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!

Hottest Book Giveaway Ever is OVER!

Well folks, the hottest eBook giveaway ever is over. I seriously thought that such a crazy and simple contest would draw more participants. I mean who gives away a new Kindle Fire loaded with FIVE kindles from some of the greatest writers in America?

I did. And with only a few dozen entrants the odds were pretty amazing.  Half the participants were from rural Alaska, where my novel The Raven's Gift was set, and the grand prize winner, Debbie Hagedorn, a teacher at the Kuskokwim Learning Academy in Bethel won the Kindle Fire! While Bethel is my hometown, I haven't lived there in about ten years, which is when Debbie moved to this little oasis on the tundra. I was pleasantly surprised to find the winner happened to be living there where I once lived and where a portion of the novel takes place. The winner of print copy of the novel was Kent Johnson from Arizona, and The Raven's Gift Kindle winner was Cindy Bell (who doesn't have a Kindle, so we might be having another giveaway!).

True to my promise, Debbie scored a Kindle Fire AND five Kindles from authors who blurbed my novel! This was no easy selection, as she had way too many great authors to choose from. Who would you pick from in this list of amazing authors?

Seth Kantner, Jodi Picoult, Daniel Quinn, Craig Johnson, Pete Fromm, Kris Farmen, Eowyn Ivey, Bill Streever, Lesley Thomas, David Vann, Jo-Ann Mapson, and Ron Carlson.

A tough list to choose from, no doubt. Yet Debbie is bush teacher, she's tough, and was up to the challenge. Her selections, close to home and all West of the Missouri. Three Alaskans, one Montana, and one Wyoming cowboy.  Debbie will now have a Kindle Fire loaded with some great reading: Seth Kantner's Ordinary Wolves, Kris Farmen's Turnagain, Eowyn Ivey's Snow Child, Pete Fromm Indian Creek Chronicles, and Craig Johnson's Messenger. 

10 Rules of Writing, Please Do Not Share When I Die

Rejection: Embrace it Like a Wet Dog

Elmore Leonard's list of 10 Rules of Writing went viral the day he left us for the great typewriter in the sky. And while that is an awesome list, probably the best ten rules ever written (sorry creator of great typewriter in the sky), I'm sure all the other great writers still living sat down at their Apple IIe's and pounded out their own ten, perhaps even eleven, rules.

Should I find myself headed towards the great typewriter in the sky (which really sounds more like hell now that I think about it), I can only hope that no one ever shares this list of my own ten rules of writing.  The last thing I want is all my work ( a few blog posts, a raunchy comedy, a bathroom stall poem, a maybe a dusty novel or two) distilled down into a list of ten rules about writing.

So please, don't share this after I die. Deal?

Don Rearden's 10 Rules of Writing*

1. Don't try to find an agent before you've written your novel.
"Wait! These are supposed to be ten rules about writing!" you say. Correct. If you're trying to find an agent or asking about how to find an agent and you haven't written anything, then you aren't writing. So really, rule #1 should just say, if you're going to write, do that first. But first read the other rules, so as to not break any more rules. Really you shouldn't even be reading any of this rule business, you should be writing, but since you're obviously not doing that, keep looking for rules that might somehow make you a better writer.

2. Quit trying to find rules that will make you a better writer.
Our society is obsessed with a short cuts. Rules a writer make something something, not doesn't sense. Quit being lazy and just go write (following the rules, naturally).

3. Struggle
Your aren't going to become a writer if you don't first struggle. I don't mean at writing. I mean life. No one wants to read a book written by a guy who learned all the rules of writing as a toddler, had a full ride at Stanford by junior high, a Pulitzer his freshman year of college, and then married the heiress to the Twinkie Corporation. Even if that guy writes a mean sentence, no one wants to hear about how agents and editors mob him every time he opens up a Word Doc. You need to struggle. Work a crappy job. Be poor. Go to jail. Drink. Go to war. Have ten kids. Drink. You know struggle. This won't make your writing any richer, but you'll have more street cred when you actually produce something.

4. Produce Something
People talk a mean game. They have an idea for a story. They had a dream that would make a cool movie. They really want to write ________. But they don't. They talk about it while the real writers are at home struggling. Again, not on their writing, but on their lives. Keep that straight.

5. Revise What You Produce
If you haven't followed rule #4, then go back and first produce something, and you'd better damn well be struggling at life while you do it. Then read over your work out loud, preferably to your cat or dog (if you don't have a cat or dog skip to Rule #6). Then read it again, and again. Then give it to a friend or reader who won't blow smoke up your ass. If you don't have any friends, congratulations! You have at least accomplished Rule #3! Pat yourself on the back. Fortunate for you, if you have a friend who will blow actual smoke up your ass, you might also ask them for a great deal of money so that you don't have to struggle in your writing career. Don't worry, this is okay, because if you can talk the friend into the smoke or money thing, then you're already on your way.

6. Own a Cat or Dog
Don't question this. Just do it. Famous writers have pets. No pets, no publishing deal. Plus, you'll need someone who will listen to the shit you wrote before Rule #5 and you'll need someone there when you hit Rule #3. Trust me. Cat. Dog. Or both, to cover your bases.

7. Rewrite 
Take your first major piece of writing, say your first novel. Close that file. Open a new one. And rewrite the entire thing without looking at the old one. Why? Because I had to do that in grad school and it really sucked, nearly broke me (I struggled), but that struggle is what got me here today. So you should have to do this as well. Especially if you're the kind of person who reads long lists of rules about writing when you should actually be writing.

8. Revise what you Rewrote
See Rule #5 if you don't get this point. Better yet just go sit with Rule #6 on your lap and stare out your window.

9. Rewrite
Rewrite what you wrote. Again. Except this time I'm talking about that query to an agent. It's not agent time, yet, relax, You're a long way from that. Instead, find more readers. Seek out writers who are better than you. Make sure they are struggling. Then add to their burden. Ask them to read your manuscript. Correct it. Critique it. And maybe forward to their agent (after they have edited fixed the plot holes and grammatical atrocities).

10. Never Give Up
You've written your opus, and perhaps your wife, the Twinkie heiress, has lost her fortune and left you for someone who knows how to struggle and liked dogs. You can't find an agent. You can't find a publisher. All hope appears lost. You've followed all the rules. You're looking for more rules. Rules to write by. Rules to live by. Keep looking, friend, and keep writing. Never give up on the dream that some day you could die and a list you wrote might be shared around the world.



*Don't actually follow these rules. Except for maybe #1, 6, and 10.

A Booklist Review --- Unstarred, but what's a Star?

A Booklist review suddenly appeared on the Amazon Page of The Raven's Gift, and it's a good one. I thought I'd share it all for you. I appreciate what the reviewer, Connie Fletcher had to say, and I really loved the imagery of the last line:

This is part dystopian survival tale, part Jack London wilderness saga, and part Stephen King/Michael Crichton–style suspense story. Holding it all together, and making this much more than a what happens when people can’t defend against a massive threat exercise, is Alaska native Rearden’s deep knowledge of the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta and the culture of the Yupik Eskimos living there. Rearden takes an adventurous, idealistic young couple (John and Anna), gives them jobs as first-year teachers, and plunks them in a tiny village in a tiny home free of all amenities. From the start, though, readers will know something is off: Why, in the scene before the couple’s job interview, are an unidentified man and woman crawling through the snow, looking for signs of life? The narrative consists of three separate time lines—what happened before almost everyone in the village disappeared; John and Anna’s first efforts to teach and adjust; and John’s desperate efforts to survive and return to Anna. This narrative mix is deliberately confusing, like following tracks in the snow, and just as engrossing. --Booklist, Connie Fletcher

 I'll that that review with a grin, and of course have no problems with the Jack London/Stephen King/Michael Crichton comparison! So who needs a "starred review" with those stars involved, right?

(Don't forget to sign up for the Kindle Fire Giveaway! Only a few days left! See the other posts for details!)

Tuesday Poem: in the presence of a God, dead

Tundra Raven, photo by Julien Jacobs

In the Presence of a God, dead
 
A raven
rumpled black
in the snow
this vision
haunts me still

a people's creator
his power lost
long before a wing
clipped the wires
--the new power--
hanging over the land
 
Sometimes I still stand

over the ruffled raven corpse
the cold burns my cheeks
I blink ice
and wonder what one
should do
in the presence of a god,
dead and
I cannot bury him
in the crusty white
covering the tundra

(April 3/2009)