Views on Reviews

Always an avid reader, I debated the merits at age thirteen of becoming a librarian or a book reviewer. At the time, I didn't realize that literary types often did many different jobs dealing with books, and simultaneously.

Since then I've worked as a home-service librarian among the Amish of eastern Ohio and as a "book appreciator," rather than a literary critic with an advanced degree in literature. While I make no claim to erudition, I know what I like and, conversely, what leaves me nonplussed when reading. I can discern the lyrical from the prosaic, the extraordinary from the mundane.

Several years ago, I began reviewing books for such sites as NewPages.com and CurledUpWithAGoodBook.com and the print magazine Foreword. Now, I find myself asking others to review books for the site I edit: 360MainStreet.com. With an optimistic attitude, I prefer to point out what I find to be effective or beautiful about a work in the reviews I write and leave the lambasting of poor works to others--at least in print. I don't ignore flaws, however; I simply try to balance my positive and negative assessments.

I was recently turned off when I read the submission page of a small press at which the publisher encouraged its authors to boost their own books by writing laudatory reviews under false names at sites like Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and LuLu (or other self-publishing enterprises). This unethical suggestion appalled me as much as the review companies that charge authors hundreds of dollars to review an author's book, paying the actual reviewers a small fraction of this fee. Although these companies don't guarantee a good review, they guarantee the work will be reviewed, and the author will be free to use the review for whatever purposes s/he desires.

With review space in even the most major print media diminishing rapidly and the number of books being published annually still rising due to self-publishing, I can appreciate the dilemma of writers wanting to promote their works in print and online, and a number of online review sites have arisen to fill the vacuum left by the print media.

Yet, for many writers, particularly those new writers, paying a manuscript doctor/coach to critique a work in progress is more valuable than paying for a review that may be worthless because very negative, or, if good, possibly be overly appreciative and thus a disservice to a writer who may have been better served in the long run by an honest critique.

When assigning books to reviewers for 360MainStreet.com, I try to match the book in question with a reviewer who'll likely appreciate that particular book because--yes, I'd like a good review, but also--I can only pay the reviewer with the copy of the book and hopefully with the pleasure reading it and earning publication credits might bring. I demand honesty of the reviewers. "Feel free to point out weaknesses as well as strengths," I instruct them. I do this as a gift to the authors because a falsely appreciative review harms the author's work more than an honestly negative one would.

If you, or someone you know is interested in reviewing books or music CDs, please contact me at Editor[at]360MainStreet.com.

My perfect cup of coffee

is not the plastic travel mug
of Breakfast Blend that topples

from the center car console
onto my khaki slacks,

not Columbian or French Roast,

not afternoon cappuccino
with a hazelnut shot,

not Café JoJo’s mocha latte
iced, with whipped cream,

not keep-me-awake caffeine
microwaved four times bitter.

My perfect cup is home perked,
sweetened with sugar and cream:

like when my husband smiles at me,
that liquid look in his dark eyes,

and I want to cup his smooth cheeks
in my hands—

sip, drink, gulp
until the pot runs dry.


[This poem first appeared in Dunes Review, winter 2007-2008.]

Window Washer

My husband hates to wash windows.
Our longtime joke—we’ll move again
before it’s time to wash them. So,

nose-burning bucket of ammonia water
in one hand, squeegee in the other,
tired old tee-shirts draped over my arm,
I survey this anti-archival chore.

The sliding glass door presents its evidence:
fingerprints, spaniel drool and nose prints,
wind blown dust, a feather pasted with blood.

I wet, wipe, squeegee, dry edges, corners,
glide open the door, cross the track, repeat.
Door open, I stand astride, tilting my head
left, right, to see what remains: a film,

echoes of an interiorexterior viewpoint,
like those black-and-white drawings—
are they vases or faces? we ask ourselves.

[This poem was first published in the online Cherry Blossom Review, which I have just learned is going offline--defunct.]

"Striving for an F" and Autonomy from My Job

When I started work as a teaching aide in developmental English classes at a community college, I didn't know what to expect. Fortunately, it has been an interesting experience and a source of inspiration for several pieces of creative writing, including the essay "Striving for an F," which appeared this month for the first time in College Hill Review. Since its publication, friends have emailed me links to very recent articles on this topic in the national media. For the record, I wrote this piece in December of 2008.

I've been both surprised and chagrined that when people who've only seen me in the classroom find out about my many other creative activities, they are surprised. Why should they be? My skills far exceed those needed for my job, but they must know that a person is not his/her job. In this world, many creative people struggle to earn livings in jobs far removed from the activities that nourish their souls. It may be difficult for Americans to isolate the person from the job, but I hope they might be educated to do so.

Flight: Poem and Flash Prose

We wander along the dune crest,
following meandering sand lines,

wave markers; little holes, once bubbles
speckle the dune’s lake side.

With our bared feet the same size,
we leave almost matching footprints,

dry colored ones on the dark sand,
wet colored ones on the dry.

Further inland the dunes rise up,
a gentle clutter of congregating grass.

Our loose sweatshirts and jeans,
rolled up to mid-calf flap wildly.

The autumn breeze combs our hair,
caresses our faces,

fills our nostrils with the scent
of clean sand, fresh, clear water,

pushes the massed grey-tinged clouds
in streams across the reflected sky.

The great green-blue lake
lashes roaring three-foot waves.

We dodge them easily laughing,
as they lap gently at our ankles.

Stripe-necked sandpipers scatter
on chopstick legs, leaving mazes.

Herring gulls swirl above, glide
through invisible dance patterns,

dip abruptly to light
amidst the foamy waves.

We open our flapping sails to the breeze
to take it all in,

to pour ourselves all out,
to become grains of sand underfoot,

crystal jewels of sparkling foam,
almost imperceptible whirs of gulls’ wings.


OR


We wander along the dune crest, following meandering sand lines; little holes, once bubbles speckle the dune’s lake side. With our bared feet the same size, we leave almost matching footprints, dry colored ones on the dark sand, wet colored ones on the dry. Further inland the dunes rise up, a gentle clutter of congregating grass. Our loose sweatshirts and jeans flap wildly. The autumn breeze combs our hair, caresses our faces, fills our nostrils with the scent of sand and water, pushes the massed grey-tinged clouds across the sky. The great green-blue lake lashes roaring three-foot waves. We dodge them easily laughing. Stripe-necked sandpipers scatter on chopstick legs. Herring gulls swirl above, glide through invisible dance patterns. We open our flapping sails to the breeze, take it all in, pour ourselves all out, become grains of sand underfoot, crystal jewels of sparkling foam, almost imperceptible whirs of gulls’ wings.

[Does one version work better than the other? Each was published in a different literary journal, print and online.]

Simple Acts

A few months ago I was feeling disgruntled. My creative writing wasn’t working well—I was blocked from the poems I knew I had in me. Exasperated, I wished I could write a work that would make something happen. Maybe a letter or an article or an essay.

Then via Facebook, I learned that a poet friend is suffering a disorder whose major symptom is vertigo. This news made me think back to a poem I’d written but not yet published, based on my own experience of a spinning world.

So I sent it to her and got this reply, “Thank you so much for this lovely poem! It's actually one bright spot in this dreary experience--I really admire it, and I'm grateful you sent it.”

During her difficult challenge, a small poem brought a moment of pleasure, making “something happen," afterall.

The Dune

The weathered gray barn squats
between elm grove and sawmill,
where Grandfather brings to life
the monstrous, jagged-toothed saw,
its steely blade my height.

Like the toothpicks of some Bunyan,
the pine trunks await their fate,
at each end weeping amber sap,
trapping would-be scarabs,
and my anticipation.

Watching for Grandmother, I jump—
faded overalls, sky blue blouse,
huckleberry buckets in hand—
as the saw motor starts,
sputters, then growls steadily.

Rattling chains draw logs
to the first of many snarling bites.
Blond chips and dust fly,
settling like resinous sand,
in a pile behind the mill.

Silently the dune beckons
like a Michigan shore
on a sticky August afternoon.
I wade to the top, slide down again
and again in an avalanche

of slivers, until finally,
ready to meet blueberries,
I empty pant cuffs, shake pigtails.
Only the barn notices the slap-and-dash
as I mill the evidence of my trespass.

[This poem was originally published in Pennsylvania English, 2004/05.]