The Secret Powers of Naming by Sara Littlecrow-Russell

The University of Arizona Press, 2006
Review by Kimberly L. Becker

I Write, You Listen

Sara Littlecrow-Russell is Anishinaabe (Ojibway) and Han-Naxi Métis, a single mother of two, a lawyer, an anti-racist organizer, and a professional mediator. Her first book, (italics)The Secret Powers of Naming(/italics), won the Independent Publisher Book Award (Bronze in Poetry) and the Gustavus Myers Outstanding Book Award (from the Center for the Study of Bigotry and Human Rights), and was a finalist for both the PEN/Beyond Margins Award and ForeWord Magazine Book of the Year Award. The secret is out: Littlecrow-Russell can (italics)write(/italics).

With mordant humor, she not only “reinvents the enemy’s language,” but also incorporates her native language into her work, further resisting cultural genocide. In her author’s statement, Littlecrow-Russell explains that in Ojibway “survival” (“zhaabwii”) is a verb that means “the act of passing through intact” and that “this book is the search for the spiritual and political power of ‘zhaabwii.’”

These poems witness to survival–as a verb. In “Russian Roulette, Indian Style” “the spinning cylinder / of a 500 year old gun” is loaded with five colonial bullets: “Alcohol / Disease / Poverty / Violence / Assimilation / Survival is finding the name / Of the empty chamber.” Since “the sacred act of naming brings power over [what is named]” these poems serve as ceremonial acts.

Dance is central to many poems, highlighting cultural incongruities:

Skin-tight bellbottoms
strain against the muscles
of your Iroquois Smoke Dancer’s legs—
10,000-year-old rhythm collides
with hardcore hip-hop thunder.
You dance hard in a world
that does not welcome you as Indian,
but loves a delectable 12-year-old girl.

In one of the most moving poems, a widow dances to honor her slain husband, victim of a hate crime: “You danced, we cried. / The tourists snapped their cameras / And reached out to run their hands / Over the beadwork on your dress.”

Real Indians are often rendered invisible by stereotypes. In “Invisible Indians” those who are “nameless, invisible” under florescent lights of a 7-11 regain identity when “an owl shattered / Brittle moonlight of urban winter / With the power of naming, / ‘Ko-ko-ko!’ / We lifted our arms in greeting, / Spoke our names, / And were visible again.” Indian women, in particular, are subject to invisibility except as sexual commodity: “Half-naked maidens with feathers in their hair.” (Look closely at the cover art by Diane Way, Lakota/Cheyenne.) Littlecrow-Russell claims solidarity with women of all races, from “12-year-old Chinese girls / Imported for the 1900s sex trade / Forced to their knees…” to “Cheyenne grandmothers kneeling on the ground / Gathering wet fragments of their grandchildren’s skulls…‘We all have wounded knees.’”

The massacre at Wounded Knee was precipitated by the perceived threat of the Ghost Dance religion. Although “…History books say the threat is gone…/ Each time it rains, / I go out to the sidewalk, / Where the tree roots / Have broken the concrete / Listening to the water’s whispering: / ‘It is coming soon.’”

With poetry as powerful as this, Littlecrow-Russell’s second book cannot come soon enough.

Small Murders by Carrie McGath

New Issues Press, 2006
Review by Metta Sáma

Because of DNA

DNA everywhere. Hair follicles, eyelashes, hidden hot pink toenails, scraped knees, bruised fingers. Carrie McGath’s debut collection, Small Murders, looks for evidence with a trained, meticulous, inexhaustible eye. From indentations in beds to material inside a glove box, from the bent back of an assiduous artist to the wooden closet of a boudoir, McGath seeks out the tiny parts, the small murders, of the mind, the heart, the psyche, in order to detect the who, why, and wherewithal of love.

Small Murders opens with a tour through a small antique shop, where the perspicacious narrator frets over a series of fragmented doll parts. These “exact dismemberments” hang above the narrator, on display: “brown hair, red hair, dishwater blonde hair,/feet, arms, legs, and heads with eyes,/eyes with eyelids that shuttered when touched.” Despite the baleful atmosphere of this macabre backroom of the antique shop, the narrator sticks around, surveying, making notes of “the gunshot doll”, the “armless teddy bear”, and “two jaundiced plastic arms”, and returns a week later to purchase the small box that contains more parts: “two baby doll teeth,/a small nursing bottle,/a tiny dustpan in 1950s blue” (7). McGath specializes in broken, discarded left behinds, attending to these objects as nurse, scientist, surgeon, and lover.

She recalls the dashboard Virgin in Henry’s taxi, the woeful eyes of Hans Bellmar’s dolls, and a pomegranate rotting in an abandoned refrigerator with tenacious clarity. Later, she returns to the slaughter, more clearly, with “So Nice to See You”, “Rape Dreams”, “Nights Marred Like Crickets in Metal Fan Blades”, and “Murder Girl”. In poems like “You Are a Rifle in My Closet”, “Daylight Savings”, and “My Libido”, the violence is less bloody, yet the narrators suffocate under an intense need to love intensely. In “A Good Nympho Can Get a Lot of Guys Killed”, she writes: “And didn’t I call you a jackass/for not taking the love I gave you seriously?/And then I walked away wanting to cry but seeing the cool/absurdity of crying, so I didn’t” (9).

By the end of the book, I’m convinced this narrator (these narrators?) is “the loneliest girl in the time zone” (1, is “an ordinary object. A compact” (14), is the tremble, the “eerie paths”, the “scouring pads”, the “round and red as plums” nipples, and more and more and more. By the end of the book, I’m just as convinced the fertility of McGath’s imagination becomes overpowering, overdone, and indeterminate. Where restraint is needed, the hand is heavy.

And yet, this is a mesmerist’s narrative hope: to create a lyric fecundate, to unrestrain. Carrie McGath has accomplished this feat. Read it and watch your mind follow the beautiful tangle of dots.

Rising, Falling, Hovering: A Poetry of Ethics and Responsibility by C.D. Wright

Review by Shannon K. Winston

For many reasons, C.D. Wright’s newest collection of poetry, Rising, Falling, Hovering, is breathtaking. Stylistically, Wright’s poems are delicate, deceptively simple, and replete with striking imagery. For example, she opens “Like Having a Light at the Back You Can’t See but You Can Still Feel (1)” with the following lines: “As if it were streaming into your ear./ The edges of the room long vanished” (4). One of the greatest strengths of this collection is its refreshing variation. Wright is vigorous and attentive to all of her lines and each poem begins differently than the one that preceded it. The lines are double space which adds an airy quality to the poems that allows readers to slow down and contemplate each line without rushing. In the same poem, the speaker writes of two people: “they were not covering the air/with false words” (Ibid), which is true of Wright herself. Rising, Falling, Hovering is a very raw collection that abandons ornate language in favor of a vigorous questioning of what it means to be a poet in today’s world.

Related to the last point, one of the most important and compelling themes that reoccurs in Rising, Falling, Hovering is the question of responsibility towards others when the world is ravaged by war and injustice. Wright opens her collection with the following citation from Maurice Merleau-Ponty that sets the tone for the entire collection: “The momentum of existence towards others, towards the future, towards the world can be restored as a river unfreezes.” The reader can interpret each line in this collection, therefore, as Wright’s deeply personal and politically attempt to communicate and do right to others. Each line is a gesture towards a better, more equal future. While certainly utopic, Rising, Falling, Hovering also ponders whether a poet can foment significant change. Wright writes: “But we can’t leave it to the forces to rub out the color of the world/ What is said has been said before (space)/ This is no time for poetry” (15). But, if anything, Wright’s collection seems to confirm that poets have an ethical responsibility to write, to question their world and their place in it. In this hauntingly beautiful collection, Wright presents some of the most salient questions—what it means to be human, to live with others, and to experience both beauty and violence—in an artfully crafted and delicate verse. For all of these reasons, Rising, Falling, Hovering is not only a stunning read but an important one as well.

Correction of Drift: A Novel in Stories by Pamela Ryder

Fiction Collective 2, 2008

Nonlinear Flight
Review by Elizabeth J. Colen

What do you remember of the Lindbergh affair? That lost baby? Perhaps you heard once about how the man who flew the “Spirit of St. Louis” across the ocean lost his baby to thieves through the second-story nursery window. Older generations could never forget this sad and media-frenzied event if they tried, while younger generations might know no facts of the kidnapping and murder at all. Regardless of the amount of knowledge you bring to Pamela Ryder’s Correction of Drift: A Novel in Stories you will be horrified, saddened, yet overall entertained as she transforms this historical event into tangible personal histories of the people involved.

The novel, written in nine stories linked by content and separated by nine different perspectives (from the kidnappers, to Lindbergh, Mrs. Lindbergh, the maid, wife of the accused, etc), contains the beautiful and unconventional/experimental poetic style for which this press (FC2) is known. Sometimes the prose moves through events and descriptions purposefully, as when Ryder is describing the immigrant culture of New York City in the early part of the twentieth century. Other times the language is playful, pure poetry—“Did he ever see the birds that dip into the waves, just above the foam where the sea becomes air?”

Moving from the first to the second (and title) story, the extreme close third-person narrative, including ominous flashbacks to the kidnappers’ childhoods, has become the highly self-conscious compulsiveness of a man who has always been so careful to see to every detail trying to come to terms with what overlooked factors could have led to his son’s disappearance. Thanks to Ryder’s elegant prose one can almost agree with him. How could someone steal a baby out of a room with a newly silvered mirror? “There had been self-reliance, priority, order.” Cross-atlantic flight is compared to “solitude, safety of woods surrounding the house.” At times the comparison becomes too adamant, “he sees the crib, the rails, the bars of moonlight”—as if for one second the reader might miss the parallels, the repetition. Even these distractions can be overlooked as Ryder’s wording remains lovely and engaging throughout.

As the second (his) story turns into the third (written in the bad grammar of the ransom notes), then fourth (Mrs. Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s perspective), his focus on details leads to her fastidious homemaking. In his story we note her meticulous dress, in hers we see the commanding woman of the house who keeps her famous husband together. While the characterization of Mrs. seems simplistic in its primary focus of things commonly known, such as her love of fashion and seashells, we are drawn in by the repetition that runs parallel to Mr. Lindbergh’s checking and rechecking. In this (her story) his tendency to thoroughness is used against him. That the nursery window never shut tight is a contentious detail that becomes an obsessive, recurring image that shifts slightly in tenor with each passing mention. Even their luggage in leaving becomes equated to the window: “She will attend to the lock, the straps, the latch. She will see to it that nothing else is lost.”

Each subsequent story not only adds something new but also complicates and transforms, building upon and re-imagining the previous stories and information given. With the novel wrapping up in a tourist’s perspective of visiting the house years after the fact, it seems the only angle missing is an account from one of the many men who have come forward claiming to be the Lindbergh baby.

Also striking is the heavy use throughout of historical headlines about the event to precede each story. The headlines, often heartbreakingly conflicting, fill any gap in the reader’s basic knowledge of the Lindbergh history, so that Ryder’s lyric prose can get at the emotional experience behind each separate perspective. A truly fascinating read.

The Palace of Illusions by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

Review by Grace Andreacchi

It is impossible to take this book seriously. It professes to be a re-telling of the great Indian epic ‘The Mahabharata’, from the point of view of a female protagonist, the Princess Panchaali. But the writing is so awkward and the sentiments so hackneyed and cloying, we know immediately we have been relocated to the sprawling suburban sensibility of modern America. If this were meant as a sharp-tongued critique thereof then there might be something in it, but alas, the author seems to have adapted thoroughly to the style of her adopted country, and so is bereft of irony. What is one to make of such sentences as ‘I was fascinated by Krishna because I couldn’t decipher him’? Or this: ‘I felt dejection settle on my shoulders like a shawl of iron’. Like a what? Or this: ‘A problem becomes a problem only if you believe it to be so.’ That this sort of trite sentimentality passes for ancient wisdom from the mouths of the gods is only one of the things wrong with this book. The unevenness of tone, which veers wildly back and forth from a kind of by-your-leave-Miss storyteller’s affectation to the banality of the shopping mall is another. Merely to label a book a ‘feminist re-telling’ is not enough, the reader must find therein an engagement with the feminine experience that somehow both transforms and illuminates the ancient material. Instead we have a series of tired slogans.

The best that can be said for this book is that certain passages are not without charm, as the colour and sweep of the great epic itself sometimes take over. The Princess Panchaali is said to have been born of the sacred fire, and occasional flickers sometimes light up the pages, like signal fires glimpsed through the fog. But one would do far better simply to read the original than to bother with this pallid offspring.

I had high hopes for this book, for I consider the territory of myth and legend to be one of the most fertile and rewarding for the writing of good fiction. That this book fails to interest or excite me is not due in any way to the subject, but rather to its tedious and awkward handling. There is probably a good book to be written about the vivid princesses of the Mahabharata. Sadly, this is not it.

A White Girl Lynching by Elizabeth P. Glixman

Pudding House Publications, 2008
Review by Kimberly L. Becker

Color Theory

Elizabeth P. Glixman is a poet and writer, as well as interview editor at Eclectica. Her work appears in many journals and anthologies, including Frigg, The Pedestal, Wicked Alice, and Women of the Web: A Poetry Anthology. An animal lover, she also has a blog devoted to shelter animals. In addition, she is a visual artist (B.F.A. in Studio Arts and M.Ed. from Clark University) and the poems in her chapbook, A White Girl Lynching, reflect this artistic sensibility.

A carefully selected frame both highlights and protects the artwork within. Glixman frames her book with an author’s statement: “These poems are…about respect for all individuals and races…many of the poems [are] about what happens to people when they are ‘lynched.’ I interpret lynched as meaning to have an important element of individual dignity taken away from an individual or group.” Glixman takes a risk in dissociating lynching from its historical context and connotation. With her statement, she wisely protects her title’s integrity of intent. Without it, the title itself would run the risk of seeming to disrespect African American victims of literal lynching. By highlighting her definition of “lynching” that occurs across color lines, Glixman frees the reader to appreciate more fully the artistry of her poems.

Accompanying each Pudding House chapbook is a Position Statement on the Value of Poetry Arts that reads in part: “You selected language art that took as long to create as paintings or other fine art.” This statement is especially fitting for Glixman, whose own artwork graces the cover and whose poems are informed by her training as a visual artist. “Painted Stories from the Dutch,” an ekphrastic poem in eight parts, draws inspiration from Rembrandt, Vermeer and other masters from the Golden Age of Dutch painting, according to her blog,(italics)In the Moment(/italics), in which she also notes that quality of light and details of texture characterize this period. (Given the title and theme of the book, the fruit and hanging, bloodied rabbits depicted in this poetic still-life cannot help but recall more sinister “Strange Fruit.”)

The white girl of the title, who suffers a vicious beating, “covered her black blue / fruity bruises with pancake makeup.” The heavy application of cosmetics recalls the artistic technique of impasto, which Glixman also alludes to in the stunning line: “Dance with me in darkness and light / In the thick impasto of secret lust.” Glixman applies the principle of chiaroscuro to the light and dark side of racial relations. Her poems emphasize the danger of being “pulled into one point perspective” when it comes to viewing others. Despite the violence of “The Modern Annihilation” Glixman seeks connection: an executed son of a friend is “still in the arch of all things.” Further, “the path of all things is a miniature painting / Luminescent and telling.”

Glixman mixes colorful characters (a hallelujah-shouting Momma, a cat named Rabbi Simon, a Manoschevitz-toting Eve) to test her theory that it is not race or even species that divides us, but lack of compassion: “Who knows who is who in this world of sorrow?” Glixman paints an answer at once anguished and hopeful: “We cry and wonder, for the confusion of lost things / and arrive in a space of astonishment.”

“If they had known about the book, they might have behaved.” - Memoirist Robert Rummel-Hudson

That quote is spot-on the mark for its simple truth. Writers of all stripes are natural spies, unconsciously absorbing their environment, picking up details and dialogue for a story they have yet to write. And quite often, a story is inpsired by a slice of conversation between a couple we overhear in the next restaurant booth – “This is not the time or place, Fred!” or the way someone artfully complains to a steward on an airplane – “Maybe this service goes over well at Greyhound, sweetie, but this is first class and I shouldn’t have to tell you.”

Recently, when having drink with a friend at a coffee chain, I couldn’t help watching another couple take a seat on the outside patio.

They didn’t arrive together, that was clear. She, natural and not in-your-face-pretty in a Gwyneth Paltrow kind of way, sat down first and crossed her legs. Her ram-rod straight posture against the hard, wire-framed chair suggested she felt very relaxed and confident. But her crossed leg, bobbing up and down, was the only quality that signaled unease.

He, equal to her looks in an everyman, not leading man fashion, carried a large laptop case, pulled out his chair and made to sit down – but not before his whole case came tumbling open and the contents of it, including his laptop, spread around on the pavement at his feet. Fortunate for him, it was not a windy day. He stood there for a moment looking like he’d just wet his pants on the playground in front of the popular girl. He scooped the papers and pens back into the case and shoved them under the seat. (I noticed she did not help him with this task.) Then, he sat on the edge of his seat, slightly hunched toward her, continuously running his hand through his hair. He was talking fast. Whatever he was saying, probably tinged with a healthy dose of nervous laughter, just made her more interested in her frothy drink and straw, which she was moving up and down inside the cup with the tips of her coral colored manicure. She was bored. I assigned her a bubble thought: “I think on my next polish change, I should go with Make Mine Mauve.”

His bubble thought shouted, “Idiot! Stop talking about how your new Dell laptop can withstand a drop from three and half feet.”

I felt bad for them. Well, actually, I felt bad for him. It was clear this interview-like hell date was a first and possibly last meeting.
Through the window glass, I never heard any of their exchange. Still, I could see a story play out in front of me. Would she be worn down by his nervous charm when he called her the next week and they’d go out again? Or was she counting the minutes until she could text her girlfriend about this bad date? Was he waitng for her to leave so he could sufficiently flog himself for being so clumsy, fueling the start of his future serial-killer infamy as the Manicure Maniac? Or, would this send him inside for a double-tall latte from a sweet barista who would become his next girlfriend merely because she asked, “Is that the latest Dell laptop?”

The story could go so many directions, which is the pure joy of writing. We take human observations and weave in our own “what ifs” and life experiences until an interesting scenario emerges.

So you tell me: Do you observe people and conversations? Do you sometimes fill in the blanks about what is taking place?

Karen Harrington is the author of the psychological thriller, Janeology. Visit her at www.karenharringtonbooks.com

Which came first - The writer or the mama?

In the south, it’s not uncommon to hear this expression: “Don’t you have people?” This refers to the hired help a woman might have to help keep up with her domestic bliss. Nannies. Lawn Service. Housekeeper.
I don’t have people. However, I have kids (ages 3 and 4), a house, a lawn, and dust bunnies with squatters rights. All of these things make me a better writer. I write during naptimes and after my children go to sleep. My laptop is perpetually open on the kitchen counter. Sometimes it’s ignored. Sometimes it’s there so I can capture a thought I want to work on later. I don’t have time for the muse to appear. I just write.
Joyfully, I am not the only writer/mama to employ this practice to great effect.

Here are a few more moms who discovered that if you love to write – you just might be more prolific after procreating.

JODI PICOULT, best-selling author of twelve novels and mother of three
“I would be with kids all day long and would write until ten or eleven at night. I learned how to write quickly and efficiently, and have never had writers block. Anyone who has ever been pressed to write knows you don’t have the luxury of wandering around waiting for your muse. Some days, I write pure dreck, but I can always edit that the next day. I just plough through and then go back and edit.

As soon as my kids were in school, I had daytime hours to write even though I was interrupted, taking one or the other to and from school at different times. I was writing plots on laundry tickets!

For more check out: http://www.writerswrite.com/journal/sep01/picoult.htm

MARY HIGGINS CLARK, best-selling author of twenty-four novels and mother of five

“When my children were young, I used to get up at five and write at the kitchen table until seven, when I had to get them ready for school. For me, writing is a need. It’s the degree of yearning that separates the real writer from the “would-be’s.” Those who say “I’ll write when I have time, when the kids are grown up or when I have a quiet place to work,” will probably never do it.”
For more check out: http://www.simonsays.com/content/destination.cfm?tab=1&pid=352932&agid=8

J. K. ROWLING, best-selling author of the seven Harry Potter novels and mother to one

“I wasn’t a struggling single mother all the time that I was writing the first “Harry” book. It was only during the final year of writing that I found myself poorer than I’d ever been before. Obviously, continuing to write was a bit of a logistical problem: I had to make full use of all the time that my then-baby daughter slept. This meant writing in the evenings and during nap times. Nobody knows better than I do that I was very lucky — I didn’t need money to exercise the talent I had — all I needed was a Biro and some paper.”

For more check out: http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/1999/03/cov_31featureb.html

So all of the writer/moms out there, I salute you. Put down that laundry right now and go write your next sentence. Maybe it will be about laundry angst. Maybe it will be the first sentence of the next best-seller. You never know. And then drop me a line and share your writing practices and what works for you.

-

Karen Harrington is the author of the psychological thriller, JANEOLOGY. Read an excerpt at www.karenharringtonbooks.com

Overheard at a booksigning

Hello, HerCircle friends. As you might recall, my debut novel Janeology launched last month and I have been out and about promoting the book. So today, I’d like to share some of the most memorable exchanges that have taken place at my various book signings. Enjoy!

Of my books on the signing table.

“Are these complimentary?”

Of the topic of filicide.

“I can’t read this. I read The Lovely Bones and I hated it.”

Of my pitch that it’s about a man trying to understand his wife by way of understanding the family secrets and ancestors in her family.

“Oh, we all have black sheep in our family. My brother’s wife just left him and he’s now realizing it had something to do with her mother.”

Of my description of the book to a kind old man.

“Sounds good. Let me go ask my wife.”

Of my offer to sign a book for a woman.

“Oh, are you the author?”

Of my introduction to the next person who approached my table, “Hi, I’m the author Karen Harrington.”

“Hello the author Karen Harrington.”

Of the mints on my signing table.

“What are these for?”

Of the puzzle on my signing table.

“Why did you cut up your cover like that?”

Of the woman who ran over to my table with her hubby and told me her name was Jane.

Hubby: “If I read this, will I understand my wife better?”

Me: Huh Huh. Maybe. Here’s a bookmark.” (She leaves. Returns 10 mintues later.)

“OMG! My husband’s name is Tom!” (See, the couple in my book are Jane and Tom.)

Of my accidental penning “Very best pictures” (Doh! Should have written WISHES)

Me: “Oh, I’m so sorry. We were talking about pictures, and, well, ha ha…well, if I become famous, one day this will be very valuable.”

INTERESTING STATS

Signings: 3

Books sold: 43

Ratio of male/female purchasers: 30%/70%

The Best Women’s Travel Writing 2008 edited by Lucy McCauley

Travelers’ Tales, 2008
Review by Suzanne Kamata

The traveler’s tale my husband and I tell most often is about the time an arsonist set fire to our Vancouver hotel and I was rescued by hook and ladder. It was a small fire, no one was injured, and we got a story out of it that we would tell for years to come.

Likewise, many of the selections in The Best Women’s Travel Writing 2008, edited by Lucy McCauley, emerged from well-laid plans gone awry. For instance, in “Ski Patrol,” Anne Lamott learns a life lesson from falling out of the chair lift, whereas Laura Resau bonds with her Mexican date’s mother – after he stands her up - in “My Ex-Novio’s Mother.” Kira Coonley writes about the devastating tsunami that wrecked her vacation and changed her life in December 2004, while Kari Bodnarchuk’s contribution, “On the Dark Side,” tells of a kayaking trip in Patagonia that starts off with an overturned boat, and a friend in the water.

Adventure aside, many of these essays bring small, seemingly inconsequential moments to light. Christine Sarkis’ irresistibly titled selection, “ Dipping Girl, Flying Girl, Heart Attack,” is about a woman needing to empty her bladder while enjoying fondue. How she gets to the bathroom is basically the whole story. C. Lill Aherns (“A Simple System”) writes about stoking the coal stove early in the morning in her Korean apartment building.

These essays take the reader from Italy, to India, to Madagascar, Papua New Guinea, and El Salvador, among other destinations. While some detail interesting vacations, others do not fit the usual conventions of travel writing. Momena Sayed’s contribution, “Paradise – Lost,” for example, is a memoir of her life in her homeland Afghanistan during war-time, written while the author was a student at College of the Holy Cross in Massachusetts. In “A Life Together, Worlds Apart,” Tracy Slater, who is married to a Japanese man, writes of dividing her life between Osaka, where she lives part-time with her husband, and Boston, where she teaches literature and gender studies to the incarcerated through the Boston University Prison Education Program. And Marianne Rogoff’s trip to Portugal (“Alive in Lisbon”) takes her not to a resort, but to a hospital, where she has been invited to read from her book about her deceased infant daughter.

A disproportionate number of these writers have a connection to the Boston area, where editor McCauley lives, which makes me wonder about the selection process. What would have happened if she had cast her net a bit wider? Nevertheless, this is a solid collection featuring a wide range of travel experiences by both established and emerging writers – cheaper than a plane ticket, the next best thing to being there.

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