Christmas Presence authors signing in Hayesville,NC Dec. 6

Phillips and Lloyd Books on the square in Hayesville, NC

Brenda Kay Ledford of Hayesville, NC is one of the 45 women writers in the anthology Christmas Presence, edited by Celia Miles and Nancy Dillingham.

Glenda Barrett of Hiawassee, GA wrote "The French Harp" a true story about her beloved grandmother, which is included in Christmas Presence.

Carole Thompson of Blairsville, GA Netwest Rep.

Her story is "A Bag of Sugar for Paula" an inspiring story that takes place in a most unlikely place - a grocery store.

Also on hand Saturday for signing is Cherokee County native, Nancy Sales Cash, author of Ritual River.

WRITING CONTESTS DEADLINES APPROACHING

Deadlines are near. Get your entries into the contests listed below before it is too late. Let's see some Netwest writers among the winners next year.


NCWN Writing Contests

Written by Ed Southern
Tuesday, 18 November 2008 16:43


The deadlines for the North Carolina Writers' Network's writing competitions are fast approaching.
Each year, the Network awards more than $30,000 in prizes, honoraria, and stipends through its four writing contests. These contests are an excellent opportunity for writers to gain exposure and publication for themselves and their work. Network members receive a discount on the entry fees.
Follow the highlighted links for further information on the following competitions, including submission guidelines:
The Rose Post Creative Nonfiction Competition encourages the creation of lasting nonfiction work that is outside the realm of conventional journalism. Subjects may include traditional categories such as reviews, travel articles, profiles or interviews, place/history pieces, or culture criticism. The first-, second-, and third-place winners will receive $300, $200, and $100, respectively. Additionally, the Rambler magazine will consider the winner for publication. Submissions must be postmarked by November 30.

The Thomas Wolfe Fiction Prize honors internationally celebrated North Carolina novelist Thomas Wolfe. The winner receives $1,000 and possible publication in the Thomas Wolfe Review. Submissions must be postmarked by December 20.

The Randall Jarrell Poetry Competition is named for UNC-Greensboro's legendary poet and teacher. The winner receives $200, and publication of the winning poem in the Crucible literary journal. Submissions must be postmarked by January 31.

The Doris Betts Fiction Prize awards the first-place winner with a prize of $250. Winners and finalists will be considered for publication in the North Carolina Literary Review. Submissions must be postmarked by February 1.

Past winners of NCWN contests include Malcolm Campbell, David Poston, Alex Grant, and Marjorie Hudson.

--------------------------

HIROSHIMA, MON AMOUR OR

How I Learned to Love Radiation

By Penny Morse


The nurse gently eases me down onto the padded table where my body fits into a foam form, custom made for my torso during a previous appointment. My arms are raised back and above my head, such an incredibly vulnerable position, naked from the waist up as I am.
I had turned up the volume on my headset to let the exquisite beauty of Pavarotti’s voice fill my senses, trying to blot out this experience. He sings of Panis Angelicus, the bread of angels. Now the sopranos soar over his words, mingling with violins. Are they the voices of angels or young boys? No matter, they sing of love and gratitude, and I am grateful for the encompassing music swelling through the earphones, such a blessed distraction.
Two nurses flip switches to make sure the radiation machine and I are positioned just so. A large, round head comes closer to me with a slick whir of precise movements calibrated on a computer. Now it hovers over my breast like a lover, its razor thin beams of red light make the sign of the cross exactly on my left nipple. Frantically, I decide to give it a name as I face this strange contraption. Holy Moses I call it, a biblical and strong name. Holy Moses, the healing machine. I raise one arm to pat its cold metallic casing and am scolded for moving my arms out of their exact position within the form.
Bring on your technology, O Healing One, and zap my body with mysterious and potent medicine. Is it not magic that you can penetrate to the tissue without rending open the skin, without a drop of blood? I resisted taking this step toward prevention, believing myself to be cancer-free with the last lump removal. Then I weighed the pros and cons and let fear of the future make my decision.
Anger. That’s what I really feel. Anger for giving in, for my lack of self-confidence. Who knows my body and soul better than I? Evidently, a team of white-coated medical experts who can be very persuasive. Now the time has come, and it is imperative that I made peace with radiation.
With this first treatment, O Holy Moses, I declare that you are a savior, bringing only healing energy. I am grateful and will turn the experience into a positive and loving event. Yes, you may demand the sacrifice of burned flesh, of cramping breast pain, of aching bone joints, perhaps even hair loss. This is the price I am prepared to pay in the current, yet still primitive marketplace.
Now I visualize us working as a team, though I know deep within myself that I can manipulate and turn away your radiation energy. . . if I so choose. Every woman holds this ability within each cell. After all, we create, carry, nourish and give life, such is our magnificent power that passeth understanding. How simple it would be to disable this machine, for I am a living being while it is only the sum of metal parts. Instead, I beam pure love back to it and declare that each moment is perfect, each hot ray is a miracle, a gift.
The moment your radiation invades my body, I feel a shock wave through my entire being in a nanosecond. Not a heavy or unbearable pain, but a burning sensation along all my systems, proof that violation has taken place. As the mental guardian in charge of my corporeal body, I tremble with surrender to this betrayal. Forgive me.
Pavarotti finishes his song of the angels and moves on to Ave Maria, dear holy mother; dear all mothers who have survived before me, be with me in my hour of need. Tears slide down the sides of my face.

In only a few minutes it is over. The nurses reappear from their safe place behind protective barriers. Pavarotti concludes his song. I am assisted to sit up and swing my legs off the treatment table. I coat my heated breast with soothing salve, then clothe myself. And like an obedient dog that has performed the play-dead trick well, I am offered a cookie as a reward.


Penny lives in Asheville, writes in a variety of genres, and is pleased to claim four years cancer-free. She can be contacted at fairlight_inc@hotmail.com.

An Appalachian Songbook by Kathryn Stripling Byer

On Thanksgiving Day, I had something special for dessert. WDAV fm station ran the recording of "An Appalachian Songbook," a composition by Kenneth Frazelle, with soprano Jacquelyn Culpepper, pianist Phillip Bush, and me reading poems from WILDWOOD FLOWER and BLACK SHAWL interwoven into the musical fabric. This recording was made at St. Peter's Church, where the Charlotte Chamber Music Series has become a popular program in the area. You may download it at WDAV.org, where you will also find information about the performers. (http://www.wdav.org/printable_html.cfm?page=1_222_0&cat=1&subcat=222&subsub=0&do=view&id=210)



Here are two poems from the program:

DULCIMER


No, I'll not listen.
The sound of it's too sweet,
like honey I licked from the spoon
while he sat on my porch
and played Shady Grove.
"You are the darling of my heart,
stay till the sun goes down."

I remember the hoot owl came closer.
Moths burned their wings in his candle wick.
"Midnight," I said,
and his fingers stirred wind from the strings,
begging, Stay, while he cradled the wood in his lap

for a last song, the hazel-
green eyes of a lost lady.
Weep Willow.
Soul of the laurel shade.

"Come," he said, pointing through dark
to the bed of leaves
we'd gathered, wildflowers strewn
on a pillow of moss.
But I sent him away,
letting go of his hand
without whispering as I do
now when my wits fail me, oh my
sweet, nothing
but sweet
good for nothing man.

from Black Shawl, (LSU press 1998)



EMPTY GLASS

Last night I stood
ringing my empty glass
under the black empty sky
and beginning, of all

things, to sing. The mountains
paid no attention.
The cruel ice did not
melt. But just for a moment

the hoot owl grew silent.
And somewhere the wolves
hiding out in their dens
opened cold, sober eyes.

Here's to you I sang,
meaning the midnight
the dark moon
the empty well,

meaning myself
upon whom
the snow fell
without any apology.

From WILDWOOD FLOWER (LSU Press 1992)

Natalie Grant, Nancy Simpson, Janice Moore, Jayne Jaudon Ferrer, Glenda Beall at John C. Campbell Folk School, Thursday evening, November 20.

Poets and Writers reading Poems and Stories is a monthly event at the John C. Campbell Folk School in Brasstown, NC. Two Netwest members are featured. Natalie Grant from Topton, NC and Jayne Jaudon Ferrer of Greenville, SC presented a most interesting program to an appreciative group comprised of folk school students from distant states as well as local writers in the community.

NORTH CAROLINA WRITERS' FALL CONFERENCE

Nancy Sales Cash, Mary Jo Dyre, Lana Hendershott, Glenda Beall, Ken Kinnett, and Pat Davis at conference last year.

Did you attend the Fall Writers' Conference held by NCWN in Durham this month?

If you did, please leave a comment and tell us about it.

If you did not go, but you wanted to go (like me) tell us why you were longing to be there, but just couldn't make it this year.

My driver was out of commission. That's why I didn't make it.

Ann Melton writes about her home town, Sylva, NC

I recently met Ann Melton author of A Place Called Home. Her second book, Home is where the Heart Is is a sequel to the first.

Ann Davis Melton grew up in the small Southern town of Sylva and went on to earn her undergraduate degree from Western Carolina University and her doctorate from the University of South Carolina. She worked as a language arts consultant for the Western Regional Education Center before becoming Superintendent of Madison County Schools. She is now retired and lives in Waynesville with her husband, Frank.

This excerpt from A Place Called Home will give you an idea of her writing as she tells stories about life in the quiet and safe village of Sylva where she grew up in the 40's, 50's and 60's..

Chapter two

Across town things weren’t nearly as quiet at the Will Sherrill house. Will was a lawyer and a tough one at that, and he ran his household the way he ran his law practice. Of late, however, things seemed to have gotten out of hand. The active social life of his older children was interfering with his rest, and they seemed to be coming home later and later at tonight. The week before he had called a family meeting and announced that the doors would be locked at exactly 11:00 P.M. There would be no more of this late night foolishness.

However, things had not worked out exactly as he had planned. He had gone to Glenville to meet with a client and had found the new client’s run of corn liquor greatly to his liking. He and the client had sat around after the meeting and enjoyed too many drinks, and time had slipped away. At 11:30 P.M., though he knocked and knocked, no one answered his own front door. He carried no key – they had never locked the doors before. He went around to the back and even to the side doors to no avail. As a last resort, he began yelling loudly, so loudly, in fact, that even the neighbors heard him. Finally, a light came on in a distant part of the house, and the slight figure of his wife approached the door.

However, instead of unlocking the door, she quietly said, “Will, last week you laid down the law and said that the doors were to be locked at eleven o’clock and that no one – no one would be allowed in after that. It is now eleven-thirty, Will. I’m afraid you will just have to sleep in the barn tonight,” and with that, she returned to bed.

He couldn’t believe it! Of course, he was always surprised by Mary’s strong side; he had to admit that. He just hated that he had been beaten by his own game. His wife such a quiet, peace-loving individual – so unlike him, and everyone in town loved her. It was to Mary that folks came if they needed to talk, for she was a wonderful listener, and all admired her wisdom. She always had a fire in the wood-burning cook stove in the kitchen, and a kettle of water always sat on top, ready to offer a cup of tea, and there were always good things to eat in the warming closet above the stove. In fact, Will could just taste some of those goodies right now. I might just be able to sleep if I had a warm glass of milk and a couple of her sugar cookies right now, he thought to himself.

It proved to be a long night for Will. He slept in his clothes of course, and was lucky enough to find two horse blankets for cover and fresh hay to lie on, but he had a difficult time falling asleep. He could not get comfortable no matter which way he lay. He also had a great deal on his mind. The next day he would have to present his closing arguments in a case that had proven to be long and ugly, and he needed to be at his best. A group wished to build a dam at Glenviile, and he was representing the environmentalists who did not want to see the beautiful stream dammed. He tossed and turned all night planning his closing remarks. “Gall durn it!” It was cold and he was uncomfortable. “How could he think in these conditions?” He also needed to relieve himself of several glasses of the homebrew he had consumed, but he hated to get out from under the warm covers – and that is when his closing statements formed in his mind.

The next day dawned clear and bright, and when Will got to the house, he found his breakfast on the table and everyone acting as though nothing unusual had happened. Except for an occasional look one child would give another or a slight upturned mouth, the meal went as usual. As soon as breakfast was over, he bathed, dressed, and left for the courthouse with his briefcase in hand.

He arrived in the courtroom about nine o’clock and found several people milling about. By nine –thirty the courtroom was full. The judge appeared soon after, and by eleven-thirty all witnesses had been called, and it was time for closing arguments.

He knew he was not going to win the case. The community needed the power plant too badly, and this was really the best place to build a dam.
What the hell, he thought, as he rose to approach the jury. He might as well enjoy the moment. Looking into the eyes of each man and woman in the jury box, he spoke of the pristine beauty of the mountains and the stream that would be ruined if this dam was built.

He spoke of the wildlife that abounded and the detriment to them, and he spent a great deal of time convincing the jury that the dam and power plant would not be everything they had hoped it would be.

When he felt he had the jury just where he wanted them, he delivered his closing remark. Letting his voice rise so that it could be heard by one and all he said, “And now, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I wish to inform you that there is more water power below my belt than there will ever be in Glenville Dam,” and with that he turned and sat down.

The silence in the courtroom was long. He could hear his heart beating, and he could feel the laughter rising up in him until he felt he might burst.
Finally, the judge got his wits about him, gave the charge to the jury, and they filed out. Grabbing his papers, Will Sherrill made a dash for the door.

Will Sherrill was Ann's grandfather and an important character in the book. Ann's books can be found at City Lights Books in Sylva.

GARY CARDEN ON NCWN FALL WRITERS CONFERENCE

Gary sent this email regarding his experience at the NCWN Fall Writers and Publishers Conference

I had a ball at the conference. It was a hard trip and I drove five hours through rain and fog to the Raleigh/Durham Hilton. However, once I got there, I was treated like visiting royalty. I made a lot of friends and it was a gratifying experience to be with folks who shared my interests. There were playwrights there, fiction writers, non-fiction writers and journalists. I suspect that we have those people up here, but I rarely meet them.

I heard Ron Rash's keynote speech and it was a winner. He talked about research and the fact that it sometimes comes dangerously close to eclipsing the actual writing of a novel. He addressed its significance in relation to Serena and talked about eagles and rattlesnakes. He also discussed the "chorus" in the novel, the voices of the workers in the lumber camp that enabled him to add richness to his plot.

The workshop that I taught, a total 18 people who were interested in converting oral history into effective theatre was a wonderful experience. I had playwrights in the class that were far more experienced than I, but the basic simplicity of what I presented appealed to them. I am still getting calls from them, and I have even been advised as to how to promote myself in the piedmont. That was wonderful to hear, but I prefer to mimic the mountain laurel and "grow where I am planted."

The conference offered endless opportunities for writers and the display area in the lobby was filled with folks who offered opportunities that ranged from self-publishing to manuscript evaluation. Several publishers were soliciting regional history and non-fiction, memoirs, essays, etc.

There was also an impressive display of North Carolina writers ranging from Ron Rash to Vicki Lane (who I had dinner with) and new works from people like Jill McCorkle, Reynolds Price, Lee Smith, Randall McKehan, Ruth Moose ... all of whom I have been reading for years. I was impressed enough by a fellow named Stacy Cochran to buy his video on "How to Get Published and How to Get an Agent" and I brought it home where Ben Eller and I watched it and decided that it was worth the money. He also has a website.

I was also approached by some media people who asked about interviews for local TV shows and radio programs, but it depresses me to think that I have to drive to Raleigh to be interviewed. I have a healthy ego, but I am not driving five hours to be interviewed.

In fact, that is pretty much the way I feel about the Conference. It was like a candy store for writers, but it is in Raleigh. I guess our resources are scant by comparison, but I do intend to find whatever I can in this region. I won't drive to Raleigh, but I will drive to Asheville. There seems to be a tendency to hunker down and try to practice our art in a very narrow area ... like a twenty-mile radius of home. That needs to change.

Gary Carden lives in Sylva, NC. He is a storyteller, writer, playwright, teacher and journalist. Contact him at gcarden498@aol.com

Country Music, for Debbie McGill

For Debbie McGill's Farewell party, I wrote a poem for her, which I thought you might like to see. The short poem before it is today's ncpoetlaureate header, written by a 5th grader at an elementary school in Taylorsville. I received 48 poems from the 5th grade!
----------------------------------------------------

Bring me all your hopes,
you hopers.
Bring me all your heartbeats of hope.
That I may wrap them in a deep red cloth,
Away from the rejecting souls of the world. -CB -----Sugar Loaf Elementary School
_________________________________________________________



(Jennifer Nettles, of Sugarland. Getty Images)


COUNTRY MUSIC

(a letter-poem written for Debbie McGill while traveling back home to North Carolina)

Dear Debbie, Last night I watched the Country Music Awards,
thinking all the way through it how seldom real melody
burst through that slick Nashville razzle-dazzle: The worst of it?
A black leather mini-dress hugging a backside that looked to be
bigger than mine. Or, those false sequined eyelashes
three inches long on the bland baby-blues of the mistress of ceremonies--
two dozen changes of wardrobe and two dozen layers
of lipstick! Why did I keep watching? Waiting for Sugarland,
the duo from Georgia whose singer wears nary a false eyelash
and does her own hair.* Who sings like a dove
or a diva, depending on whichever song she writes. Heck, why be pompous
about it? A good song’s a good poem. And Lordy, how I wanted one
to rise out of that racket and make me sit stock still and listen.
We both wanted that, you and me, and for almost four years we found
it. Well, most of the time. Yep, we made a good Search Party,


savvy and just enough serious, just enough silly to giggle through
e-mails and telephone calls, and you patient enough to put up with
my own diva tantrums. ( You know what I’m talking about!)
Now I feel like I’m losing my lodestar, my compass, my native scout
leading the way through the sagebrush. A real poet herself,
though she never would talk about that. Whose editor’s pen
could work magic. (Pero siempre con palabras muy dulce.)
I found my own Sugarland there at the Arts Council,
the two of us singing duets that we’ll never forget,
like a good country song, or the aria I’m listening to now
on the radio, praising the ongoing sweetness of art. Love you,

Kay

* Jennifer Nettles

Below, a new country music duo (now that Debbie is no longer Literature Director, she can be the real poet that she is): The Sweet Heartbeats! Stay tuned to your favorite country blogspot for their songs!

Debbie McGill Leaves NC Arts Council

Today is the last day that my friend Debbie McGill will serve as Literary Director on the NC Art Council's staff. I need all the happy thoughts I can muster. I will miss her, and the state will, too. Our literary community owes a great deal to her hard work and belief in the power of literature. Here is Council Director Mary Regan's "Recollection". (http://www.ncarts.org/email/NovDec08/)




For the past 20 years Debbie has been a leader and friend to writers and writing in North Carolina during her impressive tenure. When a wonderful staff person leaves for a new job I feel both happiness for her new opportunity and real sadness at losing an employee who contributed so much to her field and cared so much for her constituents.

Debbie was widely recognized as one of the leading literature directors at any state arts agency in the country. She extended the reach of the Arts Council's grant programs for individual artists to include not only writers of fiction, poetry, and plays but also writers of literary nonfiction, literary translation, original work in languages other than English, and work intended for children, as well as spoken-word artists and screenwriters. With the appointments first of Fred Chappell and later Kathryn Stripling Byer to the post of North Carolina Poet Laureate, she developed programs that have enhanced the capacity of the poet laureate to serve the people of the state directly and actively. Both as an ally and a grantmaker she encouraged organizers in their efforts to be ambitious and creative in the ways they use literature to improve quality of life in their communities.

Debbie will become the Senior Editor at Family Health International (FHI), based in Research Triangle Park. FHI is a nonprofit organization active in public health projects in 70 countries. Debbie will manage the editing and production of FHI's publications.

Debbie's last day at the Arts Council is November 21. We will miss her enthusiasm, energy, intelligence, and wit, which have created so much good will for the Arts Council in the writing community. We wish her all the best in her new job.

----Mary Regan, NC Arts Council

Blogspot Links

Good Morning Glenda,

I will be regularly adding information to my blogspots, they are:

www.reikimountaincenter.blogspot.com Information on Reiki utilizing other modalities.

www.rambling222.blogspot.com Rambling Writer - Poems, Essay's, Whatever.

Paul

Where Were You on the Night Obama was Elected

With the writer’s permission I am posting this letter he wrote to his mother right after the 2008 election. Dan Moring is a young college graduate from Chicago. He lives in Washington, DC now, and was there on Nov. 4, 2008. His writing is impressive, I think.


The following is in response to his mother’s question, where were you when Obama was announced the winner of the election?

Heya Ma,

The actual moment of the election call was not terribly memorable, since I was actually mid-hop between watering holes on U St when we just heard an enormous scream of elation and people starting streaming out onto the streets. We went to the nearest bar to watch the concession/acceptance speeches. Then when we left that bar, the street was like a mob scene, with people making ad-hoc percussion instruments, chanting "O-Bam-A" and "Yes We Can."

So, with apologies to Gill Scott Heron, "The Evolution Will not be Televised."
I didn't have a camera, but there's a video on the Post website here if you want to catch a little flavor:http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/video/2008/11/05/VI2008110500629.html?sid=ST2008110301127

After boogeying in classic style at 14th and U St (the epicenter of the race riots that ravaged the city 40 years ago) for about 45 minutes, I walked my companion home and, returning back up New Hampshire Ave, hit a crowd of probably hundreds streaming down 16th Street en route to the White House.

I joined them, bouncing jauntily to the triple staccato of horn beeps (short-short-long: yes-we-can) and deeper, more complex rhythms improvised with pots and spoons; claps and stomps; cheers and chants. Along the way, total strangers hugged, slowed to give Hi-Fives to passing cars and cops, or just nod with broad grins.

As we neared Lafayette Square, the fine mist subsided and, crossing the park onto Pennsylvania Ave, with the White House darkened and the shadows of snipers crawling the roof line, I heard the chants of "Move Bush, get out the Way" and"Na-na-na-na...hey-hey-hey...good-bye" subsumed into a rousing (if totally off-key) rendition of the national anthem.

Looking around, I saw the patchwork quilt of "my America"--the "real America" that I grew up in, that I know and love. I caught a glimpse, in reflection, of the America that many of us there assembled perhaps forgot at times over the past years dominated by cynicism, profligacy, betrayal, and distrust--between the government and the people, and among the people themselves.

But beyond that penumbra, so perfectly symbolized by a darkened White House, I saw reflected in the assembled group the mathematical fact that any third grader understands--Addition is simpler than Division; the Greatest Common Factor is easier to find than the Lowest Common Denominator.

People of many ages (though primarily young--it was 2 am), all colors, ethnicities, and styles--festooned with Obama gear, American flags, and above all, broad smiles and sparkling (albeit, again, sometimes glassy) eyes. People excited by that basic concept--the heart of free will--Yes We Can.

The crowds I'm sure are parodied by certain sectors of the voting and non-voting populace, in the United States and elsewhere. But we are not motivated simply by a personality ("celebrity," as the zero-sum line went), nor by hatred and rage, nor by dewy-eyed naivete. We've seen things change drastically since we cast our first votes as citizens, we know some reasons why (there's blame to share), and we think we can do better. One thing is certain--We're sure as hell going to try.

My brother is often fond of saying, "just because you can doesn't mean you should." As my thoughts on the exercise of individual freedom have developed over the years, I always viewed this "Can/Should" distinction somewhat negatively--as the dividing line between liberty and license. The freedom to swing my fist ends at the tip of your nose. But sometimes if you can, you absolutely should.

As we come down from the elation and catharsis of that moment a few nights ago, "Yes We Can" morphs into “Yes we Should,” and ultimately "Yes We Must."

Now, as never before, we have a view of our past and we see what's brought us to this point, good and bad, and we see where we're heading. It looks rough.

In looking at the enormity of the problems facing us--all of us--we no longer have the luxury to retreat to our respective corners and curse the darkness descending on our future. We must stoke the flames that brought us to this point, and light the way to our better tomorrow. With those ballots cast, we began to write the next chapter in our history. It will have lots of twists and turns, but I think, if we get all the characters involved, it can still be a great tale.

So yeah, I think I'll remember it like that.

Much Love

Dan

The Way of Men

..............Two men conversed on a bridge,
..............one from town, the other from
..............a place hid in the mountains.

“We in the city know our
self depends on others, for
society is made from friends.”

........................“Self-such I am, like a tree.
........................Harmony makes me whole, yet
........................I stay an individual.”

“All is all and all is one.
To think your way engages
none creates a delusion.”

........................“I stand alone and always
........................have thus stood, autonomous,
........................a part of all yet all apart.”

...............The two men left each other,
...............each in his own mind the better,
...............sure of the other’s error.

NANCY SIMPSON AMONG THE TOP TEN

Congratulations to Netwest Consultant and past Program Coordinator, Nancy Simpson. Her new weblog, LivingAbove the Frost Line is listed on Blog.com as one of the top ten blogs representing Appalachian culture.

And even more kudos to Nancy. Her poetry, and that of Netwest Consultant and NC Poet Laureate, Kathryn Stripling Byer, Fred Chappel and other outstanding mountain poets, is included in a new book edited by Merita Garin.
SOUTHERN APPALACHIAN POETRY has been published by McFarland Press as No. 20 in its Southern Appalachian Studies Series.
Read more about this book on Nancy's blog.

Nancy Simpson lives above the frost line on a mountain in Hayesville, NC where she writes free verse poetry and is working on an historical novel. Her poetry collections include Night Student and Across Water published by State Street Press.

THE CHILDREN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES by Dr. Ben F. Eller

Publisher: PearlStone Publishing
Pub. Date: May 2008
ISBN-13: 9780981688305
264pp


Cullowhee, NC resident, Dr. Ben Eller, has written a novel set against the backdrop of 1890's England. This period is one of the most intriguing and contradictory eras of human history.



While that nation's scholars produced and impressed all humankind with their literature, art and music twenty thousand abandoned homeless children roamed their nation's capitol. Ten thousand more toiled fourteen-hour days in wretched factories. Seven hundred of one thousand poor children died before the age of five.

Holmes confronts the exploitation, enslavement and murder of children in an underworld of perverse corruption that extends from unimaginable working conditions in factories to flesh merchants of the Middle East to the highest levels of English government.

Holmes is driven to the edge of madness as he examines the desperate lives of factory children attempting to survive a web of corrupt politicians, factory owners and an indifferent society.

Ben Eller's professional career has been primarily in academia as an Associate Professor of Psychology at East Tennessee State University and Professor/Program Chair (Professor Emeritus), Educational Technology at the University of Alabama. He earned a Bachelor's in Mathematics from Milligan College and MS and doctorate in Educational Psychology from the University of Tennessee. He worked with the Atomic Energy Commission in Oak Ridge, Tennessee while attending graduate school.

Ben, a member of NCWN, therefore, Netwest, has published in the areas of child abuse, autism, disruptive children and adolescents, and ecucational technology. He published a textbook with Wadsworth Publishing and has written two novels, The Children of Sherlock Holmes, (historical ficiton) and The Cleansing (science fiction) and two movie scripts.

He has two children, a daughter Elizabeth and a son Todd. His hobbies include running, tennis, biking, frequent trips to Vegas and of course his love of writing.

The Children of Sherlock Holmes is available on http://www.amazon.com/ and from http://www.barnesandnoble.com/
Dr. Ben Eller is available for book signings and readings. Contact him at:
beneller@verizon.com