendship and courage.  It's a must read.

Upcoming reading at Fisher, November 1, Poet Thom Ward reading from his recent collection Etcetera's Mistress. (Accents Publishing, 2011)  This will be at 7:30 p.m. in the Golisano Gateway Mid-level.  This is free and open to the public.

Today, I had an early morning drive to Warsaw, New York.  The temperature at home was 48 degrees.  By
the time I arrived in Warsaw, the temperature had dropped 8 degrees.  Thick fog smoldering  on those painted foothills.  Small town after small town waking up to the day.   Me too.  Early rising to get there in plenty of time.   I wish I had a bit more time to mosey around in some of those towns.  Some storefronts caught my eye.   Maybe I'll have an  hour to spare in the next week or so.   We'll see.
Have some story ideas brewing in my head. These may be chapters for my half-finished novella.
 I think I write in my head while driving.  So when I get a hour to write, it just comes tumbling out.  The long drives on country roads  become a meditation.  I try to relax into the road and watch the shift of the landscape.


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