Wednesday Writer: Anna Papadopoulos

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NAME: Anna Papadopoulos

PLACE OF ORIGIN: Made in America with Greek parts

CURRENT BASE: Midwestern U.S.

FIELD: Fiction

LATEST MILESTONES: Samaritans, a novel published in 2015 by Three Trees Press

Samaritans is the story of three generations of Greek American women and the quest of the youngest, a reformed juvenile offender, for love and true re-forming. It’s available on and

My blog is It, too, could use a little love and re-forming. It’s a work in progress, like all of us.


What prompts you to write?
From the time I could hold a pencil, I’ve loved to write. In school, I wasn’t pretty, popular, athletic, or an honor student (damn algebra). Nerds weren’t trendy yet. Writing was something I could do, and do well.

What identifies you best?
City girl through and through. Drop me in Chicago, Detroit, or Indianapolis, and I will know where I am and what to do. Drop me on a rural road and I’ll be looking for street signs and asking what that green and yellow thingy is rolling through the cornfield. (It’s a tractor, Anna, geez.)

Does the space where do you usually write have a window?
I have to have a window. However, a writer whose window faces the neighbors can become Gladys Kravitz if she’s not careful.

For a getaway or travel opportunity, which would be your first choice?
I feel naturally, perhaps genetically, drawn to the seashore. My dad took me to the beach all the time when I was a kid, and the waves would pick us up and set us down ever so gently. Water is gentle yet powerful. His dad, my Papou (grandpa) was born on a Greek island.

What most annoys you in others’ writing?
Do creative writing teachers still say, “Show, don’t tell”? I see an awful lot of telling in today’s fiction.

Favorite charity?
My favorite charity, social cause or activity is anything involving animal care and welfare.

What comfort food would match your mood now? Or what’s at the top of your favorite foods list?
Avgolemono (egg lemon soup) is my comfort food. It’s good for just about anything that ails physically, mentally, or spiritually.

Any tattoos?
The older I get, the more I’ve come to see tattoo artistry as just that, although I’ve never had a desire to get a tattoo myself. My main character in Samaritans, Cass, has one — a heart with barbed wire around it.

Who’s the favorite character you’ve created?
I’d have to say Cass. All of the characters in Samaritans have really rallied and kept me from shelving the entire project, at least for very long, but she is the ringleader.

What’s your latest discovery?
Mayan chocolate coffee from Schuil Coffee in Grand Rapids, Mich.


Look both ways before crossing the street. I’m amazed at how many people don’t do this.


From Samaritans:

Right before she left her mother to die in the living room, Cass Fischer left her last class at Wallingford High School and thought about not going home at all.

She could go to someone else’s house, but eventually they’d make her leave. She could walk past the school’s cinder track, the Cow Palace, and the coin laundry with the television set that only got one channel; past the brick homes peeking from behind tall trees and wrought-iron fences until the yards grew bigger and the houses, flatter. Then she’d take the wooded back roads that eventually led to the highway, and see how far she could get. Wallingford was close enough to two large cities to boast their amenities, and far enough to claim distance from urban evils. Come to Wallingford and have the best of both worlds, people liked to say. But once you were here – and, even more, if you’d always been here – you knew that was a lie. You couldn’t be in two worlds at once, any more than you could live on Percy Street Monday through Thursday, and on Sycamore Hills Drive Friday through Sunday. As Cass made her way down the school sidewalk, with students and bus exhaust coursing around her, she knew there was nowhere else to go. You could have one world, or none.


I admire the way Anna presents a slice of America that’s too often overlooked. As I nose about, I find surprisingly little fiction from a Greek-American perspective, even though it’s a significant population where I live. (Yes, yes, we know about the wedding movie, which I fear feeds into stereotypes.) In her story, though, Anna digs into a blue-collar workaday world starting in the Midwest — again, not the usual grist for literary writing. And then she makes it flow so directly, seemingly effortlessly, and ultimately real.  


A Manuscript and Other Things

Another good argument for giving a manuscript time to season. Be aware, though, that an author’s reactions can vary widely returning to a piece anew.

writer elise

So remember that book I wrote? I haven’t mentioned it in a while. I took a break from it. I read a list of good practices for writers that Neil Gaiman put out into the world. He advised putting your work aside for a while then reading it as if you’ve never read it before. So that’s what I’ve done.

This week I picked it back up. I cried while reading the first chapter. I didn’t cry while writing it. But everyone who has read it said they cried. Neil’s advice worked. It is like a brand new book to me. This will be my final edit then I’ll start submitting it, praying that it will find the right person who will help me get it into the hands of people like y’all.

While I was taking a break from writing a little voice of doubt slipped into my head…

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Novel Boot Camp #6: Developing a Theme

And here I’ve been calling it a premise …

Ellen Brock

6837575065_59b31b0929_oWriters don’t often consider theme. It’s something we tend to associate with high school literature class or Pulitzer Prizewinners. Theme can seem stuffy or contrived.

Some writers feel that themes develop organically or that they are discovered by readers or professors only after a novel is already written and out in the world.

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Writing Wednesday: Review of David Baboulene’s Story Theory Books

Like the question of humor or comedy, the essence of storytelling and fiction will always remain mysterious and elusive. Still, I have to salute those who look deeply for greater understanding and direction.

Ann Marie Thinking Out Loud

I discovered David Baboulene’s story theory book a few years ago, and haven’t stopped reading it since. Last year he adapted his PhD thesis on story theory for the general public, and I loved that too. I want to introduce them to you this week.

David Baboulene

David Baboulene works as a story consultant for film production companies, writers, producers, training and development organisations for stage, page and screen. He also gives seminars and writes extensively on his subject: story theory.

From his website: What is a story? Why do stories exist? How do they work? What gives one story power and leaves another flat? What can I do to make the very best of my story ideas? What tools are available to me to make stories that grip and intrigue?

The Story Book


Author, scriptwriter, story consultant and Ph.D scholar of story theory, David Baboulene, helps you to understand what makes stories that…

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Using The Rules To Your Advantage

There are reasons I’ve avoided genres … and reasons I’m having second thoughts. Here’s an argument why.

L. G. Estrella

Over time, each genre develops its own rules and customs. Identifying these rules and using them to your advantage can make your life as a writer much easier.

The rules and customs that govern a genre range from the subtle to the famously cliche. In the case of something like fantasy, readers have come to expect things like magic and adventure, and they will generally react positively to writers who can deliver those things. However, these rules and customs can also be restrictive. There is a reason that so many fantasy stories read very similarly. It is because too many stories adhere slavishly to the customs of the genre at the expense of telling a good story.

But what sort of rules and customs are there? If we look at how stories are written, we can divide a story into several components: plot, characters, settings, ideas/themes, and technical composition. Rules…

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Rules for Writing Fairy Tales

Here are some strong arguments I happen to agree with — along with the admiration of Pullman.

Pulling Rooms Together

In case you don’t know yet, I absolutely love fairy tales, and have often dreamed of writing my own fairy tales in the traditional language and style of Grimm’s. And yet this is something I really struggle with – something that seems like it should be so easy and is yet so hard – especially combining traditional fairy tale elements and language in a way that is completely unique and original, and not just a mash-up of other tales.

For anyone else who’s struggling with writing fairy tales of their own, I highly recommend Philip Pullman’s Grimm’s Fairy Tales. It’s not meant as an instructional book or a writing guide – it’s just editions of the stories researched and rewritten in Pullman’s language – but at the end of every story Pullman includes at least one short paragraph about how and why the tale works, and the choices he…

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Wednesday writer: Jeff Deck



NAME: Jeff Deck
PLACE OF ORIGIN: New Hampshire
CURRENT BASE: South Berwick, Maine
GENRES: Sci-fi, fantasy, horror
NEWEST BOOK: Player Choice, a sci-fi gaming adventure novel.

It’s 2040, and game designer Glen Cullather has a plan for the most ambitious virtual-reality game ever imagined. But as he begins to jump among alternate realities in his own life, Glen must figure out what’s real and what’s fantasy — for his own survival. “Player Choice” is a fast-paced gaming sci-fi adventure that dares to ask:

What happens when unreality becomes our reality?

Find Player Choice on Amazon as an e-book (


So I’ve had experience now in a couple of different genres. The Great Typo Hunt was nonfiction, the true story of my typo-hunting journey across the U.S. Meanwhile, my new book Player Choice takes a big left turn from that, not just into fiction, but into sci-fi, jumping ahead to the year 2040.

Why such a change? Well, as much I love the truth, I love making stuff up even more. And fantasy, sci-fi, and horror have always held a particular fascination for me. These genres have always struck me as an opportunity to approach important revelations about ourselves from, well, a sideways direction.

Take sci-fi. Player Choice is a story about a virtual-reality game designer in the year 2040. But, of course, it’s also about us in the year 2015. It’s about how technology can change a society. It’s about advertising and gaming and identity and memory and corporate power. It’s about the promise, and horrors, of our potential. Genres like fantasy and sci-fi let us play with our own reality through a funhouse mirror. Sometimes the reflection shows truer than a normal mirror.

Does location influence your work?

I used to be a city person. Living in D.C. and then Boston unsurprisingly led me to write a lot of stories in an urban setting. It was like, while living in that setting myself, I had a hard time imagining stories happening in small-town or rural environments.

So I wound up with the first draft(s) of Player Choice, about a guy in a (future) Northwestern city. And then the first draft of The Pseudo-Chronicles of Mark Huntley, my next novel (coming this summer),is  about a guy in D.C. It’s similar to how the publishing industry being based in New York City is the reason we end up with endless piles of novels set in New York City. Wherever you are becomes the center of your universe.

Why did I move to the suburbanish countryside here in southern Maine? I guess I wanted to change the center of my universe. Now you’ll probably be seeing a lot more stories from me that are set in small towns. I’ve got a Portsmouth (N.H.) horror series in the works …

Writing environment plays a big part for me (and I suspect for other writers as well). I work from home for my day job, and I’ve found that I can’t work on my fiction at the same desk that I use for my regular work. For one thing, I’m using the same computer — I don’t have that mental changeover if it’s the same computer, same desk, and same time of day.

I can get away with using the same computer at a different desk. Then I can get into the fiction-writing (or fiction-editing) mood. Particularly if it’s dark outside, or (if it’s morning) if the shades are drawn. The more I can disappear into the world on the page (helped out by earbuds or headphones with the appropriate music), the better.

And speaking of music, it really helps if I can listen to something relevant to the story. During the editing phase for Player Choice, I was fortunate enough to listen to a music mix prepared by my good friend Benjamin (who’d read several drafts of the story) as a kind of soundtrack for the book. In that spirit, I’m putting together a big list of songs from 2004 as I edit my next book, The Pseudo-Chronicles of Mark Huntley, which is set in that year.

I’m privileged to live in an area where I can reach either the ocean or the mountains in a relatively short amount of time. So there’s a lot of scenery within reach. My getaways the last few years have revolved mostly around European destinations, places with a lot of history and culture attached to their ridiculously gorgeous landscapes. It’s that cultural/historical factor that can make the real difference.

Here in New England, we do have a lot of history compared to the rest of the U.S., but … it still pales in comparison to the thousands of years that have shaped most places in Europe. Those places can be a real inspiration for writing speculative fiction, particularly fantasy.

Any advice?

Ooh. As I’ve gotten older and grayer, I’ve tried to become less critical, at least in public. There’s nothing uglier than writers sniping at each other in a public form. I mean, we’re all (we should be) on the same team.

The more writers can stick together, the more we can potentially form partnerships against harmful practices on the part of big publishers. It’s not really a case of every writer for herself or himself if we’re all bound to the same detrimental contract boilerplates. We do have the potential to make a difference …

And yet you see Big Five authors crapping on each other all the time in high-profile articles. Focusing on literary fiction versus genre fiction and other meaningless divisions. Rather than, say, asking themselves, “Don’t we all deserve a higher percentage here?” It’s like Stockholm Syndrome.

On the other hand, in the indie publishing world, you see an immense amount of writers supporting other writers. It’s collegial. It’s a recognition that the game doesn’t have to be zero-sum.

How about favorite causes?

Solipsistic creature that I am, I can’t hold my interest in a nonprofit cause or organization for long unless it directly relates to my own obsessions. So, of course, it usually ends up being writing-related.

I recently joined the board of trustees for the New Hampshire Writers’ Project, a statewide organization for supporting authors and literary arts. The NHWP has been great at recognizing the lifetime achievements of prominent New Hampshire authors — for example, the inaugural ceremony for the New Hampshire Literary Hall of Fame that just took place recently. The stuff I’m working on for NHWP is support for the other 99 percent of New Hampshire authors.

Most authors are still struggling to reach an audience for their work, because the pool of written work available for readers to purchase these days is so vast. It’s hard to stand out. I’ve created a New Hampshire Author Map that local readers can use to find local authors (who are NHWP members). We’ll be rolling it out to the reading public in the near future.

A favorite hangout?

You’ll find me almost every Thursday afternoon at the Book & Bar in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Where else can I drink beer while surrounded by books and friendly faces? It’s pretty much my favorite things in life bound up in one convenient package.

The Book & Bar isn’t where I write — but it’s certainly where I’ve gotten a lot of great story ideas. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no hangout in Portsmouth more welcoming to writers. At least half the staff are working on their own literary projects in their spare time.

Describe your significant other in one word or phrase.

My wife! As of April 1st.

When it comes to writing, who are your patron saints – the people you turn to for energy or inspiration or admire the most?

I’m just going to list them by genre: you can’t go wrong (for the most part) with any of these folks. Science fiction: Lois McMaster Bujold, Neal Stephenson, Ursula K. Le Guin. Fantasy: George R.R. Martin, Guy Gavriel Kay, Susanna Clarke. Horror: Stephen King, Mark Z. Danielewski, H.P. Lovecraft. And Michael Chabon and David Benioff, who jump around genres a bit.

There are a ton of other authors I still need to follow up on who wrote at least one book that I loved. I feel like I need to have at least a few favorite books by a particular author before that author can join the firmament of most inspirational for me. But, of course, in the list above, Clarke and Danielewski break that rule, since each of them wrote one incredible work that contains whole worlds in itself.

Every day I see more evidence that what we used to regard as The Future is now very much the present. Several different virtual-reality devices are set to hit the market later this year. Augmented reality is on its way, too. The world of Player Choice may arrive even faster than I speculated while writing the book. Part of the value of science fiction is giving ourselves the chance to run thought experiments about our potential future, before it arrives and bites us in the ass.


Player Choice, excerpt from Chapter 1

Attention: This is an oblivion-bound train. The next stop is: Agonizing death for everyone on board. Stand clear, the doors are closing!

Glen sat up in his seat and slapped his temple. Now where had that thought come from? He didn’t have time to waste on vague feelings of dread. Not this morning. The most important meeting of his life awaited him.

But the doomsayer in his brain persisted: Get off at the next stop, Cullather.

The doors slid open as the train stopped at the Swiftwater/Fourth Avenue Station. He stayed in his seat.

I said hit the bricks, private! Don’t you remember what’s going to happen?

Glen waved the thought away, grimacing. He’d commuted on the checkered line about eight hundred times before today with exactly zero incidents of death, agonizing or otherwise. All he had to fear from the creaky Kamukamp Public Transportation system was the occasional service delay.

Just nerves, he thought.

“Your sister’s calling again, Glen,” Sophie said. “Should I connect you?”

Ugh. There was only one reason she would be calling — the same reason she kept trying to call him over and over again. She needed bancors for her next fix.

“No,” he said, in a near-whisper so he wouldn’t disturb other passengers. “Tell Tara I’m … no, just make her go away.”

“How about I take a message.”

“Sure, whatever.”

“You’ve refused her calls numerous times,” Sophie added. “Should I add Tara to your block list?” The celph helper’s voice was crisp, authoritative, but with a little bit of honey underneath.

“No, let’s figure that out later.”

He refocused on preparing for the meeting. He had to reach the right mental state. That left no room for fake premonitions. No room for grasping siblings. Just … serenity. And utter confidence, to pitch the aether game that would blow the doors off the whole industry.

No room for pressure, either.

“Novamundas” was the game: a sprawling fantasy epic with nearly infinite player choice. A game that would energize and inspire its players, and even help them to reclaim agency in their own lives. “Novamundas” could make a difference where so many other efforts had failed.

Glen had dreamed of the idea for a decade. During all those years he spent building his reputation in conventional game projects at Planet Beyond, he’d dedicated his off-time to grueling through the “Novamundas” concept and groundwork. Now, he was finally ready to sell the game idea to his bosses.

But he’d only get one shot. Right now he had influence and great press on his side, sure. But reputations were fleeting. What did that one awful review say about him? “Thinks he’s a king-shit writer but is really just Ye Olde King of Shit?” Ar, har, har.

Now, I start the presentation with the joke …

As his mind paddled through the selling points of “Novamundas” in sequence, his eyes wandered across the aisle. A surly older man with salt-and-pepper hair sat there, in a rumpled polyester shirt and checkered pants with the fly halfway down. Unless a change of clothes and a bar of soap awaited this guy at his office, he wouldn’t be heading to one of Kamukamp’s gleaming downtown towers. Nor would he be strapping on a Cozie Coffee apron or ringing purchases at a ValuChunk.

An artist, maybe. Or a beggar. Or both? The lines blurred in this city.

Too many artist-beggars. Too much money stashed in the pockets of the too few. Not that Glen’s own pockets were empty …

The passenger picked at his teeth with a long wooden splinter. His seatmates shifted and muttered in disgust, but he seemed oblivious. One woman, a beautiful, proud member of the ten percent, slumming it on the train, rolled her eyes and sighed with gale force.

The tooth-picker turned to the woman. “Go ahead, call me a revolting old pig. God knows you’ll feel better afterwards. Don’t you know that too much repressed bile is bad for your liver?”

“Piss off, jarvis,” she said.

Glen grinned. He never let a good bit of dialogue go to waste. Even if it did sound familiar. He summoned the image of his celph display into his mind. A second later, the display showed in his vision. With a flick of his finger, he selected the notes icon, and he looked down. A pen and a battered, spiral-topped notebook appeared in his hand. He jotted a few quick words on the “paper.” Sophie would take care of filing the note.

The train stopped again. The doors opened to admit a new sampling of characters.

Earlier in the ride, a young black woman had stood in the middle of the train car and recited a poem about her great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, who had apparently been owned and abused by a Mr. Barton Cotswold in the nineteenth century. The poet had spoken in a monotone, but with smoking, furious eyes. Like her poem was a ritual to summon the shade of old Cotswold to this train, just so she could kick it in the spectral nuts. When she finished, she held up her old celph handset to receive donations.

Nobody had really cared. A supposedly “post-racism” society didn’t dwell on the fact that, a long time ago, humans had owned other humans. Slavery was such old news. But still, those surprising turns of language should have earned her at least a few bancors.

Glen had taken down a note on his pretend notepad then, too: Cotswold = Avian?

“Tara doesn’t want to leave a message,” Sophie reported now, dry as ever. “In fact, she has promised to do some very rude things to me if I don’t patch her through.”

Gods’ hooks, Tara was persistent. “You’re letting humans intimidate you, now?” he snapped. “Don’t give —”

A rippling boom drowned him out and reverberated through the train car. White light flashed outside the windows.

The train juddered and bucked.

The next couple of seconds slowed down and treated him to phantasmagoric sights: a whole box’s worth of fancy doughnuts from O-Face Bakery soaring through the air; the tip of the aging man’s big toothpick bursting through his cheek; a woman gripping her toddler by his feet as the little boy flipped up out of her lap and hung in the air …


Wednesday Writer is a regular feature profiling devoted writers of all stripes, most of them laboring outside the celebrity spotlight. To my mind, they are the lifeblood of the literary world, both as active readers and exponents of the empowered word.

Carl Howe Hansen

Carl Howe Hansen
Carl Howe Hansen

The vitals

I lived in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania, and many other places, but I tell people that I “grew up” in Sandwich, New Hampshire — the place I always, and still, call home.

I spend quality time on my sailboat, Holoholo, along the coast of Maine.

I have done freelance magazine work, essays, how-to articles about sailboats, along with a forty-year quest to finish my first novel, Destiny.

Destiny is a thriller; some call it an eco-thriller. Rebecca Pepper Sinkler, the former editor-in-chief of the New York Times Book Review, said, “Don’t start this book if you have anything urgent to do! You won’t be able to put it down. Dr. Peter Petersen’s discovery of bacteria designed to clean up oil spills promises a solution to environmental disaster, but when it is released prematurely, it threatens to end the world as we know it. Wild adventures at sea, geopolitical crisis, a frantic race to avert calamity—all are made human by the story of two brilliant but estranged brothers, grappling with their past. To top it all, there’s the story of first love in the face of an impending catastrophe. This is a rip-roaring thriller with a heart.”

Destiny is scheduled for release on May 8. Ask for it at your local bookstore. At Amazon, you can purchase the paper version or download it to your e-reader. Destiny will be available in several other e-book formats. Visit my website at I am also on Twitter and Facebook.

Some telling details

My goal is to finish and publish the trilogy — Destiny is the middle and the first of the three novels to be published. Along the way, I would love to see Destiny turned into a movie. I am a visual writer—responding to prompts created in an over-active mind—and I imagine the movie, even the actors, as I write.

I dropped out of college to play music and toured for almost five years. I guess you could say I was a hippie, because that was where I wanted to belong at the time. I do not want to be called an “old hippie”—we must grow and evolve and adapt as our time and place requires. Except, I’m still playing music with some of the same “boys” for over forty years now.

My favorite place to write is when I am sailing solo — out for days, challenging conditions, the solitude …

A getaway for me is a getaway from crowds, exploring the seldom seen.

If I were to redo one thing it would be to stick with my writing when I first started as a much younger man. I let a deeply-seeded need to be responsible prevent me from taking the necessary time to write back in the day.

I believe in self-reliance. I think we should all work toward a sustainable future, where stewardship is popular, where there is a respect for technology, and humans understand what it means to work for our future instead of hardly working. I donate a portion of the proceeds from Destiny to the Island Institute, a non-profit that promotes community sustainability on Maine’s islands.

Food isn’t very high on my priority list. I can easily forget to eat because I have something more important to do — like write. But, I do like seafood …

I manage to embrace the present, not pine for the past, and not worry too much about the future.

Do you have a favorite character?

I created a twenty-two-year-old female character named Kendra — a main character in Destiny. It took a lot of work to get into her head and I was afraid I would fail in the attempt — it’s not easy for someone my age to channel the thoughts of someone that young. She is strong and competent, but a little naïve as she grew up on an isolated island and aboard a sailboat. When my grown daughters read Kendra’s early scenes and they said I had managed to get it right, it emboldened me to expand and explore her character even more. I’m happy with how she turned out.

If someone asked me what I considered my greatest accomplishment, it would have to be my children. They are well-rounded individuals, caring, considerate, I like them, and they like me.

A sample selection

Opening scene of Destiny:

Whereto answering, the sea,
Delaying not, hurrying not,
Whisper’d me through the night, and
very plainly before daybreak,
Lisp’d to me the low and deliciousword death.

Walt Whitman
Leaves of Grass
“Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking”

 Wed. morning, Aug. 7, off the coast of Massachusetts.

Kendra Petersen’s fingers slid along the folds of skin below the man’s chin, searching for and then willing the carotid artery to pulsate with the next beat of his heart.

“Please, please!” she yelled, “Beat, you bastard!”

Her thumb joined forces with her fingers and she squeezed the fibrous artery tighter until fear gripped her that no blood could pass. “Give me a chance, please!” Hovering above his bloodstained face, she strained to hear anything at all. “Shut up!” she said as she lifted her face to the sky, imploring the shrieking wind.

“One … OK, there ya go.” She had not lost her sense of touch. “One, one thousand, two, one thousand,” she counted the pulsations, “come on … thr — Shiiit …”

She let her grip slip as the sailboat dropped off the backside of another wave. When they reached the bottom of the wave trough, the sudden loss of momentum sent her body, along with his, crumpling against a corner of the cockpit.

“Dammit, I need you.” She struggled to dislodge herself from his legs. “Move!”

There was no reaction in his listless face. His weather-beaten skin was wet with a mix of blood and salt water. Behind the stubble of his beard — this was their third day since they had left Maine — his lackluster color showed only a hint of the trauma he had experienced.

“You’ll have to wait your turn.” Despite his unconsciousness, she kept talking to maintain her focus. “We’ll never get there if I don’t get control of this damn boat.” She meant for her one-sided conversation to infuse some life, to help connect his errant brainwaves, to keep his mind among the living. “Remember what you told me? ‘Priorities first’ … you were right.” A surge erupted under the hull and this time, she grabbed the base of a winch with one arm, him with the other, and held tight.

Above her head, the jumbled mass of sail remained attached to the main boom. Each time the boat lurched, the heavy wooden appendage many times her weight swung freely from one side to the other.

“Now!” She released her protective grip on the winch and used both hands to lasso the boom with a length of rope, which she then yanked taut to the gallows and wrapped on a cleat. When the next wave lifted the boat, she dragged him onto the floor of the cockpit and threw herself on top. With her face pressed against his, she felt some warmth escape from his open mouth. Touching her lips to his ear, she whispered, “So, old man, you are still with me.”

The boat heeled over, paused with a shudder felt throughout the seams of the old wooden schooner, and then snapped back to attention. She took advantage of the lull between breaking waves, now regular as clockwork, to brush back a curl of hair from his eye and said, “Dad, you had better stay alive. I didn’t plan to be out here … alone.”


Carl’s daughters are right, he has this one nailed. And, for that matter, I suspect they feed more into the character of Kendra than he’s willing to admit. I’m a sucker for writing that’s filled with hands-on knowledge, as Carl conveys with his experience of sailing and its struggles — you can nearly feel the wind pulling the boat in one direction while the wind pushes it in the other, even before we get to the life-and-death race on board.  


Wednesday Writer is a regular feature profiling devoted writers of all stripes, most of them laboring outside the celebrity spotlight. To my mind, they are the lifeblood of the literary world, both as active readers and exponents of the empowered word.