What’s On My Nightstand: December 2017

 

Fiction

The Child Finder, by Rene Denfeld

The Haunting of Hill House, by Shirley Jackson

Sing, Unburied, Sing by Jesymyn Ward

Affinity, by Sarah Waters

 

 

Short Fiction

Cranford, by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

Cat Person, by Kristen Roupenian

The Lazy River, by Zadie Smith

 

Hybrid

Bluets, by Maggie Nelson

 

Poetry

Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings, Joy Harjo

 

Magazine

The New Yorker

The Week

 

Random 

cork board samples

packing tape

broken scissors

plant cutting

“In the midst of winter I found there was within me an invincible summer.” – Albert Camus (card by Remy and Me)

 

About

Publications

Postage

Teaching

 

What’s On My Nightstand: November 2017

 

Fiction

Inferno, by Eileen Myles

Ceremony, by Leslie Marmon Silko

 

Short Fiction

Ghosts, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Experience, Tessa Hadley

The Proprietress, Yiyun Li

The Husband Stitch, by Carmen Maria Machado

 

Nonfiction

The Places That Scare You, by Pema Chödrön

Bad Feminist, by Roxane Gay

Mean, by Myriam Gurba

Interior Color by Design: A Tool for Homeowners Designers, and Architects, by Jonathan Poore

 

Poetry

Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings, Joy Harjo

Whereas, by Layli Long Soldier

 

Magazine

Lesbian Connection (FREE! to lesbians worldwide)

The New Yorker

The Week

 

Random 

beach rocks

hair stick

shoulder exercise printout

Sherwin Williams paint chips

Smith’s Rosebud Salve

 

About

Publications

Postage

Teaching

 

“Lock Her Up” (New Serial Fiction)

S1:E1 “Lock Her Up” is the first “episode” in my new series of hybrid fiction and music at Corporeal Writing. Think Victorian gothic meets 45 meets broody Russian classical plus romance: “The first three notes tell you everything. Two hands, four grim octaves, played in fortissimo. Not so much a melody as a warning…”

Serial fiction? You will see these characters again.

Music? Played by me, best as I can (linked at the bottom of the piece).

Victorian gothic serial novels have been praised as a form that fostered “digressive literary wandering” at a time when society was increasingly organized around capitalism and the rise of the middle class. Serial fiction often portrayed everyday life as imperfect and supernaturally surreal. Plot lines developed more organically than traditional novels as a result of increased reader engagement and participation as the series evolved.

Consider this an invitation.

“We did not ask for this room or this music. We were invited in. Therefore, because the dark surrounds us, let us turn our faces to the light. Let us endure hardship to be grateful for plenty. We have been given pain to be astounded by joy. We have been given life to deny death. We did not ask for this room or this music. But because we are here, let us dance.” – Sadie Dunhill

Excerpt: S1: E1 “Lock Her Up”

“The first three notes tell you everything. Two hands, four grim octaves, played in fortissimo. Not so much a melody as a warning.

I’ve only just begun the seventh measure when the water starts. A fat drop bounces off the piano lid and I lean forward, feeling it’s a sign – at last, I have managed to play each note with such accuracy and purity that something has been moved. The next drop slips between F and G, followed by two more drops in quick succession.

I remove my glasses and look up.

An ancient crack runs at a diagonal across the ceiling, splintering on its way to the chandelier. Back along the crack, water pools from a quarter-sized patch of plaster above the piano.

Upstairs, to the most obvious origin of the leak. The bathroom tiles are the same shade of avocado they were when I inherited them, dry as I left them this morning, so the next obvious place – yes, there, beneath the vanity. The leak drips in soft, regular intervals from the pipe beneath the sink, a dank place I’ve never faced in all this time. I jiggle at the hot water handle, then the cold, poke around the faucet, push my finger inside the old spigot.

The name for the thing that could fix it. I don’t know, a wrench? A plier? A socket? In all that’s wretched about this year, there’s been nothing like this…”

[read “Lock Her Up” here.)


Publications

These Days, Corporeal Clamor.

You are the Rest of Us, Corporeal Clamor.

Over Everything, Corporeal Clamor.

Test Tank, Corporeal Clamor.

You say, write something hopeful, Corporeal Clamor.

Make a Little Birdhouse in Your Soul, Corporeal Clamor.

You Can Do Anything, Corporeal Clamor.

The Right to Bare Arms, ENTROPY Magazine.

Still Gonna Do (#ShePersisted), The Manifest-Station.

Postage

LeighHereNow

PO Box 27771

Philadelphia, PA

19118, USA

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NEWS / New position @ Corporeal Writing

I’m thrilled to share that for the next six months, I’ll be the new Curator and Editor of “Corporeal Clamor,” a weekly literary publication at Corporeal Writing, the online teaching home of bestselling author Lidia Yuknavitch. I’ve invited three brilliant writers to join me as monthly columnists, and I’m beyond grateful to Lidia Yuknavitch and Zinn Adeline for creating new territories for women’s voices in this world.

Here’s more about the writers who will be joining me:

megan-ainsworth_bio-e1509649768665.jpgMegan Ainsworth is a Southern United States essayist and memoirist who teaches writing and literature at a community college in Jackson, Mississippi. Her work has been published in the Brick Street Press 2008 and 2010 Short Fiction Anthologies, on Elephant Journal, The Good Men Project, and on her blog site; she was a finalist in the “Lorian Hemingway Short Fiction Competition.” Madgirl Elegies is a six month installment column for Corporeal Clamor. She is interested in gender politics and race relations, particularly at the intersection of faith and spirituality in the Deep South. She shares a home with a precious and precocious four year old daughter, three rescue pups, and a fish named Steve. She is completing a memoir and a novel-length work of fiction. Read Megan’s first piece, “Rebel Yell,” here.

Amital_bioAmital Stern writes theater, film and more in Jerusalem. She earned an M.A. in Comparative Literature from Hebrew University, and studied screenwriting at the Sam Spiegel School of Film and Television. Her plays include: In Waiting, winner of the Fred Simmons Arts Prize; Hunger Artist, performed at the Theatronetto Festival, Jerusalem Fringe Festival, Arab-Israeli Theater and other venues; Aliza, a site specific theater production now haunting abandoned buildings in Jerusalem. Her writing has appeared in Guernica. She is currently working on her first novel.

Shefali_BioShefali Desai is a child of the American southwest, daughter of Indian immigrants, mother of sons, fighter/writer/lawyer, and a lover of mountains, forests and bodies of water. She has been a Rhodes Scholarship finalist, Arizona Supreme Court law clerk, and VONA fellow. Her book-length manuscript was selected by Lidia Yuknavitch as a finalist in the Kore Press Memoir Competition, and her work has been published widely including in Ms. Magazine, the UCLA Women’s Law JournalKartika Review, and the anthology This Bridge We Call Home. She currently is co-authoring a legal paper on federal and state regulatory power over so-called sanctuary cities, litigating an asylum case, and finalizing her hybrid memoir. She lives in the Sonoran Desert with her partner and two children.

Finally, I’ll be writing a new column, a hybrid of short fiction and music. Read all of the pieces in my last series, Secret Circus, HERE.


Publications by Leigh Hopkins

These Days, Corporeal Clamor.

You are the Rest of Us, Corporeal Clamor.

Over Everything, Corporeal Clamor.

Test Tank, Corporeal Clamor.

You say, write something hopeful, Corporeal Clamor.

Make a Little Birdhouse in Your Soul, Corporeal Clamor.

You Can Do Anything, Corporeal Clamor.

The Right to Bare Arms, ENTROPY Magazine.

Still Gonna Do (#ShePersisted), The Manifest-Station.

Postage

PO Box 27771
Philadelphia, PA
19118, USA

Subscribe

To receive blog updates, subscribe to LeighHereNow.

What’s On My Nightstand: October 2017

Adult Fiction

Her Body and Other Parties, by Carmen Maria Machado

 

Children’s Fiction

Leon: Protector of the Playground, by Jamar Nicholas

What Do You Do With an Idea? by Kobi Yamada

 

Nonfiction

Astrophysics for People in a Hurry, by Neil deGrasse Tyson

The Misfit’s Manifesto, by Lidia Yuknavitch

 

 

Poetry

Whereas, by Layli Long Soldier

 

Magazine

Homeopathy Today

The New Yorker

The Week

 

Newspaper

The New York Times
Lip balm

HURRAW! Cherry balm

 

Bobbypin/paperclip dish

love you to the moon

About

Publications

Postage

Teaching

What’s On My Nightstand: September 2017

Adult Fiction

The Bone People, by Keri Hulme

Inferno, by Eileen Myles

 

Nonfiction

How to Fight, by Thich Naht Hahn

 

Hybrid

Break Every Rule, by Carol Maso

 

Poetry

Whereas, by Layli Long Soldier

 

Magazine

Lesbian Connection – Free to Lesbians Worldwide! “but the suggested donation is $7 (more if you can, less if you can’t)”

The New Yorker

The Week

 

Newspaper

The New York Times
Lip balm

HURRAW! Sunbalm SPF 20

 

Paperweight

Sláinte (“good health”)

About

Publications

Postage

Teaching

These Days (New Essay)

My latest essay, “These Days,” was published on Friday at Corporeal Writing, home of author Lidia Yuknavitch’s world-shaking writing workshop. In recent weeks, when I wanted to look away, this piece pushed me to keep looking.

Excerpt, “These Days”

These days, no one wants to talk about it. The answer is “I can’t talk about it.” The same five words released in a warm, slow leak, uttered in the same, tired inflection.

November 9 picks up Twitter and scotch. It learns boardroom and braggadocio out of a need to understand. It wears the same shirt until the words wear off. On the eighth day, it puts away the pins and the shirts and the stickers and the signs. It wears mourning whites and throws on shovels of dirt.

December waits for the truth.

January and February march. They vow Next Time. They swear Never Again.

When April, May, and June ask “how are you,” no one is ever OK. They find new ways of talking. They ask questions like “when was the last time you held a blade of grass between your teeth?” or “who was the last person to show you kindness?” They look to each other to remember softness. [read the full essay]

This is the 6th piece for my monthly column, Secret Circus. If after reading this, you’re looking for some reasons to keep standing up, read this and this and  this. As the writing muses at Corporeal Writing say: “We are the rest of you.”


Publications

You are the Rest of Us, Corporeal Clamor.

Over Everything, Corporeal Clamor.

Test Tank, Corporeal Clamor.

You say, write something hopeful, Corporeal Clamor.

Make a Little Birdhouse in Your Soul, Corporeal Clamor.

You Can Do Anything, Corporeal Clamor.

The Right to Bare Arms, ENTROPY Magazine.

Still Gonna Do (#ShePersisted), The Manifest-Station.

 

Postage

LeighHereNow

PO Box 27771

Philadelphia, PA

19118, USA

Subscribe

To receive blog updates, subscribe to LeighHereNow.