Erin Pringle to beam into ISU's Theodore Dreiser Visiting Writer Series

Once upon a time, about twenty years ago, I was a college student living in an apartment at the back of a red brick house that shared a back alley with a bowling alley and the dumpsters for Mogger's Restaurant and the Tap Room. 

By day, I spent my time in the halls of Root Hall at Indiana State University (ISU), most often with my best friend Alexa--whether we were in class, picking up free books in boxes outside professors' offices, or smoking cigarettes on the picnic bench outside the building.

By night, I wrote in the screen light of my iMac in my kitchen, drank too much wine, and crossed the driveway to the Tap Room or to my best friend's apartment. Sometimes, I'd carry my dirty dishes to her because I hated washing dishes and she would do that for me, knowing that it was that or I'd leave them to mold then throw away.  

At the time, I didn't know how fleeting those years would be or that not every university would be as wonderful, or that not every English department kept their doors open and inviting to students. 

Of course, twenty years have passed somehow, and Alexa has died, my former professors are retired, teaching elsewhere, or in the grave. A few of the stories I wrote in the Creative Writing classes appear in my first book, The Floating Order ("Losing, I Think"; "Wednesday Night Reflections, Edited Thursday"; and "Remember Ella"), and the initial idea for my newest novel (Hezada! I Miss You) was seeding itself.

One of my favorite departmental events was the "Always on Friday" presentations at which professors shared what they were working on--and, bonus, there'd be doughnuts in the kitchen. 

Another perk was the Creative Writing Department's Theodore Dreiser Visiting Writer Series, wherein the department would bring writers to campus to talk with the students and share their own work. 

I'm happy to say that now I'll be on the other side of the podium, virtual as that podium may be. And I hope you can make it.

As much as I desperately wish I could be there in person, and that you could be there in person, we know what times we live in, so we must be together virtually. 

The event is free and open to the public, whether you live in, near, or far from Terre Haute, Indiana and the ISU campus.

• Thursday, November 19, 2020
• 6 PM (ET)
• Register for the Zoom link: https://indstate-edu.zoom.us/webinar/register/WN_ZqbhQFGAR72BEwmmw_QZWw?fbclid=IwAR02x-ljCSl7ePg7joMMXV-Nvx9px1jqF_BuL10DUrvOJEMnXk8FFvfTBTg

Holiday Book Deal: Hezada! I Miss You all wrapped up

“It’s haunting. It’s lovely. It’s an utterly painful and beautiful look at how life passes." 

- The Austin Chronicle 

Hezada! I Miss You

Let's celebrate your person and my book by sending them a copy of Hezada! I Miss You this holiday season.

💝 Personalized/Signed copy

💝 Handwritten note from you (as transcribed from your order request)

💝 Lovingly wrapped

💝 Sent directly to their mailbox via USPS

$18

Begin your order by sending me a message through my contact form: http://www.erinpringle.com/p/contact-her.html

About Hezada!

The last Midwestern traveling circus is due to arrive in a rural village it has visited for a century of summers. Like the village, the circus is on its last leg. It’s down to one elephant and a handful of acrobats. The circus boss’s sweetheart is dying. The former starring act is recovering from cancer. The assistant, Frank, plans to retire after this show. Meanwhile, twins Heza and Abe wander the hot fields and roads, waiting for the circus or anything better. Hezada! I Miss You is a novel that explores tradition, love, and suicide—set under the fading tents of small-town America and the circus.

Published by Awst Press (Austin, Texas)

🐘

Other ordering options/on the shelves right now:

• Awst Press: https://awst-press.com/shop/hezada
• Book People (signed copies in stock): https://www.bookpeople.com/book/9780997193886
• Auntie's Books: https://www.auntiesbooks.com/book/9780997193886
• Fact & Fiction Books: https://www.factandfictionbooks.com/book/9780997193886
• Wishing Tree Books: https://wishingtreebookstore.com/
• The bookstore nearest you: https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780997193886

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Pandemic Meditations: The Expansiveness of a Heart by Jade Violeta Antonette

Every week, artists of every medium contribute their thoughts, creations, and reflections on living during the pandemic. This week's contributor is Jade Violeta Antonette whose essay reminds us that despite how the pandemic has shifted our perception of time, much can still change in our loves, lives, and relationships--and even then, there are rocks to sit among and rivers rushing to reflect our ache and beauty.

Please welcome Jade Violeta Antonette to the series. 

~E.P.

😷

The Expansiveness of a Heart

by Jade Violeta Antonette

Leading up to the due date for this submission, I’d prepared a slightly different (actually very different) Pandemic Meditation contribution. It was focused on inner-child work and the things I realized I was no longer “surviving” from my past. Intuitively, I felt this submission was preparing me to make room for greater emotional capacity for whatever was to come. Little did I know, the day before I was ready to turn in this piece, my ex broke up with me. 

I did not know that my advanced intuition would be so very literal and fast-coming.

I wondered what it meant about me that we couldn’t make this relationship work. I am a healing practitioner in a multitude of ways – I’m a Reiki practitioner, a therapist, and a facilitator. But then I remembered two things – there are wisdom and skill in honoring the natural intelligence of a thing, like when it’s time to part ways. And in a much less esoteric sense, I had also been on the fence and at the end of the day, we had done the best we could. 

Mural: Girl with the D Earring by Sydney G. James
photo from here

We parted ways without enacting self-betrayal that would have had us move beyond our own boundaries for the comfort of the other. 

We parted with a mutual appreciation for each other, our Sunday adventures cooking together, riding across the city on bikes, and viewing the spectacular Sydney G. James mural, “Girl With the D Earring.” 

Like many who began dating during the Pandemic, we had regular conversations around COVID testing, social distancing, and what it meant to be a part of each other’s pods. I’m grateful to have been in practice of what it looks like to date during these times where the grandeur of loss is ever-present. With the closing of this relationship, there is far more to be grateful for than to lament. 

And honestly, I’m pretty happy to reorganize my priorities and get clearer on how I am looking for partners to show up for me while dating inside of so much social unrest. For example, do we emotionally cope with navigating late stage capitalism in a way that is compatible? Do we both have the skills to hold space for new lovers during uncertain times?

I walk away with new questions after this departure. And, it took a lot of generative and beautiful (though sometimes very difficult) emotional labor to romantically connect with another during a pandemic, particularly as a Black queer femme. 

To celebrate the expansiveness of my heart after the breakup, I journaled a little bit on what ‘lovers’ mean to me, and then I made myself into a lover and gave myself a self-care photoshoot! I share both with you this month. 

Sometimes, lovers are hosts through various portals of our lives. They introduce us to deeper versions of ourselves if we're willing. We move through these portals with lovers in a way that we may not with other dear ones - not due to disproportionately centering romantic relationships, but because romantic spaces are also sites of praxis, another window through which we can observe how we show up in the world, another window through which we can understand limitations, boundaries, and the extent to which we're open to expanding. Romantic relationships in many spaces are sometimes seen as tertiary, frivolous, or a-political but that's not true. We can learn a lot about our values or how much we are in integrity to our values through the people we share so much of our emotional, energetic, and physical bodies with. So lovers, I like to think of them as hosts (and not teachers). They are people to say thank you to when hosting duties are complete... 

Jade Violeta Antonette, Self-care photoshoot 1

Jade Violeta Antonette, Self-care photoshoot 2

This pandemic meditation is an invitation for myself and anyone who reads this to give ourselves permission during these wild and uncertain times to do one small thing today to make ourselves into a lover - to acknowledge and celebrate that we’ve made it this far. It is unclear what lies ahead inside of a year with so much involuntary restructuring of our lives, personal losses, a global pandemic, state violence, and more. 

But, is it still possible to affirm that we still have a life worth living by doing the things that bring us into ‘exquisite care’?

I say… 

Yes 💓

🕮

About today's contributor: Jade Violeta Antonette is a healing practitioner based in Michigan who deeply values working with the health and healing of the mind, body, spirit, and emotional selves. The mediums through which she does this work includes facilitation, introspective writing, and clinical therapy. To learn more or connect, you can find her on Instagram: @black_brewhaha.

❤ Read more Pandemic Meditations at http://www.erinpringle.com/p/pandemic-meditations-series.html

Pandemic Meditations: Walking Away by Cynthia Pringle

As part of this week's Pandemic Meditations, my sister-in-law Cynthia Pringle, shares her Covid story.

😷

Walking Away

by Cynthia Pringle

Age before Beauty by Cynthia Pringle
(used with permission)

About ten years ago, my husband and I moved to a nearby town and into an apartment in a senior living facility. Soon after, I began working there--from escorting residents to the dining area, to helping tidy their apartments, to sitting with them and singing songs to reading or listening to their stories and memories. 

A few years later, my husband and I move into a house, which is better for us and our large dogs, but of course, I continue to work at the facility and with the people who are not only residents but also my community. Sometimes, I bring the dogs by to visit their old friends. My husband and I become involved in helping monarch butterflies migrate to and from Mexico. We share the butterflies and their habitats with the residents. We make a film about it. We give special showing and the residents watch and eat popcorn. 

The residents and I celebrate birthdays and holidays together. We notice the weather. We remark on the news, the food, books, art, the coming days. New friends arrive. Old friends leave. We grieve together. I work there, but it's a work that feels less like work and more like the days I lived with and cared for my grandmother in her final years. 

Years pass like this. 

Then, Covid comes.

When the wave of Covid-19 suddenly hits, the senior living facility is put on lockdown. No visitors are allowed. Outside activities such as the monthly musical entertainment party and popular monthly dinner event that features a speaker are cancelled. The volunteers from the Methodist Church cannot come to lead worship. The beauty shop is closed. And so the staff takes on more duties--leading the residents in worship, calling bingo, playing music via YouTube on a projector screen. Family visits take place via phone calls or FaceTime or window visits. I bring in my banjo ukulele and play old gospel songs during our singalong sessions.

Two months pass. Everything is still in lockdown.

Don's beard is getting long. He wants it trimmed.
Opal wants her hair cut and set.
Rowena needs her bangs trimmed.
Even Thelma, the cook, is desperate to get her hair cut.
Everyone’s hair is getting long and unruly.

But then the owner, Jim, decides to reopen the beauty shop for a day of serious haircutting — even for Jim and his wife, Laura. The problem is, the coronavirus is still raging through Illinois, and nursing homes are proving to be death traps for many of the elderly residents.

I'm upset and concerned for the residents. I don’t think the beauty shop should reopen; the risks are much too high. Hair can wait until the danger subsides. I contact the local Public Health Department and express my concerns. The Health Department agrees that the beauty shop should remain closed.

So on the morning of the proposed hair-cutting day, the Director of the Health Department makes an early morning phone call to Jim. She explains the risks of opening the beauty shop during lockdown and that it should remain closed. Jim tells her that he will not open it until restrictions are lifted.

When I come into work the following day, I see that Thelma's hair is freshly cut. 

So is Opal’s. 

Don's beard is neatly trimmed. 

Jim did not keep his promise and reopened the beauty shop anyway. I'm extremely disappointed and concerned that the residents' health was put at risk for a haircut that could have waited a few more weeks.

Less than a week later, a new resident, Imogene, is scheduled to move in. She's a transfer from a rehabilitation facility, which is experiencing an active spread of coronavirus. I inform Imogene’s family that when she moves in, she will have a 14-day quarantine — as per health department requirements. The family agrees with this, and Imogene moves into a studio apartment.

A few days after she moves in, it's around noon, and I'm setting out the drinks for the residents in the dining room. Jim pauses in the doorway and confronts me about calling the Health Department in regards to the opening of the beauty shop. I ask why he allowed the residents to get their hair cut when the Health Department told him not to. He evades an answer, and tells me to escort Imogene to the dining room. I remind him that she needs to be quarantined for fourteen days, especially since she has transferred from a facility with active coronavirus.

I call the local public health department, and the Director of Nursing ensures me that Imogene should still be under quarantine. To bring her to the dining room with the other residents is to risk the health of the other residents. So I refuse to escort Imogene down and instead bring a tray to her apartment. But the next day, Jim orders other staff members to bring her down to the dining room.

At this point — even mask-wearing is haphazardly enforced — I know that I can no longer work at a place where I feel the residents health and lives are put at risk. So after 10 years of working at a facility of people I love, I decide to resign.

I miss the residents. 

I miss our special times together, the singalongs. 

I miss their stories, their wise advice. 

I miss their smiles, their presence.

I miss hearing their voices as I play.

I miss Mary sitting in a chair in the window light, knitting a colorful hat. 

🕮

Cynthia Pringle, photo by Kirby Pringle

Cynthia Pringle is a photographer, writer, and filmmaker. She grew up in a small town in Central Illinois and earned her photography degree from University of Illinois-Champaign. Much of her current work is done in collaboration with her husband Kirby Pringle. Learn more about their work at http://www.dogtownartworks.com/

❤ Read more Pandemic Meditations at http://www.erinpringle.com/p/pandemic-meditations-series.html

Pandemic Meditations: Now and Then by Farley Egan Green

Welcome to November, and to you, reader. Pandemic Meditations is a weekly series in which artists of all sorts share work that responds to life during COVID-19. 

This week, Idaho writer Farley Egan Green joins the series. 

 😷

Now and Then

by Farley Egan Green

Teeth

Be a good girl, says mommy,
let the dentist do his job.
I stop sobbing.
Does the man have a light on his head?
He puts his hand in my mouth.

Sixty years later
a hygienist, double masked, 
holds a curette, 
zooms in,
and scrapes my teeth by hand.

We are all scraping/by/hand
We are all scraping/by/hand

Chutes and Ladders

She lived

at the top of a hill
in a three-story house 
painted red,
and was taught the rules:
help others, 
read books, 
avoid sudden slides.

Now she stays
in safe spaces, 
sprays 
disinfectant
and wears gloves.
She plays defense, gains home,
and always 
speaks
through a mask.

Still trying to blow bubbles 
that won’t pop
before she does.

🕮

Farley Egan Green

Farley Egan Green is a Scripps College graduate and retired from a writing/communications career. She has published poems in four literary journals. Read "Canada" and "Love Note" in Emerge. Farley lives in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho.

❤ Read more Pandemic Meditations at http://www.erinpringle.com/p/pandemic-meditations-series.html

Pandemic Meditations: The Neighbors by Rachel King

Since the pandemic began listing its casualties on websites, in newspapers, under graphs in magazine articles, we have heard much about the numbers of those dead--rising or falling like ships--where the most are at any given time--how to lower or prevent the numbers--why the numbers are what they are; and we are told about strangers whose family members have died, of people who didn't believe in COVID and then died from it, of people outside of the pandemic's statistical target practice who died from it anyway. 

More rarely does the coverage focus on the empty spaces that have begun appearing in all of our lives--whether that's a child sent home from preschool because they have COVID symptoms--or the now-empty house down the street.

This week, writer Rachel King, shares two poems that take into account the kinds of loss that often aren't discussed. Please welcome her to the series.

~ E.P.

😷

Neighbors by Paul Sableman,
used under CC license

The Neighbors

by Rachel King

One Neighbor

My neighbor across the street died from COVID.
Right now, his extended family members are over there
digging up his rose bushes. Every morning
and every evening he was outside trimming.
Every morning and every evening he said hello to me.
I know, from his wide-open windows, 
that he kept his house’s interior sparsely furnished.
And he told me that he once took a trip with his sister
to Italy. He isn’t really mine to mourn.
But the roses, wilted and untrimmed, mourn him.
I hope his family replants the bushes near his grave.
 

Other Neighbors

Yesterday, extended family members of my dead 
neighbor across the street moved his belongings, 
a U-Haul in the driveway, just like the people 
down the street with pit bulls. Someone driving 
down 115th probably thought two families were moving-- 
not one family and the belongings of a dead man.

A Middle Eastern family just moved in next door.
Every morning, the two little girls say hello to me
as they ride their bikes, up and down, up and down
the street. They smile, and smile, and smile
some more. It’s summer. “It’s summer!”
one tells me. “I love bikes, and I love the heat.”

🕮

Rachel King is a writer and editor. Learn more at https://www.booksrachelking.com/

❤ Find more Pandemic Meditations here: http://www.erinpringle.com/p/pandemic-meditations-series.html

Pandemic Meditations: A Wild Rabbit by Trace Kerr

Pandemic Meditations is a weekly series in which writers, artists, musicians, and all the creative sorts share reflections, journals, and more in response to the current pandemic. 

October is about to go, but you need not worry--we will return next week because November is scheduled, even if the pandemic refuses to be.

Please welcome YA author Trace Kerr to the series.

~ E.P. 

😷

A Wild Rabbit

by Trace Kerr

By nature, I am an Optimistic Pessimist. I’m always certain things will go wrong. On the face of it, I may sound very doom-scrolly, like some Cassandra shouting all the terrible crap that might happen to the world. 

However, as an Optimistic Pessimist, I also constantly formulate contingencies in case SOMETHING needs to be done. 

Honestly, in a good year it’s tiring listening to my anxious mantra of “what might be?” 

And now? 

2020 is driving my brain into the ground. There’s an entire pet store’s worth of thoughts running in the wheel of my brain. How can you plan for this kind of year? I can’t. None of us can.  

That trailing spiderweb in the wind of loss and uncertainty has stretched me to a ravelling. When I’m at my most desperate, I turn to poetry because painting with words makes me feel safe and gives me hope. Here is one.

October

Tuesday morning bit with the teeth of autumn

and I felt. For the first time 

I didn’t worry over shoulds.

Nothing amazing happened 

yet the day was wonderous:

a golden treasure of small things.

I

Baked bread

Hung out laundry and watched my hens bully yellow petaled Brown-eyed Susans

Read and read and read

Talked with my children and marveled at how damned funny they are together

My mother-in-law texted: A wild rabbit needed rescue

He was calm in the old fishing net before we let him go

I 

held the day in my hands and didn’t think 

about how March to September passed in a confusion 

of masks and 

social distancing and 

our fucking pandemic. 

Seven months. Until I woke up 

on this single Tuesday 

and discovered myself

outside my head.

🕮

Trace Kerr is a lifelong Pacific Northwesterner who loves writing stories about undaunted queer teens and magic. Her debut YA novel, The Names We Take came out in May of 2020. 

When she isn't writing, Trace is the producer and co-host for Brain Junk, a lighthearted fact-finding podcast that sometimes airs on Spokane Public Radio. 

She lives, loves, and sometimes goes a little crazy in Spokane with a gardening-crazed chemist, one kid who's still at home, several chickens, three cats, and the sweetest chocolate lab named, Ruby.

You can find her on Twitter as @teakerr, on Instagram as trace.kerr, and on her website TraceKerr.com

❤ Read more Pandemic Meditations at http://www.erinpringle.com/p/pandemic-meditations-series.html