NH Writers

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Comment by Studio 99 Nashua on June 20, 2009 at 6:33pm

Monthly Open Mic in Nashua welcomes and supports poetry and spoken word offerings...Studio 99 is a "listening room" whose audiences are becoming well known for being warm and receptive. Please join us!

Fourth Saturdays @ 8 pm
Performer sign-up at 7:45 pm
Studio 99 Nashua
admission: FREE (hat is passed for the featured performer)
snacks and chilled juices, gourmet coffees and teas, water, and soda available for sale
This is a 14+, alcohol-free, tobacco-free event

Much more info, directions, etc.

http://www.studio99nashua.com/open-mic/

Comment by Elizabeth Falla-Verrill on May 31, 2009 at 7:18pm

I'm in Hampstead (very southern NH). I belong to the NH Writer's Project, but find their fees a bit steep for one day workshops. I write quite a bit and in the past have had things published in some newspapers, etc. Now I'm still writing -- but just filing my essays away and not doing anything with them. I think perhaps some kind of semi-formal group might help the self-confidence. Anyone know of any?

Comment by Ernesto Burden on May 28, 2009 at 1:33pm

Hey, welcome Robert! Good luck getting started. Looking forward to checking out your blog.

Comment by Robert F Jursik on May 28, 2009 at 11:25am

Hello everyone, I'm a brand new member here and I wanted to introduce myself. I'm just beginning my career as a professional writer and editor and I'm still learning the ropes. Any advice I can get from the professionals and veterans out there will always be appreciated. Please consider visiting my blog: http://concordjournal.wordpress.com. Thanks for having me and I look forward to meeting all of you.

Comment by Ernesto Burden on March 24, 2009 at 2:57pm

Jacqueline,

I think the New Hampshire Writers project used to keep tabs on this kind of info, you might try dropping them a note or phone call... http://www.nhwritersproject.org/

Good luck!

Comment by Jacqueline on March 24, 2009 at 2:49pm

Does anyone know of any writers' groups in the Nashua area that welcome nonfiction writers? I have found a bunch of groups catering to aspiring novelists, but not much else. Any suggestions? Thanks!

Comment by Elizabeth Falla-Verrill on February 26, 2009 at 6:14pm

I have no idea if I'm posting in the correct place or not (I'm finding this a confusing site).
Does anyone else do humor? I write mainly essays, in somewhat the Jean Kerr, Erma Bombeck style - observations on everyday things; just not through a very serious eye. I frequently feel this doesn't make me a "writer", and that humor is "fluff" in the world of writing. It also is somewhat akin to being a standup comic. It's a bit of a risk to put one's sense of humor "out there" where it might not be understood. I've also done some newspaper work writing an Entertainment column since I was a caterer for many years (lot of material there...). Even though some humor crept in, at least it was "informative" writing.
I've been hesitant to sign up for the NH Writer's Project upcoming Writer's Day because I feel "I haven't suffered enough" turning out light reading. Also my brother, Jack Falla, was an extremely well known sportswriter, who passed away six months ago. I had stopped writing since I felt I didn't want to be in his shadow.
I've been writing essays "just for me" since he died. I'm in the "floundering stage" right now, and have been for awhile. I'd love to hear if anyone else feels their writing isn't serious enough to have merit, or if they see the world slightly off balance, as I do. Elizabeth

Comment by Lisa Jackson on February 2, 2009 at 6:34pm

I'm pulling together a novel writing critique group in Nashua. If anyone is interested, please contact me. We'll meet 2-3 times per month for a couple of hours. The goal being to support and help each other with reaching publication.

Comment by Darren Deth on January 19, 2009 at 4:10pm

Hi everyone. My name is Darren Deth and I am a partner in a newly formed publishing company, Radiant Hen Publishing. I am the editor for the anthology. We are also running a contest for fiction, poetry, and creative non-fiction. The first prize for each category is $100. The entry fee is $10. For more details, please visit www.radianthen.com.

Comment by Joseph A. Chiarello on January 1, 2009 at 1:59am

Flannery O'Conner once said by the age of 3, we all have about 3 books in us......

AMERICAN STEVEDORE




Within an unmeasured time, a spanless period a miraged formless force, driven from within pierces an underlying consciousness thin ice, tinged in grayish securities, is shattered layer upon layer, pieces self flung into the black silver void … as they settle on the earth’s unnerving flow, their past has no validity …within the break, between the shattered forces of security, there resides a menacing loss, reveling in his stench … He seeks not to join that which has been undone but rather finds purpose in the separation …


jos chiarello 1950 - 1963

Mount Washington

The boy’s hands patted the sand into walls of defense. The crayfish palace stood proud. Everyday it had to stand proud. Everyday it had to be tested. The side and rear walls stiffened to a height of six inches. The front wall, closest to the Lake ’s edge, rose monumentally to young Danny’s kneecap. On top of all four walls slate chips cantilevered both side, a means of imprisonment for crayfish within, as well as determent for the night roaming crayfish.
Danny rarely touched the crayfish. He feared the bite of their claws, especially the blue claw crayfish.
Puddy, his cousin, was the claw catcher. She would take the springy metal rake and drag the black leaves from the water’s bottom. While the leaves drained on the sand, she would poke a stick through them. One or two sets of tiny legs and gasping claws would wiggle amongst the black. With her fingers, she would pick them up, like olives with claws, and place them into the palace. The babies, she would “ooh” and “ah” and cuddle in the palm of her hand then release them into the lake and watch them scuttle backwards with their beady eyes.
A dried out moat divided the crayfish palace in two, the blue claws on one side, and the brown claws in the other. The moat was only a token divider… too shallow. Each half had its own bedrooms, living room, kitchen, and bathroom, but the crayfish paid little attention. They chose to wander blindly, occasionally hissing their claws at each other. Escape their sole impulse.
From time to time, Danny would turn and look towards the white house at the top of the hill. He sensed a presence but could not recognize it. The figure by the tree wanted to warn him. The child could not see him. The figure wanted to expose the hovering spirit to the child. Don’t respect it.
He wished that for one brief moment, he could reach through that barrier of rigid time, grab that child by the arms, look him in the eyes, and cry “I love you and that all’s that counts.”
Young Daniel was never alone. Perhaps, only when he was in his mother’s stomach. He always felt a spirit watching, judging, criticizing, and guiding him. Unseen eyes of family, the eyes of friends, and the eyes of Christ and God were always upon him. This relentless spirit shaped his actions. He feared disapproval and rejection of this hovering spirit. He had to fit into its vision. The figure by the tree wanted to smash his head against the tree. Crash into this spirit of eyes. Destroy the monster. Destroy himself. The figure could only look at the child patting the sand into walls of defense. He could only hold the tree and cry. His hands and eyes were the child’s hand and eyes.
“Ummmmmmmmmmmm” An octave higher than a fog horn.
Ten to three. Lake Winnipesaukee ’s clock. The Mt. Washington . cutting her way towards the shore. Bigger than skies, the mountains, and the lake itself. She moved. White with black trim. Three decks. Her path left waves that awoke the rocks and piers along the shoreline. Children, bellied on rafts, rode the last breadth of her waves. Waves that lunged them onto the sand.
The ship got her name from the crest of New Hampshire ’s White Mountains, a range that sits in Center Harbor ’s background. Young Daniel could not always see the mountains but he felt the weight to the north. The cruise steamer toured the hundred mile Lake Winnipesaukee daily. She showed off the lake to the summer tourist, docking at the lakeports, Weirs Beach ( New Hampshire ’s Coney Island), Center Harbor , and Alton . The Mt. Washington circled the lake twice daily. The passengers could enter at any four points or leave at any four points. Aboard her, hot dogs, popcorn, the ring of pinball machines, thick rope coiled, wood chairs braced to the deck, and the crew of muscled white T-shirts. The tour guide voice muffled through speakers. He announced the various ports and their history, hinted the lakes depth, and as he fixed the passengers’ eyes upon a cluster of rocks peering through the lake. He chilled them with the Tale of ‘Sunken Witch’s Island ’. Chris Crafts and Evinrudes slowed up along the side. Sunglassed people waved their hands. The Mt. Washington wasn’t a Queen or a princess, or a lady but she was a woman. Young Daniel was told once that anything with an engine was a woman. The notion seemed queer to him. Were gliding planes men? Did women need something hot, boiling, pumping, turning over, and igniting to move them?
The child turned momentarily from the incoming ship and looked at Puddy frantically raking for crayfish before the Mt’s huge waves churned the black leaves on the lake’s sandy floor. The boy thought, ‘I don’t think she has an engine …. She’s just a put-put’.
The Mt. Washington was passing One Mile Island and it would be ten minutes before she would dock at the pier in Center Harbor . By the time she, her waves would be cleaning Daniel’s Grandfather’s shore. Daniel gave the palace its final inspection, adding sand here and there, hardening the walls with his pounding, and deepening the drain out ditch that surrounded the palace.
Young Daniel heard the cadence thump of hard rubber on stone followed by the dragging of shoes. Grandpa. Black and white laced shoes, spats, shinning brown cane, white suit, gold anchor chair, short mustache, rimmed gold glasses, and a wide brim hat. The boy could hug him, respectfully kiss him, and thank him but he could not touch the man behind the skin. Grandpa. He must have just awoken from his nap. His noon day naps were a ritual. Silence had to prevail around his house on the summer estate. He would awake before the Mt. Washington whistle. Dress. Then descend the hill to greet the ship. Her horn snapped thoughts of tramp steamers entering Brooklyn Harbor . When his eyes followed that woman, he saw Sciacca, Sicily, the Irish Stevedores, that he would break, the horse drawn cargo wenches, the rush to unload and load ships, thugs, deals, The Seven Cataldo Brothers, his four sons, his three daughters, the family he built and was destroying, the Brooklyn Waterfront, his empire.
Grandpa was crossing the bark railed bridge that spanned a stone brook. This brook divided the property. Its waters came from an underground stream somewhere north of the estate. On the east side stood the eldest son’s house. On the same side, across the road, Nick, the third oldest son , lived. Closer to the lake, there was a recreation and eating area. The building had an open porch, a kitchen, and a girl’s and boy’s dressing room. Surrounding this one level structure were fieldstone barbeques.
Coca-Cola coolers, redwood cushioned chairs, a two boat dock, and a teahouse. On the west side, closest to the brook, stood Grandpa’s white ranch house. Descending the hill, near the border fence, there was a one room cabin where the black maids slept. Uncle Jimmy’s rarely used cottage followed. Finally, the huge five boat dock that had a cut out in the middle for Grandpa’s ‘Star’, provided an extended corner to the property extending into the lake.
“Daniel,” called Grandpa approaching the beach. A gentle wind carried the smell of Grandpa’s bay rum.
“Good afternoon, Grandpa.” Young Daniel replied looking at Grandpa, then the Mt. Washington , then The Crayfish Palace.
“How many crayfish do we have today?”
“Fourteen, Grandpa. Eleven browns and three blues.”
“You should have sixteen.”
“Yes, Grandpa.”
Grandpa turned toward Puddy who was sitting on the sand waiting for the waves.
“Puddy, rake up two more crayfish for Daniel.”
She looked at Grandpa, then looked down and started to cry. She ran up the hill toward Grandpa’s house. The house she lives with her mother.
Young Daniel felt awkward. She cried often. He thought that he should be use to it by now but of all his cousins, she was the closest in age, so he felt closest to her., He wondered why she cried so easy all the time. Daniel’s mother had told him that it probably had something to do with her father who died four years ago when she was four. Grandpa didn’t understand her tears. Nobody really did. Not even Puddy. Daniel sometimes thought perhaps she was afraid of disappearing. Her father had disappeared. Maybe the loud crying reassured her that she was still here. She could hear it and feel it. So could everyone else., Everybody paid attention to her when she cried or at least she thought. Daniel felt stronger when she cried.
Danny had one brief image of Puddy’s father, Uncle John. At the most, Daniel was three years old, crawling down the stairs in his Grandparent’s Brooklyn house. The stairs divided in two sections, a platform one third of the way down, white, thin curtains atop a window seat. A man smiling, round face, we dark hair, a two piece blue suit, walked up the stairs. He reached into his pocket, while he gently placed his hand on Daniel’s head. He pulled M&M candy from his pocket and placed them in his hand.
The waves of the Mt. Washington crashed against the walls of the crayfish palace., the crayfish scrambled. Blues banging into browns. The front wall was slightly eaten. The palace stood strong. The palace stood the test.
“She held.” Daniel jumped.
“Yes, Daniel, she held.” Grandpa said in a loving calm.
Daniel turned at looked at his grandfather. He was unaccustomed to such gentleness from the man. Daniel smiled. He wanted to go up to his grandfather and bury his face in his smell. The warm spirit seeped from Grandpa’s eyes. Cold flesh stood before him. The child turned away and looked at the crayfish. A blue crayfish was hissing his claws at two smaller browns. He turned and stared at his grandfather. Grandpa felt uneasy with the child’s stare.
“Daniel, you have a fort to fix.”
The figure by the tree yelled into the time frozen air, “Challenge him. Say something. Anything. Loud and hard.. don’t be silent.. Scream your heart out before it’s too late.”
The stare continued.
“Daniel, the fort. Fix the fort.”
“Spats.” The child meeked.
“What? … Daniel, what was that you said?”
Young Daniel, in swim trunks, knelt on the sand and started to pound the damaged walls.
“Ummmmmmmmmmmm” the Mt. Washington yelled triumphantly.
She wrestled away from the pier and turned herself around, Young Daniel stood, his shadow stretched to Grandpa’s shoes. They followed the Mt.’s path as she headed towards One Mile Island . Once again, the waves pounded the crayfish palace. Once again, it stood proud.

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