To My Chums In This “Wretched Slum”

You’ve likely seen the late-night talk show bit before:  Their “man on the street” (read:  charismatic intern or witty sidekick) conducting random, sidewalk interviews, the topics of which your average, at-home viewer would have some knowledge or awareness—elementary-level history…a geographic softball…pop-culture trivia.  The edition I have in mind is a segment on Jimmy Kimmel Live over the past year or so, wherein participants are asked to simply name a book.  Any book.

Yes, yes:  The video has understandably been edited to highlight the more dopey pedestrians, and as a vox-populi viewer, I too chuckle as the participant struggles against the straightjacket restraints of fleeting recollection; but the composition also accentuates a suspicion (and corresponding, inextricable malaise) I’ve harbored for quite some time:  that our audience is not only dwindling, but writers are either fawning on or searching for an unknown audience that is increasingly indifferent.  As such, I have in mind a piece of a passage from Eudora Welty’s 1965 essay, “Words Into Fiction”:

[W]riting fiction, which comes out of life and has the object of showing it, can’t be learned from copying out of books.  Imitation, or what is in any respect secondhand, is precisely what writing is not.  How it is learned can only remain in general—like all else that is personal—an open question; and if ever it’s called settled, or solved, the day of fiction is already over.  The solution will be the last rites at the funeral.  Only the writing of fiction keeps fiction alive.  Regardless of whether or not it is reading that gives writing birth, a society that no longer writes novels is not very likely to read any novels at all.

Aside from my cooking endeavors in culinary school, my life is notably absent of a dossier for having been an academically stellar student.  Yet (along with heavy metal), books—even when I was not consistent about a readerly accumulation of pages in the later phases of adolescence (I was, for a time, deeply steeped in illustration, music, and the absorption of film)—have been a companionable constant; and although I submit the preceding paragraphs with mild irritation, it’s braided with an underpinning humility.  I am, to be grievously commonplace, grateful to have been provided modest quarters from which to communicate my fiction over these past ten years—the fiction being a manifest repercussion of my objective admiration of stories and their creators.

As I’ve consciously navigated these literary tributaries over the course of my adult life, the arteries and thoroughfares have repeatedly led me, and returned me, to horror.  And so before I continue, I’ll supply a name-a-book assist for those pitiful souls on the street.  I’ve even provided some delineation as to the most tangibly formative phases of my life and the books that compelled and indelible alterations to my creative habits:

Phase One (earliest memories):  Instillation

Instillation

Phase Two (elementary and middle-school years):  Dependence

Dependence

Phase Three (adolescence):  Transience-Insolence

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Phase Four (young adult years):  Independence

Independence

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Recently, while conducting a freelance class for client, someone casually asked what I wrote in my spare time.  Across disparate, overlapping discussions within the room, I said, “Horror.”  Mishearing, they (with no small amount of jocular shock) responded, “Porn?”

A hiccup of hesitation—a feeble, straightjacket clamoring for clarification.  I chuckled, this time projecting the word with precision.  Horror.  There was a moment of, perhaps, evident disappointment—as though the prospect of such a salacious avocation were of higher conversational value than the discipline of a genre category like Horror:  “literature’s,” wrote Straub with a fair amount of irony, “wretched slum.”  As the dialogue began to dissipate, I even admit to desperately term-dropping (with no small amount of capitulating shame, mind you) “literary” and “elevated horror,” with the intent of bringing some validating gravitas to my craft.

I’m still uncertain what my writing-product is considered.  I can, subjectively, term it whatever I wish, but it’s ultimately a determination of my audience and my critics.  My goal (sometimes engineered, though often jarringly organic) is to create stories that are braided with difficult-to-define helices.  An example would be something in the narrative and aesthetic effectiveness The Reflecting Skin (1990), not only one of my north-star films but a centrally formative creative compositions.

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Nevertheless, while I continue to dwell on what the hell my thing is, the mere ambition and pursuit of writing for publication has been further complicated this coterie-based designation.  The result is a habit of contrarian withdrawal:  The closer I list toward one designation or another, I sense a shift in not only my personal habits, but also the sites of intrinsic excavation.

In all its chimeric characteristics (and no disrespect to Mario Vargas Llosa), one of the more hackneyed adages is that the discipline of writing is a form of exorcism.  It’s true, of course; but frequently, I’ve unearthed things in my own digging—wandered into curious corners in the catacombs of reflection and appraisal.  I have no regrets, but it does elicit the compulsion of more work:  Self-assigned homework which often compels some ugly calculus.

Which demands not only isolation but profound methods of balance in order for “work” to take place; too, within this self-imposed, though necessary isolation, comes the often self-defeating business of an inner voice that is not always coherent.  “Society is all but rude,” wrote Andrew Marvell, “[t]o this delicious solitude.”  But perhaps it’s more helpful to listen to Hermann Hesse’s hyperaware Harry Haller in Steppenwolf—an awareness that emerges in those who accept “no reality except the one contained within us.  That is why so many people live such an unreal life.  They take the images outside them for reality and never allow the world within to assert itself.”

It’s lonely work, in other words.  Work and exertion that demands an unceasing scramble as we seek fecund balance.

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I imagine I have saved quite a bit of loot in my private writing endeavors—those early morning examinations that, I say with no small amount of insolence, go nowhere (when we intuit that they not futile).  More than that, I have come to understand, and be grateful for, the benefit of exchanges with other writers, some of whom often fill in as impromptu therapists.  These dialogues, on occasion, reveal infrequent covetousness that, left undiscussed, bears the potential for a distracting variety of corrosiveness.

I like to believe I’ve held up on my part of this unspoken bargain, offering help where I can, camaraderie where it’s perhaps lacking, all while attempting to maintain meaningful correspondences.  Though distance itself could be considered a drawback, I’ve found that, over the past few years, maintaining a correspondence across “place” has fortified a sense of devotion as the habit plays to counter inconvenience.

One of the more rewarding activities to which has proven a network proclivity is the exchange of books—perhaps a rather mundane activity in the estimation of some, but it has provided a dependable pulse in the isolated landscape of this often solitary discipline.

It was a coincidence that I was reading one of those friend-gifted books at the time of Dennis Etchison’s death.  “Only after the failure of consciousness can the dream come,” Etchison writes in his introduction to Cutting Edge.  “It is at this edge that change takes place.”

cutting edge

In this, Etchison mentions one of Kenneth Patchen’s lines in Sleepers Awake:  “It’s a long way to the morning, but there’s no law against talking in the dark.”

Etchison shares a touching anecdote about a series of correspondences he’d had with Kirby McCauley.  “[McCauley] taught me that I could, after all, survive without altering what I wrote, and that I was not alone on the rock.” / “This book, then is my offering of gratitude to those who have made the fever dream of safe harbor a reality.”

As journalist Anneli Rufus wrote in 2003’s collection of essays, Party Of One, “For loners, friends are all the more essential because in many cases they are our sole conduits to the outside world.  They are channels, filters, valves, rivers from the outback to the sea.  When we find good ones, we pour ourselves into them.”

And it’s in these friendships (casual or continual) that I have found most valuable byproduct over these past ten years of publishing stories—as I continue to shakily navigate daily productivity, my desire or dismissal to adhere to genre labels, my vacillating regard for status—and it’s in these kindred companions that provide the most sober galvanism…a little lantern light in those sinuous, subterranean conduits—some oxygen in the catacombs.

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Cover Art Reveal: PLUTO IN FURS

Here we have the stunning cover art (created by the brilliant Matthew Revert) for Scott Dwyer’s forthcoming anthology, Pluto In Furs:  Tales of Diseased Desires and Seductive Horrors.  My story, “Behemoth,” is contained therein.

Pluto In Furs, cover

Cover Art by Matthew Revert

I’ve once before shared the table of contents, but will do so again to emphasize the chilling talent Dwyer’s assembled for his latest endeavor:

Introduction:  “An Abysmal Masochism” by Scott Dwyer
“The Tangible Universe” by Jeffrey Thomas
“The Wolf At The Door Or The Music Of Antonio Soler” by Devora Gray
“Other Yseut And Romance Tristan” by Adam Golaski
“Dermatology, Eschatology” by Kurt Fawver
“Headsman’s Trust: A Murder Ballad” by Richard Gavin
“It’s Hard To Be Me” by John Claude Smith
“The Gutter At The Bottom Of The World” by David Peak
“Tender Is The Tether” by Rhys Hughes
“With Shining Gifts That Took All Eyes” by Mike Allen
“Stygian Chambers” by Orrin Grey
“Behemoth” by Clint Smith
“Worm Moon” by Gemma Files
“The Silvering” by Thana Niveau
“Walking In Ash” by Brendan Vidito

Dwyer has his sights set on an August, 2019 release — keep your eyes peeled for news and announcements here (and drop a “like” while you’re at it).

RUE MORGUE Gives a Grim Wink at the Duality of TWICE-TOLD

Dejan Ognjanović, in Rue Morgue, Issue #188, provides a tidy synopsis of several stories in C.M. Muller’s doppelgänger-based anthology, Twice-Told: A Collection of Doubles (Chthonic Matter, 2019).  My contribution, “Details That Would Otherwise Be Lost to Shadow,” receives a generous mention, along with several astute scribblers including Gordon B. White, Tim Jeffreys, Shannon Lawrence, Jason Wyckoff, and Jack Lothian.

RueMorgue 188

This story (running a touch over 8,000 words) was a challenge to compose, in great part due to its structure, but more so in my attempt to bring some nuance to the tropes of duality.  The key was employing the presence of what I’ve termed as the Motley House, a sort aesthetic tessellation, the construction of which, perhaps, warps the perspective of my central character, Tara Keltz.  On the other hand, the house’s personality may be the only thing providing clarity, even if it elicits a realization which is not only difficult to perceive, but also to accept.

 

 

HELLNOTES INTERVIEW: A DEAD THINGS Exchange with Gordon B. White

 

drac 5

Artist Vernon Short’s depiction for Horace Liveright’s Broadway production of Dracula, 1927.

I recently had an opportunity to speak with author Gordon B. White over at Hellnotes; the basis of out discussion being my recently released novella, When It’s Time For Dead Things To Die.  A veteran writer, reviewer, and  literary raconteur, Mr. White is pursuing new format on the Hellnotes site, with this particular interview-review structure being a first in an intended series for the “quick reads” of novellas and chapbooks.

Gordon B. White is a 2017 graduate of the Clarion West Writing Workshop, and his fiction’s appeared in venues such as Daily Science Fiction, Tales to Terrify, and the Bram Stoker Award winning anthology Borderlands 6.  Recently, you can find his chilling and poignant story, “Birds of Passage,” in C.M. Muller’s anthology, Twice-Told:  A Collection of Doubles.  Get to know the man a bit better:  www.gordonbwhite.com

Hellnotes

In the meantime, check out the Hellnotes interview, then pick up a copy of When It’s Time For Dead Things To Die.

SHADELAND’s Bittersweet Serenity

A little over two decades—twenty-two years and some weighty change:  this’s been the formative interval of committed cultivation which now defines the band Shadeland.  With their latest full-length, self-titled album (released in December, 2018, with vinyl available on April 13, 2019), the group has produced not only a sonic distillation, punctuating aspects which have distinguished them thus far, the LP Shadeland (Radio Cake Records) is a sonic saturation that—in a more macro perspective—reflects a mature concretization as creative craftsmen.

shadeband 1

2018

Allen Kell (lead vocals and guitar) and Brad Hudgins (drums), creative comrades since the band’s inception, have overseen the progression of this nebulous endeavor that is Shadeland, with brothers Matt and Brad Johnson (guitar and bass, respectively) contributing the remaining angles of this four-corner frame (I’d be remiss not to mention Andrew Hibdon, who occasionally supplies skills on bass).

Kell and Hudgins have been candid in discussions and interviews about the challenges which have presented themselves since the late 90s; but embracing theses real-life, often mundane obstacles has proven their resiliency (as both musicians and men who are occupied with jobs and the true “fans” that are their families), and they’ve managed to maintain their momentum despite the vox-populi pitfalls which set most other bands to fail.

With their latest album, Shadeland, the band has coordinated the potential of pursuing a new artery of artistry, and making the decision to self-title the album has the resonative effect of a sobering rapprochement of their identity.  If you’re aware of their reputation, any encounter (whether live or otherwise) will prove to be fulfilling. If you’re new to the band, their determined persona will cling to you. Shadeland is a ten-song admixture of melancholy tempered by bouts of warm—sometimes painfully so—illumination.  Even the album cover articulates this underlying duality.

shadeband

Left to Right:  Matt Johnson; Allen Kell; Brad Johnson; and Brad Hudgins (Photo Courtesy Jon Ball)

In a piece of creative prose when managing characterization, it’s lazy, as a writer, to appropriate blatant descriptive comparison to, say, a well-known actor.  But, with the intent of drawing in a curious audience, I know few other ways than to make loose comparisons and struggle to do otherwise. Kell’s vocal textures—a petulant Jeff Buckley exercising occasional tinges akin to Muse’s Matt Bellamy.   

The tracks on Shadeland are seamlessly connected—even in the spaces which suture the tentative silences between the weave of songs.

did-not.jpgAs with their previous albums (Escape Plan; Red Giant; and This Ghost), the opening melodies—“Not The Only One” and the first-released single, “I Did Not”—operate as incremental snares, both setting an inclusive hook and telegraphing the embraceable vibe beyond.  The third track’s signpost is the lyrically loaded, “A Stranger Passing By” (which receives a brief, lyrical callback in the latter track, “Away In The River,” reinforcing the album’s bookend duality); but the pattern grows more complicated with the infectious fourth track, “Cicadas.”

away

“Look Around You” closes out Side A, with a humble “hiding-on-stage” polarization—a humble, subtle Janus-mask exultation.

“Walking Into the End” is a punchy number, slyly coated distortive primer, and showcases the respiratory relationship in Hudgins’s phenomenal rhythm section—the bullseye union of burrowing bass and denting drums.  The song tonally operates like a curtain being swept aside in its denouement of the final three tracks.

Mentioned a moment ago, the ninth track, “A Stranger Remains,” employs a touch of intentional repetition in its wink to the “A Stranger Passing By” — there’s a circularity in it, as though both songs are gazing at each other in a warped mirror.  

square cat

Shadeland is slated to release the vinyl version of their self-titled album on April 13, 2019, at Indy’s Square Cat Vinyl.

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An Indy local, I’ve come to know Allen Kell, as an artist, from a distance.  His discipline has transformed him. Sure: he’s a meticulous musician, a craftsman; but he’s also the rock star—and Shadeland is the rock band—that our city deserves.

shadeband 2

(Photo Courtesy Jon Ball)

Whether Shadeland achieves national or international acclaim is not the point (I’d wager any of the band members would accommodate the possibility, but have never created music with such an intention).  In their journey, Kell and Hudgins have navigated an unpredictable map bearing alterations in both their personal lives and in the industry at large.

The album, Shadeland, is not a new map for the members, but it’s an opportunity for them to flatten out the folds and smooth the creases—it’s an atlas that bears fresh conduits and encourages the listener to join them through the next trajectory of this impressive journey.

Now Available: WHEN IT’S TIME FOR DEAD THINGS TO DIE

Book-release day has arrived:  available now in both paperback and Kindle / e-reader formats:  When It’s Time For Dead Things To Die (Unnerving, 2019).

DeadThings

logo.jpgThis novella-length story is, in part, a product of both my time in Chicago as well as a formative stint in the adjacent “Region”; and my encounters with that erratic cast of characters (some more “human” than others) informs much of the narrative action.  I’d like to extend a warm note of gratitude to Unnerving’s Eddie Generous, whose provided the opportunity and support to expand this story with the potential of reaching fresh eyes.

Here’s the back-cover synopsis for When It’s Time For Dead Things To Die:

Things are in decline…for Joseph Lowe, a rootless young man who falls for the wrong girl; for Gregory Bath, an aristocratic magnate who spares Lowe an almost certain death for his “transgression,” imposing upon him a kind of parasitic servitude.  Now working as a line cook at Bath’s legendary Tudor Quoin, as well as catering to the growing needs of a man far older than he seems, Lowe desperately seeks release from a trap which has ensnared him for the past nine months.  But who could possibly escape a family as powerful, as influential, or as far-reaching as the Baths?  In the end, choices must be made, sides must be drawn, and for Lowe this means discovering an unlikely salvation between himself and his captor, as well as learning the true meaning of “family.”

From the mind of Clint Smith, author of Ghouljaw and Other Stories, comes a haunting, poetic novella, equal parts Dracula and Eastern Promises, set in modern-day Indiana but stretching its talons far back into history.

Berserker

Ambrosius Huber (1499), published pamphlet reading:  Here begins a very cruel frightening story about a wild bloodthirsty man

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Clint Smith is the author of the collection, Ghouljaw and Other Stories (Hippocampus Press, 2014).  Of late, his tales have appeared in Weird Fiction Review #9 (Centipede Press) and Twice-Told: An Anthology of Doubles (Chthonic Press).  His sophomore collection, The Skeleton Melodies, is slated for 2019 release with Hippocampus Press.  Clint lives in the Midwest, along with his wife and two children, on the fringes of Deacon’s Creek.

 

Jim Powell’s ONLY WITNESS: The Intellectual and Liar That Reconstructed My Literary Life

This past Friday evening at the Indiana Writers Center marked the official launch of Jim Powell’s inaugural collection of short stories, Only Witness, an event which functioned as both a highly-anticipated release party and pilgrimage for the local literati.

Only_Witness_Cover_for_invite_1024x1024

In attendance, it was easy to spot Dan Wakefield, long-time Indianapolis Star columnist, Dan Carpenter—Barb Shoup (novelist and Executive Director of the IWC); I was able to briefly catch up with Terry Kirts (senior creative writing lecturer at IUPUI), and gave a nod to Robert Rebein (novelist and interim Dean of the School of Liberal Arts at IUPUI).  Susan Neville was also mentioned to be in the crowd; and of course present was Jim’s wife, former Indiana Poet Laureate, Karen Kovacik—his companion and ally, his “muse.”

iwc

But there were many in attendance, from a spectrum of creative crafts, who packed the space to applaud not only Jim’s creative accomplishment in the form of Only Witness, but his influential vision as founder of the Indiana Writers Center in 1979.

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Only Witness release party:  March 8, 2019

To give Jim an errant, social-media “shoutout” would be an exercise in indolence; yet, on the other hand, I feel as though I could write in meandering, marathon-fashion about the man—about how he sobered my from my own indolent tendencies (read: lazy writing habits) as an apprentice, and provided guidance in how to develop into the thing that compels the more important thing into existence:  the writer producing the writing.  (There is, of course, a separate discussion here about whether or not writing—or any artistic discipline—can be taught:  about whether or not someone can teach another human being how to become a creative entity.  My answer is complicated, but I believe we have inherent traits which, if honed, can be calibrated to align with the frequencies of specific creative mediums.)

More than scribbling stories, Jim inadvertently guided me into how to become a more dependable husband and father.  Jim was my mentor during a particularly formative phase when I was desperately trying to grow up.  Those themes came out in my fiction, and Jim identified certain “pings,” suggesting how to negotiate and renegotiate (often through relentless revisions) the terrain of what I was trying to say—what I was trying to be.

Going back to the late-90s, my time on the campus of IUPUI (and along the landscapes of academes) was erratic.  But as the turbulence began to wane and my life began to gain some semblance of dimension (this was after I returned from my stint in both Chicago and “The Region” of northwest Indiana), so too did my devotion to the discipline of writing.  At some point, I began pursuing a degree in English.

I happened to be acquainted with (though various creative clicks) a number of local poets and writers, many of whom provided wisdom on how to navigate this venture—This is who you want for poetry…This is who you want for creative fiction…If you can, try to get David Schanker for his “Novel” class…This is who you don’t want for editing…

Jim Powell (who at that time was still acting as lecturer and advisor in the English Department) had somewhat a legendary reputation, mostly for his prowess in the literary arena, but he was also purported to be somewhat of a hardass.

Indeed, I would pass Professor Powell crossing campus, snatching covert, sideling glances at the man:  An ostensibly preoccupied individual, walking with an intent gait, toting a use-worn leather briefcase, surely filled with doomed manuscripts which had been mauled and executed with Powell’s red pen.  Poor, hapless bastards.  (Side note:  Jim used blue ink, not red; and that leather briefcase:  it’s a Coach from 1982, and has only once, in these thirty-seven years, required repair at a shoe shop.)  Thus, in pursuit of an English degree, it was statistically certain that the initiate’s meandering path would eventually intersect with that of one James E. Powell.

powell

What I would come to understand is that most of these misguided savants making caricaturist claims about Jim were rather flimsy when it came to being challenged by both their peers and instructors—yes, I refer to the micro-Coloseum of close readings and roundtable story analysis, but I’m also citing something more intrinsic:  they didn’t want to commit to the menial, solitary, and (sometimes painfully) private work of becoming a writer.

This didn’t appeal to their sensibilities, and so the calculus was that Jim was tough.  He is.  And he produces a durable product.

(My confession:  In my spring, 2009 semester portfolio submission, I attempted to give a wide berth to a pivotal revision within one of my stories.  Jim quickly noted that it was unacceptable, and that I would receive a grade of “Incomplete” until I made good on making the necessary narrative alterations; otherwise, I would fail the semester.  Inherently, I absorbed these demanding correspondences with a petulant validation for a suspicion I’d harbored all along:  that I had no business on a college campus—check that:  that my writing had no business on a college campus.  I made several attempts to change the dynamic between my characters and their circumstances, but nothing was working; and I would be nifty to simply say that all I would have needed to do was tinker with a few elements to mollify my instructor, but that’s not how it works, is it?  Although the art often requires agile embellishment, there really is no lying in earnest fiction.  Jim knows that, and he wouldn’t let me get away with it.  He never has.)

Genesis, Nov, 2011 -- JP birthday 1 1

2011 genesis release party

But one the most pivotal periods of my life was between 2010 and 2011.  At this time, my modest house had evolved into a home which contained my recently-married wife, a six-year-old, a toddler, and a Golden Retriever approximately the size of Fenrir.  I was not only attempting to finish my English degree with the intent of becoming on English teacher (the former occurred in 2012, while the latter never happened), but I was also still trying to gain some footing with my fiction.

As I closed in on my final classes, viable options—essentially due to the day-long duration of my weekly occupation, and the fact that I had, during my prolonged stay on campus, exhausted all other available classes—were discouragingly sparse.  (It’s entailment, but the other element here was money, or in my case, lack thereof.)

Nearly optionless, I reached out to my coach.  Jim, after some light interrogation (“I will ask the questions!”) about my commitment to the craft, suggested a guided writing class, which was effectively a one-on-one workshop keenly constructed to propel a candidate through the rigors of a specific creative medium.  (In my case:  short fiction.)  His caveat:  The workload would be substantial:  enormous amounts of reading and responding, writing and revision, all of which necessitated sit-down discussions at certain intervals over the course of a both the spring semesters and three, summer months following that.  (Here’s some more entailment:  as opposed to roundtable story analyses, these sit-down discussions would offer no insulation—it was no secret that Jim has, like Hemingway, a built-in shockproof bullshit detector, and he would offer no quarter to a student who wouldn’t take the class seriously.)

The course was, in itself, course correction.  And while I was allowed to calibrate my own compass, Jim was manipulating the ambient magnetic fields.

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While Jim Powell has dozens of publication-ready stories in that proverbial, soft-side leather briefcase, nineteen polished pieces appear in Only Witness.  These tales therein have been refined over the past nine years or so, when Jim devoted less focus on what he could teach young minds as opposed to what he could teach himself.  There are a number of stories I had the honor of glimpsing their “bones” in their nascent days (“Shelter”); and there are more that resonate with peculiar significance (one of the stories contains a character bearing my daughter’s first name—coincidence?).  Still, more profoundly, there are echoes I can identify along my Midwest landscape.  Subtle sensibilities.  Sneaky, static-lashed frequencies.

What’s more, his collection’s title is quietly loaded as a directive:  it operates as, yes, a fitting, adjective-noun union, but it’s also quiet guidance:  that a writer, like a competent anthropologist, should only absorb and record the worldly interactions which they observe.

From Susan Neville:

Jim Powell has long served Indiana literature—both in his support of emerging writers and his knowledge and insight into the historical canon, which he has helped define.  and now in this new collection of short fiction, he adds his own unique voice to the list of writers who bear witness to this particular place.

Pardon the cliché, but it works in a summative sense:  Jim is a writer’s writer, and just as he’s generated his own stories, he has, likewise (though in mitotic fashion) helped to fashion the scaffolding for the lives of other writers.

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In 1977 (the year Star Wars premiered and the year I was born—I’ll let you rate the significance between the two), Jim and some literary comrades opened a bookstore in Santa Monica, California, called Intellectuals and Liars.  Jim is quoted as saying that they’re “two people you can’t trust,” and that, in his estimation, was an apropos description of both writers and poets.
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There are times when I’ve read Jim’s stories and wanted to ask a question—something to clarify, or something that, possessing an unshakable suspicion, I thought might be telling about his “real life.”  Jim is, of course, an intellectual, and, yes, a story-teller; but he is also aware of his audience which, for decades, were young writers.  “The artist acknowledges both the existence and importance of others,” writes Richard Russo in his introduction to 2010’s The Best American Short Stories.  “He starts out making the thing for himself, perhaps, but at some point realizes he wants to share it, which is why he spends long hours reshaping the thing, lovingly honing its details in the hopes it will please us, that it will be a gift worth the giving and receiving.”  Many years in the making, Only Witness is a gift which, if read closely, is not only entertaining, but—to the reverent reader—lovingly instructive.