49 Writers Workshop Registration: Finding Your Voice

January 30 and February 6, 9:30 a.m. – 1 p.m.

Elim Café, 561 W. Dimond Blvd, upstairs conference room


Authors Deb Vanasse and Andromeda Romano-Lax lead writers in a workshop of strategies, exercises, and critiques designed to help writers discover and enhance the key element of voice in all stages of their craft, from prewriting through revision. In two sessions separated by a week of individual practice, each participant will draft and revise a project that demonstrates the power of voice. This Denali Ventures Inc. workshop is supported by a grant from the Alaska State Council on the Arts and the National Endowment for the Arts, with fiscal sponsorship from the Alaska Sisters in Crime.

Cost is $35. Prepayment must accompany registration. Participation is limited to the first 15 who register with payment. Pre-payments are non-refundable, but they are transferable.

Name:

Mailing Address:


Phone:

Email:

Genre(s) in which you write:



Brief description of a current writing project:






Highest level of education completed:

Briefly, how you hope to improve your writing by attending this workshop:






Complete your form, save as a Word document, and email as an attachment to debv@gci.net, making payment ($35) through PayPal to Denali Ventures, Inc. If you prefer, you may print the form, fill in, and mail with payment ($35, payable to Denali Ventures Inc.) to Denali Ventures, Inc., PO Box 222451, Anchorage, AK 99522. Questions? Email debv@gci.net or call 907-388-9303.

49 Writers CCC: Consulting, Critiquing, and Coaching

The well-published 49 Writers team offers consulting, critiquing, and coaching (CCC) services for writers. After reading your manuscript, we will prepare one to three pages of detailed written feedback (single-spaced, typed) pointing out what’s working and what needs work, as well as recommending additional steps to bring the project to publication. We’ll also do careful line edits of one manuscript page to set the stage for self-editing once your revision is finished. We complete the process with a telephone consultation and coaching session based on your work.

49 Writers CCC services are available for the following genres:

• short fiction
• novels
• memoirs
• individual essays
• book-length nonfiction
• journalism
• feature writing
• young adult fiction
• children's fiction and non-fiction

Manuscripts must be submitted by email, attached as Word documents. The Word “Track Changes” feature will be used for the line-edit page and for critiquing throughout the manuscript. Manuscripts must be double-spaced in 12-point Times New Roman font, with standard margins. This format will yield approximately 250 words per page. You may submit either a partial or complete manuscript; there is a five-page minimum.

For initial CCC services, rates are by the word:

• 5-10 pages: 4 cents/word
• 11-25 pages: 3 cents/word
• 26-50 pages: 2 cents/word
• Over 50 pages: 1 cent/word

If you’re happy with your initial consultation, we’d love to have you return for additional CCC services, billed at $45 per hour. In addition to standard critiquing and consultation, hourly services may be tailored for your specific needs and interests, such as coaching (planning, deadlines, tasks, recommended reading, and follow-through) or line-editing (developing style with attention to tone, voice, and dialogue).

If you prefer, select one of our submission packages. In Marketing your Manuscript, we provide full consultation, critiquing and coaching on the first ten pages of your book-length manuscript plus your one-page query letter, with an emphasis on how to effectively market your project to agents and editors. Cost: $125. For Non-fiction Book Proposals, you submit a 30 to 70 page book proposal. In addition to standard critique and consultation services, we’ll offer suggestions for market positioning and analysis as well as advice on fine-tuning your submission package. Coaching includes suggestions for approaching agents. Cost: $500.

To request CCC services from 49 Writers, email Deb at debv@gci.net. Include your name, contact information, a brief summary of your writing and publishing history (if any), project description (length, genre, two-sentence synopsis), how and where you hope to publish the manuscript, the type of feedback you need, and which consultant you’d prefer (if you have a preference).

We’ll reply with instructions for prepaying through PayPal and confirmation that your author choice is available. Once we receive confirmation of payment, we’ll forward email instructions for your manuscript. Standard CCC services will typically be completed within a month; if you require a faster turnaround, let us know prior to payment, and we’ll do our best to accommodate. Follow-up services must also be paid in advance, by the hour.

The 49 Writers CCC Team:

Andromeda Romano-Lax is the author of The Spanish Bow (Harcourt), a novel about classical musicians in Spain, published in 11 languages; and Searching for Steinbeck’s Sea of Cortez (Sasquatch Books), a travel narrative. She has also written many travel and natural history books, published by Alaska Geographic/Alaska Natural History Association, Alaska Northwest Books, Travelers’ Tales, and Wilderness Press. She consults on the novel, memoir, individual essays, journalism, feature writing, and book-length nonfiction.

Deb Vanasse is the author of ten books; her publishers include Penguin (Puffin), Houghton-Mifflin (Clarion), Globe-Pequot, Sasquatch Books, and (forthcoming) the University of Alaska Press. In addition to books for children, young adults, and adults, Deb publishes articles and teacher guides. Her interests include mainstream and literary fiction, memoir, travel, history, biography, children’s books, and young adult literature. A member of SCBWI and state representative for the Assembly on Adolescent Literature, Deb taught for twenty years in secondary and post-secondary settings. She consults on short fiction, individual essays, novels, young adult fiction, children’s fiction, children’s non-fiction, and memoir.

Andromeda and Deb are the co-founders of 49 Writers (www.49writers.blogspot.com). They also offer writing workshops. 49 Writers CCC Services is a subsidiary of Denali Ventures, Inc.

Advertising on 49 Writers

Well-respected and well-trafficked, 49 Writers attracts a worldwide audience of readers interested in Alaskan and northern authors and books. We’re a great place to reach your target audience.

49 Writers offers limited ad space for products specific to the interests of our market: books, bookstores, and publishers. Current ad rates (beginning July 1, 2010) are $20 per ad-month. Ads will be placed in the right sidebar, congregated with like sidebar content. Specific placement requests cannot be accommodated. The ad may include a brief (50 characters with spaces or less) title, a brief (125 characters with spaces or less) caption, a photo (which will be resized to fit the sidebar space), and one URL link to be accessed by clicking the photo. The word “ad” will be incorporated by us at the end of the caption.

Ads must be prepaid using PayPal (access via 49writers@gmail.com) or by check to 49 Writers, PO Box 221086, Anchorage, AK   99522. At these rates, design options and restyling are limited; the integrity of our page design is our primary concern. Unless advertisers are otherwise notified, ads will post within the first five days of the month and run for at least 25 days (an “ad-month”). It is the advertiser’s responsibility to verify within 3 days of notification that the ad has been posted and is correct in all aspects, including a viable link. No refunds will be issued for any reason after the 8th of each month.

Advertising agreements are established via this notice and an email exchange between the advertiser and 49 Writers. We reserve the right to select and reject advertisers as we see fit. Advertisers agree to hold harmless 49 Writers, Inc..

Ready to get started? Email debv@gci.net stating the book, bookstore, or publisher you’d like to advertise along with the month or months in which you’d like to advertise. We’ll reply with instructions for prepaying with PayPal. Once notice of your payment is received, we will post your ad and advise you by email that it is ready for review.

Ode to a Dead Salmon Entries

Entries to our Ode to a Dead Salmon contest are posted below, in order by date. Check back often for new submissions. Copyright belongs to the authors. NUMBERS are for tagging purposes only.

NUMBER ONE 8-11-09 Kasilof Submitted by Rosemary, aka bikegirl

Ah, silvery beauty pulled from my net,
left torn and twisted
by your powerful struggle,
all urges calling you like the North Star guiding shepherds,
or prospectors
up the pebbled river
with its murky glacial-fed water
colder than this ocean
from where I have pulled you over the bow onto my lap.

Caught as you were in a sqaure of the net,
tied and retied at the beginning of each season,
the gap just large enough to allow you in
yet keep you from passing through or backing out.
Your quest denied.
Still powerful and persistent, like the ocean waves
but no, not for you.
Your urges denied.
Like those of a teenager escorted to the dance
by her mother.
Denied, though you don’t know:
This is your prime!
After this, it would be all suffering:
The struggle upstream, up rapids,
past bank fishermen, boat fishermen, bears,
up and up until that moment when you have lost your lustre
shaken your bootie and in satisfaction, inevitable:
Disappointment.
That’s it?
With this, I die?

But here I have removed you from my net
at your prime.
Entangled there just long enough
your flip has about flopped.
Now I hold your cold, stiff, slimy wet body
pull you to my lips.
And with a salty kiss, I thank you,
let you slide into my empty bucket.
Satisfied!


NUMBER TWO 8-11-09 You Don't Lose Your Woman Submitted by Rosemary, aka bikegirl

Anyone could see he was no pretty Lower-48 yuppie mountain climber here for a guided trip to conquer Denali, the Great One. Not one fluff of fleece on his body as he leaned against the bar in Talkeetna, looking at a painting of the mountain with little flags marking locations of climbers on its flanks. No North Patagucchi for him. Nope, he was all Alaskan. From his Ketchikan sneakers to his worn-in Carhartts, his red and black flannel shirt all the way to his stocking cap, loosely knit of tan marled yarn, thick, like what someone would wear if they were spending a lot of time out on the water in the wind. His face was unshaven, tan and windburned because he had, in fact, been out on the water. He lifted a beer to his lips and took a long drink. He made a face, puckering his lips, and paused, holding the glass in the air as he rested his elbow on top of the bar. The best IPA was like him - bitter. And he had reason to be.

After returning from a season on the boat, a short season at that, he realized the adage his buddies had joked about was true. He’d lost his turn. His woman was gone. Karen had packed up all her things and moved in with Wayne. He took another drink. Well, he thought, though he could have said it aloud, and maybe he had because the bartender, Gus, looked up and nodded in apparent response when he heard, “Well, guess this is how ol’ Wayne felt when she left him and moved in with me.”

NUMBER THREE 8-11-09 All that Glitters Submitted by Rosemary, aka bikegirl

For a year the media did drool
On the web and cable ‘twas a virtual duel
I ask, may we return now to the days
when yodeling we did praise
And the most famous Alaskan was Jewel?

NUMBER FOUR 8-10-09 Submitted by Toni

So there I was at the luau, pining for pines, and some fur trees - you know that scent they give off in the forest - and wishing for a little birch sap under my sandals to stick them to the pavement and maybe a squirrel or a moose would whiz by just so I could get a glimpse of some wildlife besides the feral farm animals I usually see. I guess a moose wouldn’t whiz by, though would most definitely whiz. I mean, he’d notice that there were no alder saplings to munch and realize he was in Hawaii and that would probably scare the whiz and everything else right out of him. So there, at the luau, I was feeling homesick for Alaska even though I don’t live there. Is that weird? Being homesick for a place you don’t live but not feeling quite at home in the place where you do live? Yeah, I’d say that was weird. People visit Hawaii all the time and never leave. I could see myself doing that in Alaska, as long as I could spend a week or two each January here.

Where was I? Ah. The Luau. Now, kalua pork always makes me feel better about being here in the islands. There I stood at my spot in the long buffet line, having just tonged out a wad of the stuff and plopped it, in all its juicy, greasy, shredded splendor onto my plate (try saying juicy, greasy, shredded splendor fast three times) when, upon taking another step, found myself staring down into a giant bowl of lomi salmon. Lomi. As in massaged, to knead, to mix. There’s lomi lomi and huli huli. Spun around. That’s me. Mixed up and spun around. There’s not much contrast in a bowl of lomi salmon, the blush of salmon chopped to bits, salty and definitely dead, dead, dead. The tomatoes are also deceased, a washed-out hothouse hue, and the onions, not cooked but translucent none-the-less. No, not much contrast at all. You can hardly spot the flecks of salmon from the chunks of tomato. It’s not like the difference between Alaska and Hawaii. People make the comparison all the time. Forty-nine and fifty, like you could actually get confused regarding which state you were in if you didn’t read the signs at the airport. Native culture. Natural splendor. Our senators are friends with Alaskan senators. Kindred spirits, they say. Bosom buddies. And everybody eats fish in both places. Apparently, the same fish. It spawned on me: there are no salmon in Hawaii. Why then, is lomi salmon a traditional dish at luaus? It’s in the deli at all the markets here, too. People make it for holidays. Lomi salmon. It’s the blandest, most boring way to eat dead salmon that I know.

Standing there, staring into that bowl of salted fish flesh, I had just returned from a fresh trip to the great white north, where people seem a little more rugged and self sufficient than anyplace else. And they know their fish, especially salmon. An Alaskan can tell by smell on the grill if it’s king or coho or sockeye. Here, any salmon will do. Even (now don’t pass out here) farmed salmon. I know the mere thought of such a thing is blasphemy of the highest order in the last frontier. In Hawaii, it just has to be pink, salty and chopped fine. With lomi salmon, you can’t really taste the fish, let along smell it. Dead tuna is something different. People know about that here, and while the native Hawaiians are accomplished fishermen and eat their share, it’s the locals of Japanese decent who know best their yellow fin from their big eye. No steaming chunks in banana leaves for them. It’s all raw, all the time. They are connoisseurs of different cuts of tuna, just like any true midwesterner knows a filet mignon from a sirloin. So in that way, Hawaii and Alaska are the same. We know our local fish. Really though, it seems a copout to steal someone else’s pride and joy and make it your own, claim it as a part of your culture, as with lomi salmon. It would be like the Tlingit suddenly deciding to serve poi at all their celebrations.

What does all this mean? Are Alaska and Hawaii the same or different? Don’t ask me. I’m lomi lomi, as I said, all mixed up. All I know is, when a salmon is dead, it should be appreciated, not camouflaged in minced tomatoes, its rich flavor obscured by salt and onions. It should be savored in it’s purest state. After all, the poor fish has passed on. He’s gone to meet his maker. Belly up as they say. Kicked the bucket. So give a scaly buggah a break, will ya?


NUMBER FIVE 8-7-09 Submitted by Arctic Rose

Here's to the salmon that graces
the line at the end of my pole
He hangs there cold and lifeless
He will never know what it is to be old
He gave his life and generations
to be baked on a bed of coal

Here's to the salmon that graces
my table at dinner time
The kids are all in there places
Hunger makes a pink taste fine
Quickly we say our respects
the wife uncorks a bottle of wine

Here's to the salmon that graces
the bottom of my garbage pail
He used to have flesh in more places
now his back is skinny as a rail
A hearty cheer for dear old salmon
and that is the end of his tail


NUMBER SIX 8-5-09 Ode to Stinkin’ Submitted by Fisher Girlfriend

Dead salmon in the middle of the path stinking to high heaven—Ancient folk song (Circa, 1973).

O Humpy! An eagle dropped you in the park,
a cyclist ran over you in the dark.
O beautiful salmon! Putrefied and parched
atop you a hundred tourists marched.

And there you decayed and stank in the sun,
when I happened on you during a morning run.
I paused to move you from the path
so as not to encounter a bruin’s wrath.

But then, O Humpy! I saw your eyes
and thought you must have once been wise.
to swim so far from the ocean’s deep,
navigating currents your scent did keep.

You finned and spermed in the riverbed
and left your babies on the mud-bank’s edge.
Sad now, though, those sloughing scales,
but your end is better than my own sad tale.

O Humpy! I buried you beside the trail
and then at once I started to wail.
See, I’d been out there runnin’ and a thinkin’
about my ole’ man and all his drinkin’.

Bout how his eyes are glossy and thick
and when he smooches me, I just feel sick.
His hugs feel more like a nasty squish,
no six-pack abs as I’d once wished.

O Splendid Humpy!
Lover or fish, does it really matter?
Seems I'd rather smell the rot of the latter.
But what’s an Alaskan girl to think

cause after a while—they all start to stink.


NUMBER SEVEN 7-29-09 Submitted by Lesley

"Why as a Mighty Salmon I Will Not Leave"

Do not cry for me, I shall not leave
those who share my love
my spawn
I swim against the great river that is ours thereon

'neath soaring peaks and o'er frost heaves
put here to remind that I am me
why I am me
that I am humbly great

Nature calls me to my dream so that my scales slip off the sexist critique
(for the fact that I have eggs and vast stores of oil)
and like chill water off the feathers of the migratory goose so courageously
departs
corruptions of an evil coast elite

so shall I too defy the hooks and devious nets of socialist media
who seek to filet and hang me to dry
but I shall never die

I repel those maggots and sea lice that infest
by leaps across the surge chill waters pure
very like brave soldiers sent to save our cherished Land

not fish but woman and man
for I am best
and writhe against cruel microscopes of logic choppers
scientists who work for godless enemy's behest
Their secret motives bald
but mightier than they for I am called
I will not decay yet I shall spawn
and swim against the flow 'til all else is gone

NUMBER EIGHT 7-28-09 Submitted by Tanja

Not fuscous, rubious, cretaceous, vinaceous, albugineous, sanguineous...
testaceous, phoeniceous... melichrous, puniceous, flammeous...
Chrysochlorous, luteolous, stramineous, porraceous, cinerious, fuliginous...
Neither badious, piceous, griseous, coccineous, brunneous, caesious, glaucous...
Icteritious, ochroleucous, lateritious, niveous, plumbeous, olivaceous...
Nor aeneous, castaneous, spadiceous, vinous, prasinous, porphyrous...
Violaceous, citreous,miniaceous, chlorochrous, atrous, cyaneous, rufous...
Or even cesious, pyrrhous, rubiginous, sulphureous, luteous, fulvous...

But. Just. Plain. Pink.
Salmon pink to be exact.

As I look into your eyes
Glazed over with the bleakness of death
In a tomb of aspic jelly,

I think of all the shades of pink
That could have been...
Fuchsia; amaranth;
Carnation; rose; lavender;

I think...
Isn’t salmon a pinkish kind of orange anyway?

Oh! Dead Salmon;
On a bed of carrageen you lie
Garnished with lemon and parsley.

Oh! Dead Salmon;
Surrounded by cucumber and tomato circles
Instead of peers, parr and smolts...
After death in semelparity.

Oh! Dead Salmon
Your cousin Trout has a Pout...
And now, so do you, as you lie there
On the buffet table.

A journey of hundreds of miles, upstream, against strong currents and rapids, starts with your first agile movement... and ends on the dinner table.

Oh! Dead Salmon;
I salute you with this Ode.

NUMBER NINE 7-27-09 submitted by Anonymous

Oh dear deceased Chum , 'tis such a mournful thing
That you were never loved like the Alaskan King
For it is his remains that conniseurs have selected
While your poor body has been quickly rejected

So now as I gaze into your vacant eyes
What your life was like , I can only surmise
But it must have begun with a spawning ritual
That would be for your parents, never habitual

With their bodies quivering next to one another
Your dad did his thing and so did your mother
So did they say to you, "Little Egg", before they died
"The sex was disappointing but at least we tried"

You hatched as an orphan with orphan siblings galore
And you grew and swam aimlessly not far from the shore
But did you wonder at all before your migration
What would be your journey toward self-actualization?

Was it perhaps in the ocean when you felt most alive?
Did you then wonder toward which goal you should strive?
Did other sea creatures laugh at you with mirth
When you decided to return to the place of your birth

Against many obstacles you struggled and won
You swam back to the place where your life had begun
But then you did that spawning thing and started to die
Preparing yourself for that sweet fishy bye and bye

But now your sad corpse lies on a food market shelf
Where a beautiful King salmon is compared to yourself
And a poor Chum salmon just cannot compete
In flavor, in texture, and especially in meat

Oh will you be remembered in your children's genealogy?
As a very inferior salmon in the world's icthyology?
Yet although you were rejected, you are not a total loss
Because you're really not so bad, with enough tartar sauce

The Ghost Who Took My Life Away

Stebbins student Lovina Steve wrote this imaginative and scary story.

Courtney and Pulcheria were walking on the sidewalk. When they reached up to the playground they saw a ghost running to a girl. The girl was just standing there screaming her lungs out. Pulcheria and Courtney were scared. When the ghost saw the girls, it disappeared. Pulcheria looked at Courtney and whispered “Let’s go home before it comes again.” They both went home.

Courtney was at her house sitting down eating popcorn with a candy bar. When she heard something in the kitchen, she jumped up and grabbed a broom and turned on the light. She looked in the kitchen and saw the same girl that was killed near the playground. Courtney dropped the broom and just stood there doing nothing, until she heard the door bell ring. She looked at the door and then back in the kitchen. The ghost was gone.

Courtney went to the door to answer it. Pulcheria was standing there and said, “I saw the girl in my bedroom staring at me.” And Pulcheria slept at her house. Courtney was scared to go to sleep, so she decided to sleep in the morning. When she fell asleep in the morning she saw the girl in her dream. Courtney started to scream in her dream saying, “Wake up, wake up! Wake up you dummy!” Pulcheria came from the kitchen eating a hot dog, she saw Courtney shaking on the floor. Pulcheria dropped her food and picked up Courtney and said, “Courtney are you alright? Wake up Courtney! You are scaring me!” When Courtney heard someone yelling she woke up and she was crying. She told Pulcheria that she wished they never walked to the playground.

Courtney’s mom came home in the afternoon. She saw Courtney standing on a chair with a rope tied around her neck. Courtney’s mom ran to her and said, “Honey I need you to take off that rope and come down so we can talk this over.” Courtney looked at her and cried. She took the rope off and hugged her mom. When they were done talking Courtney’s mom said “Pulcheria’s mom and dad is looking for her. Do you know were she is?” Courtney said “She is upstairs sleeping on the bed.” Her mom went up stairs to wake up Pulcheria. When she went in Pulcheria was in the closet. Her eyes where wide open, she was pale as a sheet, and she was shaking. Courtney’s mom ran out, grabbed a blanket from the closet, and ran back to Pulcheria. When she got back she found broken glass on the bedroom floor. She looked at Pulcheria, who was holding a piece of glass in her hand, cutting herself ten times on the arm. By the time Courtney’s mom took the glass away, Pulcheria was already dead.

The police came over to the house to pick up Pulcheria. Courtney was crying, hitting the floor, and saying, “Why would you want to take Pulcheria away from me? She was the only friend I had!” One day Courtney decided to go look for the girl’s body. When Courtney found the body next to the forest, she said, “So this is you. I thought you were something else. Instead you are Maime.”

Courtney called the police and said, “I found the missing girl. Her name is Mamie Pete. I found her by the forest.” The police came by with the undertaker. Courtney went home and sat down on the coach. When she looked up she saw Mamie. Courtney jumped up , and asked her “What do you want from me?” Mamie looked at her and said, “I just want to thank you.” Then Mamie walked through the wall and she was gone.

Courtney sat down laughing, crying, and said “It’s over! It’s over! She left me alone!” Courtney had a happy day for the rest of her life.

A SCARY TALE

Twelve-year-old Alice Otten wrote this paragraph after some brainstorming we did in her sixth grade class. When summer comes and she's not writing scary stories, Alice likes to swim and play ball.

One strange woman comes to Stebbins, walking down a dark, dark path. Then one moment, standing still, she hears a howl from the wilderness. Suddenly she is running and panting down the dark, deep path, running on her high heels, then sliding down the ice. Another howl, and then another. She trips on a nasty smelling, creepy crawling, gooey pile of bloodied beetles. She lies on the beetles, crying for help. Then in one sudden move, she dies.

Clear Rivers

Last week the eleventh and twelfth graders in Stebbins (Tapraq) collaborated with me on a poem set in their village. They identified strong showing language from one of my books and used a map to brainstorm ideas from some of the words. Then we put it all together in this poem.

Clear Rivers

Pikmiktalliq
Daylight fades.
The wolf
Howls
Prowls
Woofs.
Her cubs whisper-bark beside clear water.
She thrusts, teeth like metal.
The rifle gleams,
Teeters on a rock,
Clatters to the ground.
The chase –
Ancient as time
Ended.

Stebbins 11th and 12th graders

Tundra Haunting

Last week the ninth and tenth graders in Stebbins (Tapraq) collaborated with me on a poem set in their village. They identified strong showing language from one of my books and used a map to brainstorm ideas from some of the words. Then we put it all together in this poem.

Tundra Haunting

Little people capture
From a big world
Haunted by shadows, eerie and silent.
Thrashing
Dazed victims wrestle
With what they maybe see.
Time slows and stops
Forms change
Now there is wisdom.

Stebbins 9th and 10th grade

Blood Brothers in Stebbins

Last week the seventh and eighth graders in Stebbins (Tapraq) collaborated with me on a poem set in their village. They identified strong showing language from one of my books and used a map to brainstorm ideas from some of the words. Then we put it all together in this poem.

Blood Brothers in Stebbins

Monstrous
Mesmerized
The whale trembles
Smells decay in its watery home.
Huge, the hunter charges, looms
Blood surges,
Red as sun
Setting on the village
Play-dead
Or die

Stebbins 7th and 8th graders

Bound up in Tapraq

Last week the fifth and sixth graders in Stebbins (Tapraq) collaborated with me on a poem set in their village. They identified strong showing language from one of my books and used a map to brainstorm ideas from some of the words. Then we put it all together in this poem.

Bound up in Tapraq

Bounding bundle
Tundra giant on four hooves
The moose
Once angry,
Now silent.
Antlers hang above a window

Play dead, they said
But he attacked
Protecting
What he loved

Stebbins 5th and 6th graders

Spring returns to Stebbins

Last week the third and fourth graders in Stebbins collaborated with me on a poem set in their village. They identified strong showing language from one of my books and used a map to brainstorm ideas from some of the words. Then we put it all together in this poem.

Spring returns to Stebbins

A girl taps
The ice, half-frozen
Beneath, a tom cod
Circles, sprint-swimming.
Sun-soaked
The ice rots
The girl circles, dizzy
Like the salmon, leaping
Slippery
Slapping and shiny
With joy

Stebbins 3rd and 4th graders

Mouse in Stebbins

Last week the second graders in Stebbins collaborated with me on a poem set in their village. They identified strong showing language from one of my books and used a map to brainstorm ideas from some of the words. Then we put it all together in this poem.

Mouse in Stebbins

Furry mouse
Scampers
Scurries
Squeaks
Under the house
Rustles the grass
Scared

Stebbins 2nd graders

COMING SOON: ALASKAN AUTHORS FROM STEBBINS

Following the Iditarod? Look south of the Unalakleet checkpoint and you'll find Stebbins, an Alaskan Native village of approximately 600 people. Ten miles away is St. Michael, where the Russian-American Company built a fort in 1833. The Yup'ik village Tapraq was renamed Stebbins in 1900. Families here depend on hunting for seal, walrus, caribou, and beluga whale, as well as subsistence and commercial salmon fishing. The people of Stebbins have relatives in Hooper Bay, Kotlik, and Chevak.

I'm visiting Stebbins for three days of writing workshops. We're discussing why writing matters, how authors read to write, how authors write to show, and how we make our writing better. Yup'ik is no longer the first language in Stebbins. Few Yup'ik-speaking elders are left. With the older students, we're discussing a quote from Sarah James: "We are the ones who have everything to lose." We're also studying writing from Velma Wallis, Willie Hensley, George Guthridge, Seth Kantner, and Joan Kane along with exerpts from my own books.

Already I've encountered an enthusiastic and accomplished writer, Donna Erickson, who studied with Velma Wallis and Sherry Simpson at workshops in Unalakleet. She has given me permission to post her narrative "Keep your Stitches Tight." Watch for it here or at 49 Writers. I'll also be posting the best work from Stebbins students right here.

ALASKAN AUTHORS REDIRECT

You'll now find me blogging at 49 Writers, where Andromeda Romano-Lax and I are building an online community of Alaskan authors and their readers. Come visit, leave a comment, become a follower, make us your home page, offer to be a monthly Featured Author, contact us about an occasional guest post - whatever your level of involvement, we're happy to have you on board.

I'll no longer be posting at Alaskan Authors, but we'll hang onto this domain name while we think about how we can best use it to promote the Alaskan authors and their work. Maybe a collective website where each author has a page with links to their books? Hosting online critique groups or books clubs? Posting snippets of works in progress by both published and hoping to be published authors? Send us your ideas about making good use of the www.AlaskanAuthors.com domain name.