Saturday, March 9, 2019

#78 Backstory of the Poem "My Mother was 19" by John Guzlowski




*The images in this specific piece are granted copyright privilege by:  Public Domain, CCSAL, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law, or given copyright privilege by the copyright holder which is identified beneath the individual photo.

**Some of the links will have to be copied and then posted in your search engine in order to pull up properly

*** The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished poets for BACKSTORY OF THE POEM series.  Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7

***This is the seventy-eighth in a never-ending series called BACKSTORY OF THE POEM where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific poem and how the poet wrote that specific poem.  All BACKSTORY OF THE POEM links are at the end of this piece. 
#78 Backstory of the Poem “My Mother was 19”
by John Guzlowski
Can you go through the step-by-step process of writing this poem from the moment the idea was first conceived in your brain until final form? “My Mother Was 19” is about what happened the day the Nazis came to my mother’s farm in Poland and killed much of her family.  It wasn’t an easy poem to write.  I had been trying to write this poem for about thirty years. 
How do you talk about your grandmother and your aunt getting raped and murdered, your aunt’s baby getting kicked to death?   Your mother being beaten?  Her escape from the home where this happened?  Her years after as a slave laborer in Nazi Germany?  What she had to do to survive?  How all this affected her? 
For a long time, I couldn’t write about it because I didn’t know enough about it.  My mother wouldn’t talk about it.  If I asked her to tell me about what happened, she’d just wave me away saying, “If they give you bread, you eat it.  If they beat you, you run away.”  
And when my dad sometimes talked about what happened when the Germans came, it was mainly whispers and bits of information.  I think he was afraid to tell the story because he didn’t want to burden me with the terror my mom experienced.   

So when I first wrote about it, the poems that came out mainly came from what my dad told me.  They were about everything that happened except for what happened.  
I wrote about the dry summer at the start of the war, the boxcars the Germans put my mom on, the landscape she passed through on the train trip to the slave labor camps in Germany, the work she did in those camps, and her liberation at the end of the war.  I even wrote a poem called “Here’s What My Mother Won’t Talk About,” but it too was a poem that didn’t talk about what happened. 
This all changed when I had a book of these poems published in Poland.  My mom was in her seventies then, and up to this point, I had been occasionally showing her my poems about her and my dad, but she couldn’t read the poems because they were in English.  So when she saw the poems she would say, “Hmm, that’s interesting” and move on. 
This changed when I showed her my poems in a Polish edition. 
She read them. 
She sat right down and read about ten of the poems about her experiences and my dad’s experiences in the war, and then she looked at me and said, “That’s not the way it was.” 
That’s when she started talking then about what had happened when the Germans came to her home and what happened after the killing, her capture, her grief, and the two years of misery in the slave labor camps in Germany.



We kept up this conversation until she died four years later.  A lot of times I would go to see her and she would ask me to take out a pen and some paper because she remembered something else she wanted to say about her years under the Nazis.
It wasn’t always easy listening to these stories.  There were times when I had to ask my mother not to tell me anymore because -- even though I was a grown man and a teacher -- there were things she was telling me that I did not want to hear.

Once I knew what had happened to my mother, the actual writing was pretty straight-forward.  I’m not the kind of writer that broods over a line and rewrites it a dozen times.  I like poems that seem like they’re part of some kind of conversation, like one person is telling a story to another person. 



That’s what I try for in most of my poems, and that’s what I was trying to get at in this poem.  I wanted the reader to hear my mom’s story the way she told me the story.  I wanted the poem to say, “This happened, and then this happened, and then this happened.”  In very plain language, without a lot of poetic fuss. 

So the poem begins with just some the essential facts, about who was killed, who was raped.  When my mom finally told me the story of that day, this is the way she told it.  Very plain. Very barebones language.  Then about half way through the poem I start giving the German soldier’s points of view.  This I think came from my dad, his hatred for the German, a hatred that never left him.  He saw his friends castrated, beaten, kicked to death, hanged and shot by the Germans in the camps, and the way I present that sense of the German’s essential evil comes from what my dad felt and saw.  (Below:  Jan Guzlowski far left)



The ending in the poem where I talk about God not giving you any favors and thinking that He does is just “bullshit” that’s my mom’s voice.  The war and what happened to her and the women and girls in her family taught her not to trust or depend on anyone or anything, not other people and not God. 


Where were you when you started to actually write the poem?   And please describe the place in great details.  I remember where I was.   I was teaching at Eastern Illinois University, a small school in a small town just south of the middle of the state.  I was there only 3 days a week.  


The rest of the time I lived in Bowling Green, Kentucky where my wife was the chair of the English Department at Western Kentucky University.  In Charleston, Illinois, the small town where my school was, I was living in a boarding house.  I had a tiny tiny room there with a really uncomfortable bed, so I spent most of my time in my office in the English Department.  
The office was large, and I had a big desk that was always cluttered up with papers I was grading and books I was reading and an ancient computer that must have weighed 30 pounds.  

The clutter was so bad that if I wanted to write something, I would always have to clear a space on the desk.  Two walls were covered with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, and I used every since inch of that space for all my books, the ones I loved and had loved for decades. 
The office had a great view.  


It looked out over 4th Street and the other side of 4th street there was a pond and woods and trails.  It was like a park, and a lot of times I would sit in my office with my back to the door and my eyes enjoying the woods and the pond.
This is where I did a lot of my writing, in the evening when the building was pretty much empty except for me and a janitor and maybe another prof who was hiding from his wife because he was drunk or stoned.

What month and year did you start writing this poem? It was January, 2004.  My mom was 82 and nearing the end of her life.  I had just flown out to see her in Sun City, Arizona, right after Christmas, and now I was back at work teaching at Eastern.  I was sitting at my desk surrounded by all that clutter, and I started looking at all the notes I had taken while I was with my mom, notes about the stories she had told me about what had happened to her.  What really drew me was the story about the day the Germans came to her farm and did the things they did.

How many drafts of this poem did you write before going to the final?  (And can you share a photograph of your rough drafts with pen markings on it? I wish I had the rough drafts.  I have always been messy about stuff like drafts and papers.  I can’t find any of the drafts of anything I wrote back then.  Now it’s better because everything is on my computer, but back then it was all in folders, and the folders have disappeared over the years.  We’ve moved about 6 times since I left Eastern Illinois University, and each time we get rid of stuff.

Were there any lines in any of your rough drafts of this poem that were not in the final version?  And can you share them with us? Drafts of this poem?  I can only guess how many drafts.  Bunches.  At that time, I was a slow writing poet.  I’d do about 5 or 6 poems a year, reworking and reworking.  I had to finally force myself to stop work on a poem after 2 weeks. 


What I can say, however, is that I had a problem with the poem, and that problem was talking about my mom getting raped.  In a lot of the drafts I tried to hide it.  In fact, in the earliest draft of the poem, my mom’s getting raped isn’t mentioned at all.  The biggest change I made in the poem was telling the truth about that.  Once I did, I knew that the poem was done.

Were there any lines in any of your rough drafts of this poem that were not in the final version?  And can you share them with us? The lines that I cut were the lines that talked about my mom’s sister Sophia being raped.  When I finally decided to tell the reader my mom was the one that was raped, I knew that I had to put the focus on that rape.

What do you want readers of this poem to take from this poem? A lot of time when we think about war, we focus on the struggles and suffering of soldiers and heroes, what they go through.  What I want people to take away from my poem is that mothers and fathers and children suffer as much if not more in war.  In the Second World War, 100 million people died.  Most were moms and dads, infants, school kids.  I want people to know that and remember.

Which part of the poem was the most emotional for you to write and why? The last part where I talk about God not giving you any favor and how believing that he does give you favors is bullshit.  That’s the most emotional because I heard my mom say it.  It’s her voice alive in that poem.  When I read that section alive, she’s with me again even though she’s been dead now for 12 years.

Has the poem been published before?  And if so where? The poem appears in Echoes of Tattered Tongues, my book of poems and short prose pieces about my mom and dad and the war. 



Anything you would like to add? Yes, I also write novels.  My first crime novel Suitcase Charlie, about a serial killer loose in the neighborhood I grew up in in Chicago, has just come out.  The New York Times and Wall Street Journal both loved it.  The next mystery in the series is scheduled to come out in the summer.  I’m working on the 3rd right now.  The detectives are Hank and Marvin, and they have plenty of their own problems too. 

My Mother Was 19
Soldiers from nowhere
came to my mother’s farm
killed her sister’s baby
with their heels
shot my grandma too

One time in the neck
then for kicks in the face
lots of times

They saw my mother
they didn’t care
she was a virgin
dressed in a blue dress
with tiny white flowers

Raped her
so she couldn’t stand up
couldn’t lie down
couldn’t talk

They broke her teeth
when they shoved
the dress in her mouth

If they had a camera
they would’ve taken her picture
and sent it to her

That’s the kind they were

Let me tell you:
God doesn’t give
you any favors

He doesn’t say
now you’ve seen
this bad thing
but tomorrow
you’ll see this good thing
and when you see it
you’ll be smiling

That’s bullshit

I was born in a refugee camp in Germany after the war.  When I was 3 we came to the US and moved to Chicago.  Growing up in the tough immigrant neighborhoods around Humboldt Park in Chicago, I met hardware store clerks with Auschwitz tattoos on their wrists, Polish cavalry officers who still mourned for their dead horses, and women who had walked from Siberia to Iran to escape the Russians. In much of my work, I try to remember and honor the experiences and ultimate strength of these survivors.
You can also find me on twitter and facebook. 


BACKSTORY OF THE POEM LINKS


001  December 29, 2017
Margo Berdeshevksy’s “12-24”

002  January 08, 2018
Alexis Rhone Fancher’s “82 Miles From the Beach, We Order The Lobster At Clear Lake Café”

003 January 12, 2018
Barbara Crooker’s “Orange”

004 January 22, 2018
Sonia Saikaley’s “Modern Matsushima”

005 January 29, 2018
Ellen Foos’s “Side Yard”

006 February 03, 2018
Susan Sundwall’s “The Ringmaster”

007 February 09, 2018
Leslea Newman’s “That Night”

008 February 17, 2018
Alexis Rhone Fancher “June Fairchild Isn’t Dead”

009 February 24, 2018
Charles Clifford Brooks III “The Gift of the Year With Granny”

010 March 03, 2018
Scott Thomas Outlar’s “The Natural Reflection of Your Palms”

011 March 10, 2018
Anya Francesca Jenkins’s “After Diane Beatty’s Photograph “History Abandoned”

012  March 17, 2018
Angela Narciso Torres’s “What I Learned This Week”

013 March 24, 2018
Jan Steckel’s “Holiday On ICE”

014 March 31, 2018
Ibrahim Honjo’s “Colors”

015 April 14, 2018
Marilyn Kallett’s “Ode to Disappointment”

016  April 27, 2018
Beth Copeland’s “Reliquary”

017  May 12, 2018
Marlon L Fick’s “The Swallows of Barcelona”

018  May 25, 2018
Juliet Cook’s “ARTERIAL DISCOMBOBULATION”

019  June 09, 2018
Alexis Rhone Fancher’s “Stiletto Killer. . . A Surmise”

020 June 16, 2018
Charles Rammelkamp’s “At Last I Can Start Suffering”

021  July 05, 2018
Marla Shaw O’Neill’s “Wind Chimes”

022 July 13, 2018
Julia Gordon-Bramer’s “Studying Ariel”

023 July 20, 2018
Bill Yarrow’s “Jesus Zombie”

024  July 27, 2018
Telaina Eriksen’s “Brag 2016”

025  August 01, 2018
Seth Berg’s “It is only Yourself that Bends – so Wake up!”

026  August 07, 2018
David Herrle’s “Devil In the Details”

027  August 13, 2018
Gloria Mindock’s “Carmen Polo, Lady Necklaces, 2017”

028  August 21, 2018
Connie Post’s “Two Deaths”

029  August 30, 2018
Mary Harwell Sayler’s “Faces in a Crowd”

030 September 16, 2018
Larry Jaffe’s “The Risking Point”

031  September 24, 2018
Mark Lee Webb’s “After We Drove”

032  October 04, 2018
Melissa Studdard’s “Astral”

033 October 13, 2018
Robert Craven’s “I Have A Bass Guitar Called Vanessa”

034  October 17, 2018
David Sullivan’s “Paper Mache Peaches of Heaven”

035 October 23, 2018
Timothy Gager’s “Sobriety”

036  October 30, 2018
Gary Glauber’s “The Second Breakfast”

037  November 04, 2018
Heather Forbes-McKeon’s “Melania’s Deaf Tone Jacket”

038 November 11, 2018
Andrena Zawinski’s “Women of the Fields”

039  November 00, 2018
Gordon Hilger’s “Poe”

040 November 16, 2018
Rita Quillen’s “My Children Question Me About Poetry” and “Deathbed Dreams”

041 November 20, 2018
Jonathan Kevin Rice’s “Dog Sitting”

042 November 22, 2018
Haroldo Barbosa Filho’s “Mountain”

043  November 27, 2018
Megan Merchant’s “Grief Flowers”

044 November 30, 2018
Jonathan P Taylor’s “This poem is too neat”

045  December 03, 2018
Ian Haight’s “Sungmyo for our Dead Father-in-Law”

046 December 06, 2018
Nancy Dafoe’s “Poem in the Throat”

047 December 11, 2018
Jeffrey Pearson’s “Memorial Day”

048  December 14, 2018
Frank Paino’s “Laika”

049  December 15, 2018
Jennifer Martelli’s “Anniversary”

O50  December 19, 2018
Joseph Ross’s For Gilberto Ramos, 15, Who Died in the Texas Desert, June 2014”

051 December 23, 2018
“The Persistence of Music”
by Anatoly Molotkov

052  December 27, 2018
“Under Surveillance”
by Michael Farry

053  December 28, 2018
“Grand Finale”
by Renuka Raghavan

054  December 29, 2018
“Aftermath”
by Gene Barry

055 January 2, 2019
“&”
by Larissa Shmailo

056  January 7, 2019
“The Seamstress:
by Len Kuntz

057  January 10, 2019
"Natural History"
by Camille T Dungy


058  January 11, 2019
“BLOCKADE”
by Brian Burmeister

059  January 12, 2019
“Lost”
by Clint Margrave

060 January 14, 2019
“Menopause”
by Pat Durmon

061 January 19, 2019
“Neptune’s Choir”
by Linda Imbler

062  January 22, 2019
“Views From the Driveway”
by Amy Barone

063  January 25, 2019
“The heron leaves her haunts in the marsh”
by Gail Wronsky

064  January 30, 2019
“Shiprock”
by Terry Lucas

065 February 02, 2019
“Summer 1970, The University of Virginia Opens to Women in the Fall”
by Alarie Tennille

066 February 05, 2019
“At School They Learn Nouns”
by Patrick Bizzaro

067  February 06, 2019
“I Must Not Breathe”
by Angela Jackson-Brown

068 February 11, 2019
“Lunch on City Island, Early June”
by Christine Potter

069 February 12, 2019
“Singing”
by Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum

070 February 14, 2019
“Daily Commute”
by Christopher P. Locke

071 February 18, 2019
“How Silent The Trees”
by Wyn Cooper


072 February 20, 2019
“A New Psalm of Montreal”
by Sheenagh Pugh

073 February 23, 2019
“Make Me A Butterfly”
by Amy Barbera

074 February 26, 2019
“Anthem”
by Sandy Coomer

075 March 4, 2019
“Shape of a Violin”
by Kelly Powell

076 March 5, 2019
“Inward Oracle”
by J.P. Dancing Bear

077 March 7, 2019
“I Broke My Bust Of Jesus”
by Susan Sundwall

078 March 9, 2019
“My Mother at 19”
by John Guzlowski

Friday, March 8, 2019

#24 Inside the Emotion of Fiction's "Pasture Art" by Marlin Barton



*The images in this specific piece are granted copyright privilege by:  Public Domain, CCSAL, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law, or given copyright privilege by the copyright holder which is identified beneath the individual photo.

**Some of the links will have to be copied and then posted in your search engine in order to pull up properly

***The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished fiction genre writers for INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION.  Contact CRC Blog via email at
caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7

****Marlin Barton’s “Pasture Art” is the twenty-fourth in a never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific excerpt from a fiction genre and how that fiction writer wrote that specific excerpt.  All INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION links are at the end of this piece. 


Name of fiction work? And were there other names you considered that you would like to share with us? The title is "Pasture Art." I also considered the titles "Something out of Nothing" and "Out of Nothing."

Fiction genre? Ex science fiction, short story, fantasy novella, romance, drama, crime, plays, flash fiction, historical, comedy, etc. And how many pages long? It's a short story, the title story of my most recent collection. It runs 20 typed, double spaced pages, and 17 printed pages in book form.


Has this been published? And it is totally fine if the answer is no. If yes, what publisher and what publication date? It was published in 2015 by Hub City Press in Spartanburg, South Carolina.


What is the date you began writing this piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of fiction? I began the story about December of 2007 and finished it in early February of 2008. It was then published in the literary journal Shenandoah in the fall of 2010 before appearing in book form in 2015. As you can see, writing and publishing don't happen in quick succession. 


Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction work? And please describe in detail. And can you please include a photo? I wrote the story at my desk in my home office. The desk is actually an old, small dining room table with the leaves removed, and it faces a large window. I like to see the outdoors while I write. Light and space are always good for the imagination, well, at least for my imagination. 


Flannery O'Connor wrote at a small desk facing the wall, which obviously worked for her. I also like to keep my desk uncluttered. Too much stuff seems to clutter my mind, though I do have a few quotes about writing framed on my desk, and a small globe, a gift from my wife Rhonda, and a small telescope. At some point I realized they symbolize the micro and the macro world, both of which are important to any writer.

What were your writing habits while writing this work--did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? I tend to write in the mornings, at least on days that I don't teach, and I like to write from about 10:00 to 1:00. 
After three hours I'm not as sharp. I need absolute quiet, some caffeine to drink, either Diet Coke or tea, and I write with a medium-point, blue ink pen on yellow, legal paper, and it has to be college-ruled, 8 1/2 x 11. Later I type the handwritten draft onto a computer and create a Word document, which allows me to go back in and rewrite after I have writer friends offer critiques.  

What is the summary of this specific fiction work? In this story a teenage girl named Leah is about to finish high school, and because she has grown up with little money, no father, and a mother who drinks and does not take care of her diabetes properly, Leah feels weighted down with responsibilities she shouldn't have had to take on; she simply has no idea how to escape her circumstances. 
She and her mother live in a rental house owned by a wealthy farmer who creates pasture art out of large, round hay bales and other found objects such as driftwood, 55-gallon drums, old pieces of tin, etc. The works that passersby can see from the highway include a helicopter, a train, and a sail boat. Ultimately, when Leah sees one of the pieces of pasture art catch fire one night, this farmer, Mr. Hutchins, and his primitive art, may just show Leah a way into a better future, despite the fact that Leah has stolen small but valuable items from his house. (Above Left: Pasture Artist Jim Bird)

Can you give the reader just enough information for them to understand what is going on in the excerpt? The excerpt below is from the opening of the story and gives readers both a sense of the circumstances Leah lives in and a sense of the conflict between Leah and her mother.

Please include the excerpt and include page numbers as reference.  The excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer.


     The helicopter sits in the middle of the hay field, its blades still except when the wind blows. Just beyond it a sailboat rides crashing waves, and the train engine strains up the small rise, though its smokestack never blows smoke. There are giant bugs, too, and spiders, a matador with red cape in front of a charging bull, and a tank with its cannon raised. A huge baseball cap with an A for the Atlanta Braves sits at the edge of the field, two eyes just beneath the brim. It isn’t lost on Leah that her three favorites are all something she can ride away on. Out of here by water, rail, or air—any way will do.
     Pasture art, that’s what Mr. Hutchins calls it. Leah guesses he knows what he’s talking about. After all, he’s the one who makes it, and it is his pasture, just like it’s his tenant house they rent and his old car they make payments on. She’s read about indentured servants in history class.
That’s what she feels like. Cleaning his house and cooking for him three times a week doesn’t help with that feeling, either.
     He mostly uses round bales when he works on his creations, and she’s watched him move hay with the large fork on the front of his tractor. But he’ll use anything that works: cut up pieces of tin, rusty fifty-five gallon drums, driftwood from out of the Tennahpush River, a mirror he took from an old house that had fallen in, which is what he used for the door on the helicopter. Long pieces of tin make the ’copters blades, and old drums welded to a galvanized pipe form its tail and back rudder. When she squints it looks almost real, as if it might lift, hover, and be gone.
     “A waste of good hay,” her mother says from behind her. “And to think, people come out to take pictures of it.”
     Leah turns away from the window and finds her mother leaning against the kitchen doorway for support. She has bad feet, the bottom of one bruised over for more than two weeks now.
     “I like looking at all of it,” Leah says.
     “I don’t know why. Looks like something a child would do.”
     “It’s different,” she says.
     “It’s hay and junk is what it is.”
     Leah isn’t going to argue. “Time for your shot,” she says, which is its own argument, but one she feels she has to wage.
     Her mother shakes her head and waves a hand through the air dismissively.

Why is this excerpt so emotional for you? And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this specific excerpt? This story began with an image of a girl standing in front of a trailer beneath a large oak looking down the hill at an open pasture. I didn't know what her story was, but I knew she was trapped within difficult circumstances and did not know how to make her life better. I felt her desperation and felt a responsibility to tell her story and to see if I could find a way out for her. By the time I began writing, I'd gotten rid of the trailer, the hill, and the oak tree, but I'd begun to know and care about her. The emotional aspect of writing this excerpt really came down to my deep need to make the reader care about Leah as much as I did, and still do. 

Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked up rough drafts of this excerpt. There are only small deletions, corrections, and changes in this opening excerpt,  but I'm glad to share them. 
Writing is a lot of trial and error, and sometimes I have to make large cuts, but not with this particular story.

Other works you have published? In addition to Pasture Art,  my other two short story collections are The Dry Well and Dancing by the River. I've also published two novels, A Broken Thing and The Cross Garden.


Anything you would like to add? I grew up in Forkland, Alabama, in Greene County, and there is a man there named Jim Bird who began making pasture art in the 1980s. He is still at it, and whoever might be interested can find photos and articles about it pretty easily on-line. The story I wrote is completely fiction, but I always knew I wanted to find a way to use Jim's pasture art in a story of mine.

Marlin Barton is from the Black Belt region of Alabama. His most recent book is Pasture Art, a collection of short stories. He has published two novels, The Cross Garden and A Broken Thing, and two previous collections, The Dry Well and Dancing by the River. His stories have appeared in a variety of journals and anthologies, including Prize Stories: The O. Henry Awards and The Best American Short Stories. He has also been awarded the Truman Capote Prize for short fiction. He teaches in, and helps direct, the Writing Our Stories project, a program for juvenile offenders created by the Alabama Writers' Forum, and he's been teaching in the low-residency MFA program at Converse College since 2010.

INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION links


001   11 15 2018 Nathaniel Kaine’s
Thriller Novel
John Hunter – The Veteran

002   11 18 2018 Ed Protzzel’s
Futuristic/Mystery/Thriller
The Antiquities Dealer 

003   11 23 2018 Janice Seagraves’s
Science Fiction Romance
Exodus Arcon

004   11 29 2018 Christian Fennell’s
Literary Fiction Novel
The Fiddler in the Night

005  12 02 2018 Jessica Mathews’s
Adult Paranormal Romance
Death Adjacent

006  12 04 2018 Robin Jansen’s
Literary Fiction Novel
Ruby the Indomitable

007  12 12 2018  Adair Valerez’s
Literary Fiction Novel
Scrim

008  12 17 218 Kit Frazier’s
Mystery Novel
Dead Copy

009 12 21 2019 Robert Craven’s
Noir/Spy Novel
The Road of a Thousand Tigers

010 01 13 2019 Kristine Goodfellow’s
Contemporary Romantic Fiction
The Other Twin

011 01 17 2019 Nancy J Cohen’s
Cozy Mystery
Trimmed To Death

012 01 20 2019 Charles Salzberg’s
Crime Novel
Second Story Man

013 01 23 2019 Alexis Fancher’s
Flash Fiction
His Full Attention

014 01 27 2019 Brian L Tucker’s
Young Adult/Historical
POKEWEED:  AN ILLUSTRATED NOVELLA

015 01 31 2019 Robin Tidwell’s
Dystopian
Reduced

016 02 07 2019 J.D. Trafford’s
Legal Fiction/Mystery
Little Boy Lost

017 02 08 2019 Paula Shene’s
Young Adult ScieFi/Fantasy/Romance/Adventure
My Quest Begins 

018 02 13 2019 Talia Carner’s
Mainstream Fiction/ Suspense/ Historical
Hotel Moscow

019 02 15 2019 Rick Robinson’s
Multidimensional Fiction
Alligator Alley

020 02 21 2019 LaVerne Thompson’s
Urban Fantasy
The Soul Collectors

021 02 27 2019 Marlon L Fick’s
Post-Colonialist Novel
The Nowhere Man

022 03 02 2019 Carol Johnson's
Mainstream Novel 
Silk And Ashes

023 03 06 2019 Samuel Snoek-Brown's
Short Story Collection
There Is No Other Way to Worship Them

024 03 08 2019 Marlin Barton's 
Short Story Collection
Pasture Art
https://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2019/03/24-inside-emotion-of-fictions-pasture.html