Crossing the Bridge to Nowhere

Nowhere Near a Bridge --- Winter 2014 w/Seth Kantner near Kotzebue, AK

Crossing the Bridge to Nowhere

in my Alaska

when we cross the bridge

to nowhere

Nowhere is a city

perhaps not unlike your own

where no one

knows your name

or cares which village you came from

in your Alaska

they mush dogs through city streets

through marauding moose

live in bars and build igloos

wear flannel and fur

in my Alaska,

diminishing salmon runs

are reality

Discovery is a Sudanese refugee

widowed mother of five

learning to write a college scholarship essay,

as her first snow

falls

in your Alaska,

re-runs of scripted reality

on Discovery

on The Learning Channel

Wild West Guns On Animal Planet

In my Alaska

the animals are our friends

our food, our fate

in your Alaska

they talk only

of drilling, of gold

of guns and good heaven

“Say don’t cha know?”

“You betcha!”

and “Polls are for Strippers

and Cross Country Skiers”

In my Alaska,

we use ski poles. 

we strip.

we kayak, climb mountains,

we’re homeless, and have mansions

fly float planes and take city busses

we’re Mexican, Samoan, Denaina,

Yup’ik, Hmong, Korean, Irish, Inupiaq,

sunburned brown

and snowblind white

and Arctic night black

in your Alaska

they would build Bridges to Nowhere.

in mine

we write to burn them

[I wrote and read this poem at the 2014 AWP Conference, for "Crossing the Bridge to Nowhere," a cross-genre reading by Seth Kantner, Bryan Fierro, Leigh Newman, and myself.]

A Writer Gives Thanks

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Quyana --- the Yup'ik word for "Thank you"

A Writer Gives Thanks

Often at this time of year we get too wrapped up in the trappings of the holidays to actually remember the point of the actual holiday. Turkey. Or is it football? No wait. Black Friday holiday shopping! Right? 

What happened to just being thankful?

For myself I wanted to take a few moments to actually give thanks as a writer. Writing is often a said to be a solitary and lonely occupation. I’m not sure who said that, and I’m not sure I agree. As I began thinking about composing a little note of thanks, I realized, maybe it isn’t so lonely.

 This has been an amazing year thus far for me in terms of my writing career, and I am simply beyond grateful and I owe so many people an Alaskan sized debt of gratitude for helping make my writing dreams a reality. I owe thanks to various countries, agents, publishers, critics, newspapers, reporters, bloggers, booksellers, book clubs, readers, writers, professors, secondary teachers, students, friends, family, and fans. 

Those acquainted with the long and convoluted route taken by my novel on the road to getting published in the United States, know I have much to be thankful for. Thanks to Adam Chromy, my agent here in the US for fighting for The Raven’s Gift every step of the way. Thanks to my foreign agents for getting my novel published in France this year, and thanks to that publisher Fleuve Noir and my French editor Ben

edicte Lombardo.

Thanks to Penguin Canada for continuing to believe in The Raven’s Gift and for getting the book into the United States with Pintail Book and Penguin USA. I am grateful to my Adrienne Kerr and Nicole Winstanley at Penguin for continuing to have faith in the novel. Thanks to Elena Hershey and the Pintail folks working tirelessly to help get the book into bookstores all over America.

I have worked tirelessly to share my novel with the world and at times it has felt an impossible task to get the book into the hands of readers or to get the attention of reviewers and critics, but the support of some awesome booksellers across Alaska and across the country continues to inspire me. I owe thanks to dedicated booksellers like Fireside Book’s David Cheezem and his staff, Nathan Dunbar in Chicago, Deb Bonito at Mosquito Books, and so many others. 

There are those who I also can’t begin to even express my thanks to --- critic Michael Dirda and The Washington Post. When other newspapers and critics refused to give a book like mine the time of day, a Pulitzer Prize winning critic steps up and writes the most powerful and beautiful review of the book I’ve had to date. His review in the Washington Post was do damn good I almost ran out and bought a copy of the book myself! In addition to Dirda’s killer review, countless amazing bloggers have blogged and promoted the book --- far too many to name here, but you know who you are, and now you know I am giving you thanks, too! 

I can’t thank The Washington Post without also thanking The Anchorage Daily News for their coverage of my book, so quyana to Mike Dunham and David Hulen, at ADN, and to the Alaska Dispatch and Megan Edge and others there. And while I’m thanking news folks, I would be totally remiss if I didn’t thank Steve Heimel at Alaska Public Media for inviting me on Talk of Alaska. That was definitely one of the highlights of the year, and quite an honor. When you’ve grown up in the bush, public radio is just a life essential and to get to chat with the actual voice of Alaska, well that was something I’ll never forget. So thanks to Steve and Lori Townsend, and everyone who made that incredibly fun hour possible. 

Now on to thanking the readers and writers in my life. You have made this year absolutely magical. Those readers who have invited me to into their homes to meet with bookclubs? Those were some discussions I’ll forever cherish. I had never thought about visiting bookclubs as an author, and this turns out to be one of my favorite kind of author event. What more can you ask for than to sit down with a group of dedicated readers, perhaps with good wine and even better food, and talk about your novel? The answer is nothing. That is as good as it gets. So thanks to all those bookclubs, including those I haven’t attended yet!

I also never expected my book to be required reading! So I owe special thanks to those professors and highschool teachers using my book in their courses and the students writing about the book and contacting me with their thoughts and questions. I can really think of no higher honor than to know that The Raven’s Gift is being used in English courses, and even graduate level Psychology courses --- unless I suppose the book gets banned! Perhaps that can be something I am grateful for next year?!  (Come on people! The book has sex, violence, cannibalism, and even bad words! It needs to be banned! Okay, I admit, I just want to be on the banned book list!)

Finally, I want to thank the readers and authors for all the support. Alaskans have been so amazing and helpful in spreading the word about my The Raven’s Gift. I couldn’t even begin to list off all of you. The support I have received here at home is overwhelming and completely awe inspiring. I am so lucky to call this place my home, so incredibly lucky. Authors have been overly generous through mentoring me, giving advice, and spreading the word about my book. Again the list is just too long, but I’d be remiss to not thank all the members of the 49 Writers, my buddies Seth Kantner and Kris Farmen, my coach Daniel and his wife Rennie, and my friend and go to warm heart and brilliant writing life advisor Jodi Picoult.  I’m so fortunate to have such talented and giving souls in my life, and I’m thankful to each and every one of you!

 And to those readers who continue to share the book, who email me with their kind words of appreciation, who post their reviews on Amazon and elsewhere --- I cannot thank you enough, but please know that I am endlessly grateful for your support, your encouragement, and the time and energy you’ve spent reading my work, sharing it, and thinking about the underlying messages contained within the story.

We could simply all be thankful the world hasn’t quite ended just yet, or we could pause for a moment in our busy lives, watch a raven or two, and take stock of what we have, where we’ve been, and those we love. And ---- if you’ve read this far, and weren’t mentioned yet, then for me, you must be one of those I love.

Thank you. Quyana.

Don Rearden

Bear Valley, Anchorage Alaska

11/27/13

A New Book Trailer for The Raven's Gift

The New Book Trailer for The Raven's Gift. Enjoy and share with friends!

I finally got around to cutting a new trailer for my novel. This one includes a few of the blurbs from The Raven's Gift and footage from where I grew up. Be sure to have your volume turned up!

Cold is Kin

Cold Is Kin

 

 

cold is relative

like kin you know

too well 

fingertips burn

air stings nostrils

tears freeze and feeling

in the toes fails

and the cold

you love 

and the cold

you love

to hate

is relative

1/17/11 by Don Rearden

The Ghosts in Our Old School House

This is where I want you to be afraid.  Stop for a second and feel the air around you. Is it suddenly a little cooler? Can you feel the cliché, the hair standing on your neck? Is there someone reading this over your shoulder, perhaps a shadow standing in the doorway?

I'm twelve. It's Halloween.  I live in a small apartment inside an old school building on the bumpy Alaskan tundra in a Yup'ik village. The building has something of a history. My friends tell me this. The villagers who teach in the school with my mom won't stay in a classroom alone.  The school cook takes students with her to retrieve supplies down the long corridors that connect the school to the boilerroom, storage, and abandoned teacher's quarters. In a village with each house cramped, every inch of floor covered with a body and a blanket at night, there are three vacant buildings.

Each one, connected to my house by a long narrow hallway that leads to darkness.

A teacher wrapped a rope around his throat and swung from a rafter in the abandoned teachers quarters. Another died of a heart attack during a school Halloween haunted house. This is the school building I called home for a year of my life.  I would be lying if I told you I wasn't slightly terrified of that place then, or even today after they razed it - a new school built over the top. 

It wasn't so much the lights going on and off, or the windows and doors opening and closing. Or hearing the balls bouncing, and thinking the janitor might want to shoot hoops - only to look down the long dark hallway to an even darker gym.

Even that Halloween night, when I sat there - lights off - in the school office chatting on the phone, when one of the gray filing cabinet doors slowly rolled open with a metallic groan - even then I wasn't as scared as I am now.

--------------------Because now I know something I didn't know then. ---------------------

See, my mom could explain things.  She could explain the lights turning on and off. She could explain the footsteps in the hallway. She could even explain the cabinet I watched open from some invisible bony hand. The lights, she said, were part of the generator problem, and the doors and windows opened from the strong arctic drafts rushing through the building. The footsteps? Those were the building shifting from the permafrost, or a janitor working late.  The cabinet? It always opened like that -  why else would she tape it shut? The tape must have come loose.

This was how I became a skeptic.  This was how I stopped believing. Things can be explained. Everything had a logical explanation. There was nothing to be afraid of.

Then.

Then one cold dark Alaskan night ----- make it stormy, too ---and don't forget that figure standing in the doorway ----- mom explained something else.  She explained away her explanations.  Those were the worst nights of my life, she said. With your dad working in Bethel.  Just your sisters and you, and me.

------------------And the ghosts.

It was all a lie ========

- like Santa and that damn chocolate egg laying bunny ……….

She lied about the lights,  she lied about the footsteps, and she lied about the voices - yes I forgot to mention the voices because it's 2 am and as I write this I'm scared, again.

 She lied because she, "didn't want us afraid in our own home."

 She didn't want us to fear the place like she did.

 She even spoke to the air and said, "Look, I live here now too.  Don't you bother my babies."    

But they did.   

One night my sister Beth, Shirley Temple curls, four or five at the time, stood at Mom's bedside and whispered, "There's someone standing there."

Mom let Beth crawl in with her, but she could feel it too. Whatever it was, whomever it was, standing there beside them at the edge of the bed. 

She covered their heads with the blanket and prayed for sleep.

Thanks. Thanks a lot, Mom.

Now I live in my own home, and I'm scared. Not because of the ghosts in our old school house, but because now I have to confront these ghosts. I have to believe.  I can't just want to believe.  I have to somehow, believe the events I witnessed, the events we all witnessed were real. The events we experienced during that year were real. And now they are some sort of evidence.  But evidence of what?  Of life after death?   

To believe in ghosts, is to believe in spirits.   

Then too, spirits must leave a body at some time, and where do they go? Old school buildings on the tundra?

Is it too much to believe? And, why all the fuss about believing in the unbelievable anyway?  What propels this desire to need something other than the ordinary life to believe in?

 Why look to the heavens, the mountains, the undiscovered country, the darkness -  for answers to questions we won't listen to? 

- - -  is there no one right question to ask????????

Not one, particular piece of pie to solve the equation, or prove beyond all doubt and reason,  there is anything left in which we should (not) believe?

And those GHOSTS… those footsteps in the hall? Those basketballs bouncing in the darkness? The voices?  Am I supposed to believe they are the proof I need?

The proof we all long for but refuse to  accept?

[This is an excerpt from an old essay I wrote a while back, thought you might enjoy it for Halloween! If you're looking for a scary read check out my novel The Raven's Gift.]

Alaskan Book Week and You...(Alaskans and all!)

Alaskan Book Week is in full swing, my friends. Crazy bookish events are happening all across our state. This is a beautiful and important new event. As a someone who teaches preparatory writing at the college, I see more than my fair share of students who are under-prepared for college level work. They nearly all share the same sad history of one key element lacking in their lives. They don't read. Most, probably 95% of them haven't ever read a single novel. This isn't a failure on their part, it's a failure on our part. Of our schools, our families, and our communities. We can combat this lack of a love for literature. That's something I plan to talk about this week at two separate events.

In my mind, Alaska Book Week is as much about getting more Alaskans reading and inspiring young future writers as it is about raising the profile of all the amazing writing being done by Alaskans.  I'm doing my part by participating as much as humanly possible this week. I even accidentally found myself over booked and will sadly miss an event at my own community council meeting tonight, but that small local meeting has to give way for a much larger event, a talk and reading in Girdwood that will be broadcast at libraries around the entire state of Alaska at 6:30.  Some participating libraries are: Girdwood, Glennallen, Craig, Kenai, Cordova, Seward, Bethel, and Valdez.

I'm also the keynote speaker for the Great Alaskan Book Fair, this Friday night! More info at www.alaskabookweek.com

Have a great Alaska Book Week, and if you can get out and support your local authors, and make time to read to the kids (or if you're without kids of your own, go volunteer to read at a local school!).

www.donrearden.com

Deliquescence: A Meditation in Seven Parts

Liz Bradfield, and amazing poet friend of mine from grad school at UAA is doing some cool new work. Here is a piece that just appeared in Alaska Quarterly Review, and also has been featured as a trippy new video on AQR's new YouTube Channel. Check it out, and listen to someone who will be recognized as one of America's great new poets. (Mark my words!) And give the video some love with a thumbs up and share it with your friends!