Traveling Shoes . . .

Dateline: Tampa, Miami, St. Augustine, Greece.

In Tampa, I was deeply moved by the commitment of that community to heal the children they serve. Joshua House is one of the finest organizations I have had the privilege to speak to. The love and care that Joshua House exhibits to children who have experienced the unspeakable is something that I hope one day will be replicated in every community in this country. Being among those folks made me proud of my Tampa roots.

In Miami, I taught an eclectic, brilliant group of writers at the Florida Center for the Literary Arts at Miami Dade College. In four short days we bonded, learning all over again why we love the written word.

In St. Augustine, we held our first annual Below Sea Level Writers Conference and what a time we had! Dorothy Allison and I spent seven days teaching, laughing, sometimes crying, and celebrating the talents of twenty-one deeply gifted writers. We hosted New York literary agent Joy Harris, rising literary star Laura van den Berg, and WordSmitten editor Kate Sullivan. Our writers left St. Augustine and the gorgeous Casa Monica Hotel exhausted but filled with The Muse. Check out conference photos at flickr.

In Greece, well . . . Greece is the future. Who knows what adventures, what stories, what deep bonds we will discover. If you’d like to join us, contact Aegean Arts Circle director Amalia Melis.

Offshore Drilling in Florida? An Open Letter to Governor Crist

June 18, 2008

Dear Governor Crist:

Okay, in the spirit of full disclosure, let me say flat out: I didn’t vote for you. But I admit, you surprised me. At least, up until yesterday. Before then, I could say that while I didn’t agree with everything you did, I understood why some of my more forgiving friends ventured that you might be a Democrat in Republican raiment. Tuesday, you proved them wrong.

Last week (as late as Monday, June 9, according to the Associated Press), you reiterated your position that there should be no oil drilling off the Florida shore. Yesterday, after Senator McCain flip-flopped, thus morphing into Big Oil’s mouthpiece (oh how far away the 2000 campaign truly is), you betrayed us. Citing the “suffering” of the Florida people, you mimicked the senator’s flip-flop with all the fury of a bully who desperately wants to be picked for the team and who doesn’t care who he hurts or betrays in the process. In the faint but hopeful light of being one thrombosis away from becoming the President of the United States, offshore drilling is suddenly a groovy idea.

Forget that oil derricks sprouting like metal vultures from the blue waters of the Gulf and new refineries mushrooming in toxic glory in our marshlands would toll the death knell for Florida’s $60 billion recreation and tourism industry.

Forget that we are on the cusp of truly seizing alternative energy sources that will not only make offshore drilling passé (an environmental Marquis de Sade joke) but might very well save the planet.

Forget future-think; go ahead: drag us into the mistake-riddled past where we say no to forward thinking, choosing to remain dependent on fossil fuels and, in the process, break Mother Nature’s back.

We know the truth. Even if we began drilling offshore tomorrow, we wouldn’t see it effect energy prices for seven to ten years. Drilling in ANWAR will gain us even slower results. Let’s be optimistic and roll the dice at seven. With the proper inspiration (which $4+ a gallon gas truly is) and sound policies (investing in new technologies), surely we will develop those deeply needed alternative energy sources. Why say no to foreign oil when we should be saying no to oil, period?

We know the truth. Senator McCain changes his mind like a child who can’t decide if he wants the red gumball or the green one. Three weeks ago in a town hall meeting in Wisconsin he stated that offshore drilling was not the answer: “ [W]ith those resources, which would take years to develop, you would only postpone or temporarily relieve our dependency on fossil fuels. We are going to have to go to alternative energy, and the exploitation of existing reserves of oil, natural gas, even coal, and we can develop clean coal technology, are all great things. But we also have to devote our efforts, in my view, to alternative energy sources, which is the ultimate answer to our long-term energy needs, and we need it sooner rather than later.”

We know the truth. Senator McCain is misinformed when he tells us that offshore drilling is an accident-free endeavor. According to the International Tanker Owners Pollution Federation, between 1997 and 2007, there have been 242 spills from tankers, combined carriers and barges (acts of war not included).

We know the truth. People in Iowa or Nebraska or Kansas might not care as much as Floridians and Californians do about devastated shorelines thanks to offshore drilling, but how does Senator McCain think he’s going to win the election without Florida or California? By becoming Big Oil’s Big Brother, how do you think you’ll snag a second term as governor if the senator passes you over?

We know the truth. Smell the air in Texas City and tell us that refineries do not turn the air we breathe into a lethal stew.

We know the truth. Much of it resides in Dana Milbank’s June 17 Washington Post column. I’ll hit a couple of highlights:

“During his last run for the presidency, in 1999, McCain supported the drilling moratorium, and he scolded the ‘special interests in Washington’ that sought offshore drilling leases.”

Special interests in Washington? Again, how long ago that 2000 campaign.

Milbank quotes, Holly Binns, field director for Environment Florida, as saying, referring to Senator McCain’s Big Oil stance, “This is a state where if you don’t understand how deep the connections are to our identity and our culture, you could step on a land mine. This could be one of those cases.”

We know the truth. Your decision to throw our state to the oil-drilling wolves means you have lost your way, sir.

But change is in the air. After all, if Senator McCain can flip-flop like a beached mullet, why can’t you?

Governor, step away from Holly Binns’ metaphorical land mine. Do not turn your back on the Florida people in favor of Big Oil. Do not abandon rational thought in your hell bent desire to be Senator McCain’s running mate. I beg you, do not betray the people you took an oath to serve. If you do, I fear for your legacy, our children, our planet.

Most sincerely, a proud Floridian,
Connie May Fowler

Here are a few lists I jotted while I wait on spring to unfold in all her glorious decadence.

Reasons to Celebrate

I have finally marched my way through to the end of the first draft of How Clarissa Burden Learned to Fly.

There is a ringed-neck turtle dove AND a red-headed woodpecker at the feeder outside my studio window.

It’s not going to be cold again until December.

I am learning to fish–really and again.

The kayak is clean and ready for her first trip of the season and I will not care how cold the water is come April 1.

Reasons to be Awed

My pup taught herself to knock on the dog door when she wants in.

The white squirrel in my yard.

I-Phones.

Last night I dreamed I was a pigeon.

The sky.

Reasons for a Heavy Sigh

The Wire is over.

My kitchen needs a new floor.

My carpenter won’t return my calls.

How Clarissa Burden Learned to Fly needs my undivided attention but the world has other plans.

The fish are stoned from all the freaking pharmaceuticals we’re flushing down our toilets. Just say no, Nancy Reagan!

Travel Plans? (not exactly a list, but important)

Come to Greece and eat, drink, dance, write, and be merry among the ancients and moi. I will be there this July teaching at the Aegean Arts Circle annual writers conference on the beautiful island of Andros. Join me for seven days—July 7-14—while we explore your writing and the astonishing beauty, history, and food of Greece.

CMF: Where She Wanders

The Sanibel Public Library, March 14, 2 p.m.

Wordsmitten Writing Workshop Series, March 22, University of Tampa.

Joshua House, Child Abuse Awareness Luncheon, April 25, Tampa, the Marriott Waterside at ll:30 a.m. Tickets can be purchased by calling 813-263-3469.

Below Sea Level: The St. Augustine Project Writers Conference, June 1-8, Casa Monica Hotel. The conference is full, however there will be a public reading the evening of June 7 with myself, Laura van den Berg, and Dorothy Allison. Details to come.

Aegean Arts Circle on the beautiful island of Andros. July 7-14.

And One Other List

Being a fallen Catholic, sin fascinates me. So, of course, I am tickled a loose shade of scarlet that the Vatican is adding to their already exceedingly long list of no no’s. The Pope and his Boys in Red evidently have just caught on that amassing glutinous wealth and polluting with all the vigor of a flatulent, pork-n-bean eating King Kong should buy a soul a layover in Purgatory (or did they get rid of that too?). Anyway, I’m all for the super wealthy and the super polluters (aren’t they members of the same country club?) going straight to Hell. But I’m disappointed that they didn’t ask for public input. However, in the off chance that the Pope–as he lounges in his silk kimono, listening to Coltrane on the IPod–will turn on his MacBook Pro and surf on over to this website, I offer a few suggestions.

Connie May’s Addendum to The Sin List

The following shall spend eternity frying:
1. Anyone and everyone, including priests, who prey on children.
2. Anyone and everyone, including health insurance executives, who believe a corporation’s profits have more value than even a single human life.
3. Anyone and everyone who contributed to the Katrina tragedy. The Army Corp of Engineers, Brownie, Bush, Nagin, and FEMA come immediately to mind.
4. Anyone and everyone who lied about there being WMDs in order to catapult us into war (and don’t start on me; yes, I support the troops; no, I don’t support the war).
5. Anyone and everyone who, claiming to be a journalist, utters one more word about Paris Hilton, that Kardashian chick, or any of their drunken friends (p.s.: showing your coochie is NOT a talent).
6. Anyone and everyone who thought that twenty (count ‘em: 20!) primary debates was a good idea. God help us come September.
7. Anyone and everyone involved in making my home state of Florida look like the Dumbass State rather than the Sunshine State thanks to playing politics, yet again, with a presidential election.
8. Anyone and everyone who had any hand in developing the voicemail systems we find ourselves trapped in when we call nearly any company, anywhere. Do you suppose hell has voice mail?
9. My third grade teacher.
10. The Head On commercials: actors, writers, stock holders, grips, and gaffers.

So, tell me, what’s on your list?

Happy New Year, everyone!

For me, 2007 was a year of intense change–quit my day job, moved from Florida to Kentucky and back to Florida, lost my dear Atticus but gained the wonderful puppy Murmur Lee; discovered the digital worlds of MySpace, Facebook, and flickr; and love blessed me (can I get a hallelujah on that one!).

As for 2008, it promises to be a period of polishing and finalizing much of what ‘07 threw atcha girl. I will put the finishing touches on How Clarissa Burden Learned to Fly (yippee and finally!). In fact, ‘08 will be all about writing—I am so happy about this. Not only will my novel finally be finished (pub date to come), I have several other book projects I can’t wait to get started on and my food column in FORUM launches in a couple of months (more on that soon).

So with all that in mind, here is a brief look at what’s coming up (don’t miss the St. Augustine Project deadline!).

Wishing you the best year ever!
cmf

The St. Augustine Project

The deadline for applying for The St. Augustine Project is January 15, so don’t dawdle! I have had a few people say they don’t think they are good enough writers to apply. NOT! By “serious writers” I mean folks who are serious about their writing—simple as that. I do not mean that you already have an agent and a contract. So don’t be shy. If you want to work for a week with me, Dorothy Allison, super agent Joy Harris, and editors from Ploughshares, Redivider, and WordSmitten Quarterly, then send that manuscript! For further details, log onto www.writingbelowsealevel.com.

SPECS

Some people have written me, asking specific questions about submitting manuscripts to SPECS, the new journal/brainchild of my friend Vidhu Aggarwal at Rollins College. I’m not involved in the day-to-day workings so I can’t answer your questions. Please send all inquiries to editors@specsjournal.org.

The Aegean Arts Circle in Greece this Summer

Thanks to Amalia Melis and the Aegean Arts Circle, I will be teaching at the AAC in Greece again this summer. The dates haven’t been firmed up yet (it will be after The St. Augustine Project Writers Conference) but will be soon. For more info, visit www.aegeanartscircle.com.

Other Dates

March 14, 2008: The Sanibel Public Library
April 25, 2008: The Friends of Joshua House Foundation in Tampa

How Clarissa Burden Learned to Fly: Another Profoundly Flawed, Early Draft Excerpt that Probably Won’t Make the Final Edit

He cocked his head to the left, then the right. His handsome face was crinkled in concentration.
“Why you want this car?” he asked. He turned to her. “I mean . . .” he tapped his index finger on the dash, “this car.”
“You’re supposed to try to be selling me. Not interrogating me. ”
“You a lady. This is a man’s car.”
“Then why did you show it to me?” Clarissa, deep inside, felt as if her imaginary fall from the Sears Tower was about to end on a positive note.
He laughed. “That’s right. I show it to you. But you want it. I mean want it, the way a man wants. Why?”
Clarissa looked at him—his face was open and beautiful—and then back at the road. Dead Oak lay just ahead in the glimmering distance. She knew the answer, and the knowledge made her light-headed; it was the same feeling she experienced in the old days when she was writing and writing well, when she knew the next word she typed would not simply be an okay word or a good word but the only word in all the English language that would do.
Still, she took her time, not answering immediately, allowing herself the luxury of experiencing the totality of the El Camino, feeling the engine’s power radiate up through the drive shaft, steering column, the tiny bones of each finger. She listened to the truck’s pitch perfect rumble the way a jazz aficionado listens to Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme.” She saw the yellow hood gleaming, a few stray clouds reflected in its polished shine, and thought that there was nothing mundane about power and utility combined. In her mind, she sat down at the keyboard and began typing, clicking the letters that would form the perfect word. Click, click, click: everything—the alphabet and all its sounds—lined up as if they were charmed and she was their wizard.
She knew Raul was watching her, and she liked that. She looked over at him. His brown eyes were patient, intent, hungry. Hunger for a woman, for air, for life—that was something she hadn’t seen in her own husband in months. Or was it years? Raul was the kind of man, she knew, who if he ever did cheat on his wife would impale himself with guilt and shame. He might even confess and Clarissa hoped that if any of that actually happened, his wife would forgive him.
“You want to know why, really why?” Clarissa asked.
“Si. Yes.”
She caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. She was sweaty. Dirty. Unafraid. “Freedom,” she said.

The St. Augustine Project . . .

So I’m out here on the coast, basking in 80 degree temps, watching the dolphins frolic and the osprey soar . When I’m not jamming to the tropical vibe, I’m staring into the computer screen, conjuring Clarissa Burden, figuring out my heroine’s next move. Betwixt all that, I’m writing my first food column for FORUM which is due just before Christmas.

This is why I haven’t yet pestered you about applying for the St. Augustine Project, A Seven-Day, Workshop Intensive, Writing Conference Featuring moi, the legendary Dorothy Allison, literary agent extraordinaire Joy Harris, and vastly talented writers and literary mag editors Kate Sullivan (WordSmitten) and Laura van den Berg (Redivider and Ploughshares). The deadline to apply (including sending your application manuscript) is January 15. For all the delicious details, click here.

Speculate . . .

I’m on the editorial board of a new literary magazine SPECS, which is the brainchild of my friend Vidhu Aggarwal. We’re accepting all kinds of stuff–as long as it meets our exacting standards. Here are the details:

Specs is a journal of contemporary culture and arts at Rollins College that aims to create sympathetic interfaces between artistic and critical practices. The editors invite submissions of creative and/or critical work for the annual Fall 2008 print and web issue. We seek works of fiction, non-fiction, cultural criticism, artwork, poetry, and pieces that blur genre boundaries. The editorial board consists of writers and academics from various fields. The editors are excited by specialty, an excess of detail, fragments, narratives, meta-narratives, and more. The deadline for poetry, creative non-fiction, fiction, and art is March 3, 2008. We accept simultaneous submissions of creative work, as long as we receive prompt notice of acceptance elsewhere. Please limit prose submissions to under 6000 words and poetry submissions to 10-12 pages. Email submissions as word attachments to editors@specsjournal.org. Remember to include a brief cover letter indicating whether you wish to be considered for the print edition, the web edition, or both. Please be advised color artwork with heavy graphics will only be considered for the web edition. Artwork for the print edition is limited to black on white work (4 x 7 dimensions). Please also indicate the type/genre of submission in the subject heading (Poetry, Fiction, etc.). We are also seeking visual art, fiction, poetry, and critical work that limits itself to one-page pieces for ONE/OFF, a special interactive section of Specs. In this section, we hope to force interactions between the print and web edition. Please visit our website at www.specsjournal.org for more details.

How Clarissa Burden Learned to Fly . . .

Here is a morsal from my novel, but don’t get too comfortable: it probably won’t make the final cut:

Clarissa looked beyond the rag tag line of graves that surrounded her, feeling certain there were plots without headstones, that bodies had been dumped and abandoned, that she was walking on the graves of women and their children who had been long forgotten. A sadness as thick as the fetid air descended on her. These were her sisters, sisters who had been considered disposable, unclean, unworthy. Maybe it wasn’t a yellow jack cemetery at all. Maybe it was a Potter’s Field for women who spoke their minds or whose sexuality was considered too obvious, tempting, dangerous, evil—bad women spawning bad seed. Maybe she had stumbled onto her own private Salem.

Namaste and Happy Holidays!
cm

THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER RETURNS

She had been drawn to the little sea shack nestled betwixt water and sky with the simple purity of a sea turtle whose true north is a singular spot of sand on an empty beach. She was happy there. The details of her life—errands into town, cleaning the house, writing her books—were timed in conjunction with the comings and goings of the Gulf because she loved to wander the beach at low tide and marvel over all the treasures the sea had momentarily left behind. On this sandbar she called home, she felt in touch with the Goddess-spirit, with the eternal circle she viewed as sacred (life feeds death; death feeds life). Troubles seemed less ponderous in the presence of nature’s rhythms and joy felt more natural.

But even the beauty and steady honesty of this place could not save her in the aftermath of that soul-wrecking divorce. The absolute anguish she felt over the slow death of her marriage and the venomous tentacles that grew from its corpse forced her into a dark and hopeless internal landscape. Physical proximity to the sea could not assuage the exile her heart and its attendant need for wellbeing suddenly occupied. Old friends could not help. Family could not help. Possible lovers could not help. No one could help. The past and all its vestiges poisoned the present. With her spirit in exile, she acted on what she viewed as her only reasonable option: she fled. She ran inland, not unlike Nick Blue, and immersed herself in the task of becoming whole again, cell-by-cell, moment-by-moment, blind-eye-by-blind eye.
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