To say New Mexico’s light, land, and cultural mix forged me into a writer would be a cliche. But what if I said a single human being in New Mexico did that? Yes. One man, Dr. Patrick Rucker. We were both teaching at Eastern New Mexico University, in Portales, a dot on the far eastern edge of the state. He taught in the theater department, I in the broadcast division of the speech department when it happened.

People had always recognized me as a decent — even a good — journalist, but for reasons known only to them, had shot down my attempts at creative writing since childhood, dismissing me from classes or critique groups with a verbal chuck under the chin, promising that one day I’d laugh about my worthless attempts to put words on paper.

Still, something in me wanted to write fiction. Pat Rucker read one of my “plays” and invited me into his office. Over a semester, a few minutes here, a half hour there, he quietly, gently, and respectfully showed me how to use voice, movement, language, expression, word choke, and setting to create a character as an actor would.

My writing took off. I have published two novels for adults, “Snap Me a Future,” and “A Mouthful of Shell,” available from dlsijpress.com. “Art Effects,” my sequel to “Snap Me a Future” is looking for a home.

As program director of KSJE-FM public radio in Farmington,New Mexico — I moved from Portales in 1990 — I produce a show called Write On Four Corners. In this half-hour segment that airs on Wednesdays and Fridays, I speak to writers from across the southwest about their art and craft. They like the way I draw them out in interviews. I can do that because I’m a writer myself. I’m a writer because Pat Rucker made me into one.

When I think of the times in his office learning, I think of what Scrooge said about Mr. Fezziwig, the boss who threw a Christmas Eve party for his apprentices. Fezziwig didn’t spend a lot of money on the festivities, but he knew how to make people happy. A paraphrase fits Pat Rucker. He didn’t spend a lot of time with me, but he sure knew how to make a writer grow.

I will worship Patrick Rucker until the day I die.

Posted on March 9th, 2010 by Connie Gotsch
Filed under: News | No Comments »

Yikes! I about fell over when I looked at the last time I was up here. I admit it, I’ve been remiss. Not lazy, just remiss. I published a kids’ book called Belle’s Star with a traditional publisher and it’s been doing so well that I’ve had my hands full trying to keep up with it. Now we’re in a little lull, though I must brag that it won a Mom’s Choice Award. Check it out on Amazon. Anyhow, I promise to return now. Here is something for you.

This One Ya Can’t Eat.

Remember when romantic black-and-white murals of New York’s underground trains circa 1910 decorated Subway sandwich shops? Did you ever wonder if they resembled anything in the modern New York subway? Don’t bother. The restaurant designed its wall paper from historical photos, but the modern New York Rapid Transit System bares little resemblance to the nostalgic images of ladies in long skirts, girls in pig tails, boys in knickers, and gentlemen in derbies, which complement your roast beef and shredded lettuce. Today’s New York subway has the logic of tangled spaghetti, enough people dashing for trains to make Santa Fe at the height of tourist season look easy, and an energy level that would exhaust a killer tornado.
Don’t go near the New York subway if you’re looking for quiet. The repertoire of noises a train can make in a fifteen minute run across Manhattan can make you wonder whether you’re in a railroad car or an alien zoo. Take a trip on the subway, and accept that you are Alice in Wonderland. Anything goes (and comes) on the thousands of miles of rails that make up the system. The subway even has its own version of the alphabet. A Train, B Train, D Train, E. The C Train doesn’t exist. QB, RR, SS, K –! Oh never mind.
Think you have a shot at a train’s open door? Don’t believe it. The thing’ll slam as you’re about to jump aboard. Another train won’t arrive for hours, especially if you’re in a hurry.
Figure out the Interborough Rapid Transit line can whisk you home from the Museum of Modern Art faster than the Brooklyn Manhattan Transit Line. Learn the complex transfer points between the Independent and Canarsi trains. Someone at the Metropolitan Transit Authority will change every route and station he can find. You’ll land in the Bronx trying to go in the opposite direction to Brooklyn
When you approach a train, get ready for confusion. Its front will proclaim it a South Ferry Local. Signs inside will announce it’s headed for some unheard of destination in Flatbush. Ask a Transit Cop where the train’s going, and he’ll name some spot near Shea Stadium where the Mets play.
Platform signs won’t help you either. UPTOWN BRONX . Swell. DOWNTOWN BROOKLYN.. Fine. Which direction do you need to go to get to your destination? Ask a token booth clerk in a faultless Chicago accent, and he’ll say, “Sorry, no sprechen deutsch.”
But what the heck — grab that train. and for the pure rush and adventure, roar through tunnels on the express track with sound ricocheting off walls. Watch station lights flicker like crazy strobes. Smell ozone and garbage. Observe people: the business man in a three-piece suit struggling to keep his New York Times s folded, a big task when the daily edition’s as thick as the Sunday Albuquerque Journal.
Watch a drunk babbling to no one about his cheating girl friend. He’ll remind you of a country western song wailed in an eastern accent, as a woman in a mink coat squirms away from a bag lady, and a three-year-old nibbles a soft pretzel, mustard oozing down her chin.
Listen to friends yell conversations above the train. Ignore them. They’ll ignore you. New Yorkers don’t talk to strangers.
But, then you’ll reach a station. No one will get off or on — except a pigeon. Stiff-legged and neck jerking, the green and gray bird’ll wander into the car from the platform. The woman next to you will make brief eye contact and laugh as the train pulls out, and the pigeon jumps on a seat as calmly as the stock broker across the car, settles on hers with her Wall Street Journal .
At the next stop, as everyone in the car begins to laugh, the bird will hop off the seat and waddle out the door. The woman beside you will howl. “I love New York.” Her r’s will sound like w’s, and her o’s like ah’s. She’ll tell you about her voyage to the South Pole on a cruise ship. You’ll tell her you’re from New Mexico. She’ll ask you how you can live in polluted Mexico City.
Don’t think one of our fifty missing as you explain that New Mexico is in the United States. To New Yorkers, forty-nine of our fifty are missing. They’ll visit Europe, Asia, South America, India and Africa; but not venture west of the Hudson River. After all, a person could spend ten life times of 90 years each wandering through Brooklyn, Manhattan, the Bronx, Statan Island and Queens, without experiencing all New York could offer. Who would need the rest of the United States?
Laugh at the logic and stay on the train. Ride it to Yankee Stadium and home again after a bottom-of-the-nineth, bases-loaded home run has won the game for Steinbrenner’s boys. An old man smelling like a couple of beers will break the code of silence and say that as a kid he saw Babe Ruth’s 60th home run fly over the fence, or wept at Lou Gehrig’s farewell.
You’ll pull into Lincoln Center as he finishes the story. Get off the train to buy a ticket to the Mostly Mozart Festival. Stride up the ramp leading to the box office at Avery Fischer Hall. Walking or running will throw you off balance, the way the slope’s pitched. See a man wearing a jacket turned green from brown. Three or four battered buttons and a large safety pin fasten it. Reflections from neon lights shimmer on his wrinkled head, and salt-and-pepper hair bristles behind his ears. He carries a violin case and a cracked brown satchel with music sticking out. You catch up to him. His mouth turns up as he sees you. “You are in a hurry,” he asks softly in a German accent.
You hang on to a banister. “Yes I want to hear tomorrow’s concert.”
Behind gold-rimmed glasses, his brown eyes become animated. “Den, I just play it dat much better for you.” He’s on his way to orchestra rehearsal for the performance. When you find tickets sold out, he gets you a complementary seat. You go back to the subway with your ticket zipped into the safest pocket you have. When the concert’s over, that ticket stub will remain special among special things.
You get in line at the token booth. The woman ahead of you has two small children, and change two cents shy of proper fare. The clerk can’t change her twenty dollar bill. You give her two cents and buy your own gold token to drop in the turnstile. She thanks you. You spot a flower seller and pick up some daises.
“Two-oh-two,” the seller quotes the price, wiping her hands on an apron.
You dig through your wallet. “Can you change a ten?”
“Nope.”
You start to put the daisies back. She stops you. “Skip it already. Who’s gonna know?”
You think of the sandwich shop wall back home and realize that no pretty old fashioned inane will ever compare to the gritty, pithy reality of the experience you’ve just had. You sit down on a bench to wait for for your train, and as you hear its moan a mile away, anticipate your next adventure with the rail road called the New York subway.

Posted on February 24th, 2010 by Connie Gotsch
Filed under: News | No Comments »

This summer I had a public reading to do at Joseph-Beth bookstore for my short story in the Appalachian Angels anthology. This wasn’t my first public reading, but because this was a huge bookstore, it sure felt like my first one. My heart pounded away, my nerves were as taught as violin strings, my palms were sweaty, and I had to concentrate on breathing correctly! I was a mess and the closer it came for my turn to walk to the podium and read into the microphone, the worse I got. There was another part of me that kept thinking how ridiculous I was being! Years ago, my husband worked in another store just a short walk from Joseph-Beth. While he was there, I’d go to Joseph-Beth and spend hours walking around, soak in the atmosphere, and feel that little ping of jealousy when authors were there to do their signings and readings. I secretly dreamed that one day I’d be able to do this, and then when I get the amazing opportunity, what do I do? Freak out.

So how did I end up handling it? I arrived at Joseph-Beth two hours early. I got out of my truck and stood in the parking lot and looked up at the huge bookstore letters sitting atop Lexington Green. I took in a deep breath and smiled. It was actually happening. I was here, getting ready to walk into this place as an author. My heart beat a little faster and I started having a daydream of walking up to the front to read and tripping and falling, or dry-heaving into the microphone as I tried to speak. I squinted my eyes shut for a second and shook the thought away. I was nervous as could be, but I told myself that I would refuse to let those kinds of thoughts ruin a long-awaited dream.

Since it was a Saturday afternoon the store was busy. There are two levels at this Joseph-Beth, and as I approached the escalator I looked ahead to see the Appalachian Angels banner hanging in all its glory from the top floor balcony. I’d brought my camera and took a picture. To the right of the escalator sat a long table showcasing the days list of visiting authors and their books. I got a little choked up. I spent time walking around the store, thinking back to those days when I was here to just walk around and dream. It helped settle my nerves. Then the editor came in with her black briefcase in hand, saw me, smiled, and grabbed me and hugged me. I pointed over the banister to the lower floor where Joseph-Beth had us set up for our reading. The butterflies in my stomach flared up, but I once again reminded myself that I was going to enjoy this day and take it all in.

We headed downstairs to meet with the bookstore employee handling our reading. Sylvia, the editor, helped her set up the podium and microphone. More authors from the book arrived and we all sat together waiting for the reading to start. I think this was the worst part for me. It took a lot to handle the height of my nerves at this point. A dear friend traveled an hour to come hear me read and as I handed her my camera to take pictures, my hand shook so hard that she grabbed it and looked straight at me and said, “It is going to be just fine. You’re going to do great.” I was so glad she was there. I was even happier I didn’t have to go first. I took a sip of my coke and then hated myself for it–I just knew I would be burping into the microphone now. There go my nerves again.

It came my turn to go up. I could hear my heart pounding in my head. I didn’t trip when I walked up to the podium. I smiled at the audience (all seats were filled) as I adjusted the microphone. I introduced myself, my story, and began to read. I didn’t dry-heave or burp, but read my story with the emotion and heart it deserved. It’s only a short story, and as I got to the last paragraph which is extremely emotionally charged, I heard the gasps and ohhs. They were listening, they heard my words not my nerves, and my story touched them. I finished reading, closed the book, looked up at the audience and smiled. My heart was still beating hard as they clapped. It was a wonderful dream realized. I hope I have more public readings in my future and I know I’ll still be nervous, but I will not let it overtake the excitement, happiness, satisfaction, and sharing that comes from this writer’s dream.

AJ Caywood

Posted on December 3rd, 2009 by AJ Caywood
Filed under: Author Events | 2 Comments »

I talked in an earlier post of the advantages of setting a story in your home town or a place you’re very familiar with. It’s often easy to weave some of this local color into your narrative. However when I travel interstate or overseas I always try to get to places that are off the beaten tourist track. I love investigating the way the locals live. I don’t just mean their houses or apartment blocks. I talk to them and whenever possible accompany them to the place where they work or to those where they enjoy their leisure. This includes nightclubs, cafes, community centers, parks etc.
Writers always endeavor to absorb the atmosphere of a place and the way of life of its inhabitants. They have a heightened awareness of their surroundings. They take photographs and make notes of things while they are fresh in their minds. They may not use this information right away. Perhaps they won’t even use it for years. But at some stage it will seep back into their minds and they will write a story around the vivid memories that are stored in their heads. On the other hand they might be inspired to write something straight away about sites and sounds they have experienced.
Whenever you travel to somewhere new, take in as much as you can of the place. Tune in to its vibes. Seek things that are out of the ordinary. Someday you’ll be glad that you did!

Posted on August 29th, 2009 by Pat Turner
Filed under: News | No Comments »

I was very pleased when a reader contacted me and said she found Finding Lilies on Pat Cromwell’s multicultural and IR reading lists. I had never thought of the impact Finding Lilies could make on readers who enjoy reading multicultural romances. When writing the book, I not only wanted to encompass a tale of first love, but I also wanted to write about social issues that can affect anyone regardless of social, economical, or racial boundaries. It is my hope that readers will not only enjoy the intense romance between Blake and Jackson, but will also appreciate the heart wrenching situations that Blake must bravely face while working as a social worker in inner-city Atlanta.

Posted on June 24th, 2009 by Kelly Clark Baugher
Filed under: News | 1 Comment »