Tag Archives: Robert Kostuck

Robert Kostuck and Adriana Páramo DoveTales Announcements, and Katie Arnold Joins Sunday LIVE

From our Editor-in-Chief, Robert Kostuck

Carmel Mawle has offered me the position of Editor-In-Chief for Writing For Peace. This follows our informal yet complex working relationship of the past 8 years. I’ve accepted and am grateful and excited for this opportunity to be more involved with WFP.

I have an M.Ed. degree in Early Childhood Education from Northern Arizona University. In younger years I was a professional visual artist—creating paintings, prints, and relief sculptures. Dozens of my short stories, essays, and book reviews appear in literary print and online journals. I was the DoveTales editor for the “Gardens in the Desert” issue and assisted on the “Resistance” issue. I invite you to explore my blog, here, a Northwest to Southeast writing collaboration between Laura Stangel Schmidt on Whidbey Island, WA, and myself in Clearwater, FL, and a sampling of my fiction and book reviews here.

A good editor brings clarity to an author’s work. I will be that editor.
Peace in all things,
Robert Kostuck

From our 2021 DoveTales Guest Editor, Adriana Páramo

Letters from the Self to the World

Reading Period Now Open: November 25th, 2020 – March 1st, 2021

At some time in our lives, we are, among other things, a conglomerate of silences. The unspoken words remain within us, burdening and burning, passively but relentlessly gnawing at us, begging to be let out of their lair where they live for days, months, years, whole lives.

How do we reconcile our hopes for peace with our inner turmoil? Shouldn’t we be the first beneficiaries of our peaceful activism efforts? Should we not actively fight our inner demons, confront past and present ghosts, lighten the crushing weight of our cumulative Should’ve saids, I should’ve dones? Isn’t self-empathy an essential first step towards the experience of compassion for the living world around us?

The Encyclopedia Britannica defines the word Epistle in straightforward terms: a composition in prose or poetry written in the form of a letter to a particular person or group. It is my hope that you accept this invitation, open your heart, and write your unspoken truths. Send us a letter you never thought you’d write, you know, the one you’ve been toying with for years, or sit down and get that “thing” off your chest that can only start with a cathartic ‘Dear X’. Write to a member of your family, an old flame, a politician, a group of people. It could be a humorous rant, a thank you message, a confession, a belated indictment, a love note, or a message asking for or offering forgiveness.

Whether you write this letter to someone else or yourself (how about a letter to a younger self?), write it with your gut, throat, and knuckles; with tender wrists and beating hearts; with rage and fire and love.

In sum: Write your heart out.

Adriana Páramo is a cultural anthropologist, writer and women’s rights advocate. She is the author of Looking for Esperanza, My Mother’s Funeral, and Unsent Letters to My Mother. Her essays have appeared in multiple literary magazines and been noted in The Best American Essays for consecutive years. She teaches creative nonfiction writing in the low-residency MFA program at Fairfield University. Currently, she writes from the Middle East, where oddly enough, she works as a yoga and fitness instructor.


Katie Arnold Joins Sunday LIVE

This Sunday, November 29 at 8:00 pm ET, Join Host Brad Wetzler when he welcomes journalist, memoirist, and elite ultra runner Katie Arnold to our weekly Sunday Live Reading.

Join Zoom Meeting: https://us02web.zoom.us/j/82898977722

Katie Arnold is a contributing editor and former managing editor at Outside Magazine, where she worked on staff for 12 years. She created and launched the popular Raising Rippers column, about bringing up adventurous kids, which appears monthly on Outside Online and has grown to become one of the site’s most popular blogs. Her 2014 story “Don’t Let Youth Sports Hijack Your Life” was one of the most-read posts on Outside Online. Her 2018 essay in Outside Magazine, “Want a Strong Kid? Encourage Play, Not Competition,” was nominated for a National Magazine Award in service journalism.

In addition to Outside, her stories have appeared in The New York Times, Men’s JournalESPN the MagazineMarie ClaireRunner’s WorldElle, and Sunset, among others. Her long-form profiles have been named runner-up in The Best American Sports Writing 2008 and nominated for a Western Publishing Association magazine award, and her essays have been anthologized in Woman’s Best Friend, Another Mother Runner, and P.S. What I Didn’t Tell you. She is co-author of the blog Writing from the Nest., and she edited the photography book, Rio Grande: An Eagle’s View, published by WildEarth Guardians.

Katie has been awarded prestigious literary fellowships at the Ucross Foundation in Wyoming and the MacDowell Colony in New Hampshire, where she was named the Robert and Stephanie Olmsted Fellow in 2016. She has been featured on NPR Weekend Edition Sunday, as well as on Ultrarunner Podcast and the Upaya Zen Center Podcast, among others. She has three times been a guest lecturer at Colorado College’s “Writing Wild: Literary Journalism of the Outdoors” course, and teaches writing workshops exploring the link between movement and creativity.

An elite ultra runner, Katie is the 2018 women’s champion of Leadville Trail 100 Run, where she finished 11th overall in field of more than 700 runners. She won the 2018 Jemez Mountains 50 Mile, 2014 TransRockies 3-Day Trail Run, Jemez Mountains 50K, the Mount Taylor 50K. She is a two-time overall champion and course record holder at the  Angel Fire 100K. Katie is a sponsored athlete for GU Energy Labs and Balega Socks. As part of her ongoing effort to encourage young athletes, she founded a children’s trail running club, gives motivational talks, and coaches girls’ lacrosse in Santa Fe.

Katie lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with her husband, Steve Barrett, their two daughters and two dogs. In her spare time, she likes to ride her bike, ski, go on river trips, hike, write fiction, and read. A restless and fledging student of Zen, she is slowly learning to sit still, but she’s happiest outside in motion. As the poet Mary Oliver once said, “I don’t like to be indoors.”


Copyright © 2020 Writing for Peace. All rights reserved.

Gardens In The Desert, William O’Daly Joins Sunday Live

Carmel Mawle, W4P President

November, in the U.S., is traditionally the month of gratitude. Good news has been little and far between for the last few years and it is a strange dichotomy between the suffering and sadness of separation and loss during this pandemic, and the new hope on the horizon. Science, despite all news to the contrary, seems to be winning out in the end. The assault on our First Amendment Rights has bruised but not broken us. The incoming administration is not perfect, but it does seem to be focused on the environment and correcting the unthinkable injustices endured by families seeking refuge, citizens battered and killed by the police hired to protect us all, the for-profit prison system, and a healthcare system designed to profit off the suffering and vulnerability of citizens at their mercy. The list goes on and on,  but there is a light at the end of the tunnel. We hope children who have been detained for months or longer will be reunited with their families soon. New immunizations seem promising and, if not this holiday season, we also hope to be able to come together again soon. For now, we have Zoom, which has been a blessing to our international organization, bringing members together virtually to learn and grow and be inspired through our Sunday Live Readings, Hosted by Brad Wetzler.

At Writing for Peace, we truly have much to be grateful for. Last week, I shared with you the wonderful news about Robert Kostuck accepting the position of Editor-in-Chief of DoveTales. He’s already hard at work on our next DoveTales, but I know he’ll want to tell you about that himself soon. I am finishing up the last details of publishing our print copy of GARDENS IN THE DESERT: CULTIVATING AWARENESS, Winter Edition 2020, Issue II. Robert Kostuck was the Guest Editor for this beautiful book, and the amazing E. Ethelbert Miller was our featured writer. The print copy will be available for ordering on December 1st, in plenty of time for your holiday shopping.

In the meantime, be sure to order your copy of RESISTANCE, Guest Edited by Brad Wetzler, with featured Writer Martín Espada. It’s a powerful expression of our First Amendment Rights. It always  makes me so happy to send our DoveTales all over the world, but I have to say one of the highlights for me this year was mailing copies of RESISTANCE to Russia. It does my heart good to know there are Writers for Peace in every nook and cranny on our beautiful planet.

Read on to learn about William O’Daly, Host Brad Wetzler’s guest this weekend on Sunday LIVE. I hope you can join us!

Stay safe and well, and keep on writing!
Carmel

William O’Daly Joins Sunday Live

This Sunday, November 22 at 8:00 pm ET, Join Host Brad Wetzler when he welcomes poet, essayist and translator William O’Daly to our weekly Sunday Live Reading.

William O’Daly has translated eight books of the late-career and posthumous poetry of Chilean Nobel laureate Pablo Neruda, and most recently Neruda’s first volume, Book of Twilight, a finalist for the 2018 Northern California Book Award in Translation. All nine Neruda translations are published by Copper Canyon Press. O’Daly’s books of poems include The Whale in the Web, also published by Copper Canyon, as well as The Road to Isla Negra (2015), Water Ways (2017, a collaboration with JS Graustein), and Yarrow and Smoke (2018), the latter three published by Folded Word Press. A National Endowment for the Arts Fellow, O’Daly was a finalist for the 2006 Quill Award in Poetry. A four-time Pushcart Prize nominee, his poems, translations, essays, and reviews have been published in numerous journals and as part of multimedia exhibits and performances. He has received national and regional honors for literary editing and instructional design and has served on the national board of Poets Against War. Currently, he is Lead Writer for the California Water Plan, the Golden State’s strategic plan for sustainably managing water resources. Visit his website for further information and sample poems, essays, and interviews.

Join Zoom Meeting: https://us02web.zoom.us/j/82898977722


Copyright © 2020 Writing for Peace. All rights reserved.

Exciting News: Things Are Looking Up!

First, I want to say thank you, dear Writers for Peace. On Saturday, the continual state of shock and outrage of the last four years was replaced with hope. I’m grateful to everyone of you who marched and spoke out against countless horrors and injustices. Though you may have despaired, you never gave up on the democratic process. And, though we know full well that there is still work to be done, we can finally breathe a sigh of relief.  For us, at Writing for Peace, this is an opportunity to take stock of what we’ve accomplished in over nine years of literary activism. Together, we’ve grown tremendously.

I’m very excited to tell you about our latest good news. Adviser Robert Kostuck has agreed to take the position of DoveTales Editor-in-Chief. Many of you know Robert from his role as Guest Editor for our February DoveTales, Gardens in the Desert: Cultivating Awareness (available in print on December 1st). Robert also served as Chief Associate Editor for our Resistance DoveTales. He is an excellent editor, and it’s been a pleasure working with him on these books.

As a long-time member of our Panel of Advisers, Robert Kostuck believes strongly in our mission. In his words, “I feel driven to participate more fully with WFP and to embody and act upon the words of the mission statement: ‘Through education and creative writing, Writing for Peace seeks to cultivate the empathy that allows minds to open to new cultural views, to value the differences as well as the hopes and dreams that unite all of humanity, to develop a spirit of leadership and peaceful activism.’ I’ve come to realize that convictions must be put into practice, otherwise they are not convictions, but merely wishful thinking.”

Stay tuned for more good news in the weeks ahead. In the meantime, don’t miss this Sunday’s Live Reading when Robert Wrigley joins host Brad Wetzler. Be sure to invite your friends and family to join us for this special night, Sunday, November 15th, at 8pm ET.

Robert Wrigley’s most recent book is Box (Penguin, 2017).  A collection of essays, mostly on poetry, Nemerov’s Door, will be published next spring by Tupelo Press.  Distinguished Professor Emeritus at the University of Idaho, he lives in the woods of northern Idaho, with his wife, the writer Kim Barnes.

Stay safe and keep on writing,

Carmel Mawle
President and Founder,
Writing for Peace


Copyright © 2020 Writing for Peace. All rights reserved.

 

 

 

 

W4P Book Review: My Name Is Immigrant, by Wang Ping

In keeping with our goal of developing empathy, compassion, and awareness through education and creative writing, Writing for Peace is encouraging expanded reading through our partnership with Poetic Justice Books.

My Name Is Immigrant

by Wang Ping

Hanging Loose Press. 2020. 130 pp. $18.00. ISBN 978-1-934909-66-9

reviewed by Robert Kostuck

 

Old Home

“The population of Chinese immigrants in the United States has grown nearly seven-fold since 1980, reaching almost 2.5 million in 2018, or 5.5 percent of the overall foreign-born population. Whereas in 1980 Chinese immigrants did not appear among the ten largest foreign-born groups in the United States, China in 2018 replaced Mexico as the top sending country. After immigrants from Mexico and India, the Chinese represented the third largest group in the U.S. foreign-born population of nearly 45 million in 2018.” (1)

Wang Ping’s tenth book resonates with some of her previous themes, opened once again for deeper and wider exploration. The immigrant experiences are here, alternating with the cockleshell picker stories, all presented like random flowers that together form a bouquet. The title piece winds backwards and forward through time. The immigrants are generations of family, communicating with letters, envelopes, stamps. The charge is an electric current running with a branching blood line, and Wang finds her place among the many who left China and those who returned.

At sixteen, my father ran away from his widowed mother, to fight the Japanese. “I’ll come back with a Ph.D. and serve my country with better English and knowledge,” I pledged at the farewell party in Beijing, 1986.

Back from America, my mother furnished her apartment on the island, bought a new one in a suburb of Shanghai, and is seeking a third in Beijing. “A cunning rabbit needs three holes,” she wrote to us, demanding our contributions. They swore, before boarding the ship, that they’d send money home to bring more relatives over; in return, they were promised that if they died, their bodies would be sent back home for burial. I drink American milk—a few drops in tea. I eat American rice—Japanese brand. Chinese comes to me only in dreams—in black-and-white pictures. My mother buried her husband on the island of the East China Sea, where he lived for almost fifty years, after he ran away at sixteen, from his old home on the Yellow Sea. (“Lao Jia | Old Home”)

And those who lack the money, means, or connections. Here Wang gives a voice to those who are dispossessed. One feels her reaching out to embrace everyone who seeks a safe haven. Her research is evident in her poetic storytelling. Here, truly, form follows function. In an earlier book she brings forward the named and the unnamed. What’s missing in the American immigrant/migrant discussion is this lack of names. When experience is generic it becomes amorphous and gray, and unfortunately, boring. It becomes something we can scroll past, only registering the thought, Just another statistic. Stories are about people.

In this new book she gives out as many names as she can, for when experience is generic it becomes amorphous, gray, and generic.

Jakelin Caal Maquin was seven years old from Guatemala. She developed fever soon after she was separated from her father at the border. Within thirty-six hours, she died of cardiac arrest, brain swelling and liver failure.

Seventeen days later, Felipe Alonzo-Gomez, an eight-year-old boy from Guatemala, died of cardiac arrest, brain swelling and liver failure within thirty-six hours, soon after he crossed the border. (“Buried on Christmas Eve”)

an empty wave
ten thousand voices
broadcast the pain
please, oh please call our names
Chen Xinhan, Zhen Shimin
even if you can’t say them right
Lin Guoshui, Chen Dajie
even if you don’t know our origin or age
Wang Xin, Huang Changpin
please, oh please call us
raise our shadows from the moss
be gentle as you call our names (“Calling Ghosts from the Golden Venture”)

In pieces like “How To Cross the Line,” “An Immigrant Carol” and “Hui Jia | Circling Home” she all too briefly limns vignettes from her own past. Spaced throughout the book the author’s story blends with the immigrant stories of China, Syria, Guatemala, Honduras,

At fourteen, I left home on the big island of the East China Sea. I worked in a fishing village, for the one-in-a-million chance to go to college. I never returned. Three years later, I left the village to study English in Hangzhou. I never returned to the island. I left Hangzhou for Beijing University. My college dream came true at twenty-two. I left China in 1986, to pursue my Ph.D. at NYU. I never returned. “Go back home!” Americans scream, from streets, colleges, social media. Still, I never went back. I drift farther away from Weihai, my lao jia, carrying that old earth in my dreams. (“Hui Jia | Circling Home”)

 

Cockleshells

“The Morecambe Bay cockling disaster (Chinese: 拾貝慘案 Shí bèi cǎn’àn, “cockle-picking tragedy”) occurred on the evening of 5 February 2004 at Morecambe Bay in North West England, when at least 21 Chinese undocumented immigrant labourers were drowned by an incoming tide after picking cockles off the Lancashire coast.

David Anthony Eden, Sr., and David Anthony Eden, Jr., a father-and-son from England, had unlawfully hired a group of Chinese workers to pick cockles; they were to be paid £5 per 25 kg of cockles, (9p per lb.), far less than the typical local rate at the time.  The Chinese had been imported unlawfully via containers into Liverpool, and were hired out through local criminal agents of international Chinese Triads. The cockles to be collected are best found at low tide on sand flats at Warton Sands, near Hest Bank. The Chinese workers were unfamiliar with local geography, language, and custom. They were cut off by the incoming tide in the bay around 9:30 p.m.” (2)

Wang Ping has touched on the Morecambe Bay disaster before, notable in Ten Thousand Waves, and here she intersperses the body of her current book with vignettes told in the voices of those who died. Interestingly, David Anthony Eden, Sr., and David Anthony Eden, Jr. who hired the workers were cleared of any charges involved in these deaths.(2) In researching this disaster this reviewer found an archival website of jokes and alleged witticisms centered on these deaths.

Again, by giving names to the deceased Wang manages to bring each individual into focus. While we may not be able to see them as clearly as in a photograph, still, we can at least see a real person.

We pat the sand, we pat the san
Teasing cockles to the cold surface
We dig, we pick, we break our back
Bagging cockles for two pounds
They say we can return
When the bag is full (“Cockle Pickers: Wu Hongkang”)

Every night since I left home
I’ve been folding a boat
To rest my aching bones
How thin is the paper
Paler than winter (“Cockle Pickers: Chen Aiqin”)

The lichee tree we planted is blossoming
White flowers hide under dark green
The first moon comes and goes
But I haven’t returned as promised (“Cockle Pickers: Lin Guohua”)

The water is up to my chest
The boss got the time wrong
I can’t get back in time
This is my last call from the sea
Oh darling, can you hear me
Through raging waves
Washing me to the bay? (“Cockle Pickers: Guo Binglong”)

To not forget this tragedy is this poet’s calling. Through these memories she is able to establish a framework that shows how immigration is never smooth and does not always have a happy ending. She brings this forward in her writings about named contemporary migrants, showing how the tragic lines began long ago – even before Morecambe Bay – and bring us to the present. Central America, Syria, North Africa, the stateless Rohingya and Kurds—the list is finite but daunting. According to the U.N. Department of Economic and Social Affairs, “The number of international migrants globally reached an estimated 272 million in 2019, an increase of 51 million since 2010.”(3)

Many flee repression, ethnic cleansing, drug wars, and genocide. Wang’s messages in the Cockle Pickers poems is that we should remember that migration is not an anomaly but an ongoing crisis. Can we open our arms, even a little, even for a short span of time? Can we practice acknowledgement, acceptance, and respect? Can we open our hearts? Can we share? We can. We will.

There is a homily that addresses this never-ending movement of people across the globe, and how we can honorably respond: “When you have more than you need, build a longer table, not a bigger fence.”

(1) https://www.migrationpolicy.org/article/chinese-immigrants-united-states

(2) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2004_Morecambe_Bay_cockling_disaster

(3) https://www.un.org/development/desa/en/news/population/international-migrant-stock-2019.html


Robert Kostuck is an M.Ed. graduate from Northern Arizona University. Recently published fiction, essays, and reviews appear or are forthcoming in the anthologies Everywhere Stories, Vols. II and III, Manifest West, Vol. VI, and DoveTales Vols. IV—VII; and many print and online journals including Kenyon Review, The Massachusetts Review, The Southwest Review, Louisiana Literature, Free State Review, Zone 3, Saint Ann’s Review, Bryant Literary Review, Concho River Review, Flyway: A Literary Review, Clackamas Literary Review, Silk Road, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Crab Creek Review, Takahē Magazine, Roanoke Review, EVENT, and Tiferet. He is currently working on short stories, essays, and novels. He lives near an ocean; his heart belongs to the Chihuahua and Sonora deserts, and certain parts of Nova Scotia.

 

Copyright © 2020 Writing for Peace. All rights reserved.

Celebrating Gardens in the Desert: Cultivating Awareness

DoveTales Online, An International Journal of the Arts, Issue II – February 2020
Guest Edited by Robert Kostuck

Our Winter Edition of DoveTales is live!

Many thanks to our featured writer, E. Ethelbert Miller, and all of our amazing contributors.  Thanks to Phillip Richards for his fascinating essay and interview with Mr. Miller. And our sincere gratitude to Guest Editor Robert Kostuck whose vision and theme made this beautiful journal possible.

And thank you all, our Writing for Peace family, for your patience during the delayed publication, and for your kind messages. We hope you’ll be inspired by this issue of DoveTales. Enjoy!

Celebrating Gardens in the Desert: Cultivating Awareness

Cover Art by Joseph Black

 

Copyright © 2020 Writing for Peace. All rights reserved.

 

 

Recommended: NDN: the words of a little hawk, by Elaine Gerard

In keeping with our goal of developing empathy, compassion, and awareness through education and creative writing, Writing for Peace is encouraging expanded reading through our partnership with Poetic Justice Books. This is the first of our Advisers’ Recommended Readings, a review by Writing for Peace Adviser Robert Kostuck.

NDN: the words of a little hawk

by Elaine Gerard

reviewed by Robert Kostuck

 

Difficult subjects often make for strong and worthwhile poetry, and in NDN: the words of a little hawk, Elaine Gerard is never at a loss for subject matter. In “My Uncivil Heart,” she delineates the balance between her Native American heritage and the mainstream social expectations.

“. . . I see out of the corner
of slatted dark eyes,
the tattered edge of an arrow
and the shaggy heart
of the Indian beast
that wishes to rival
the best efforts of
your teacup world.”

Indeed, her heritage is the basis for her approach to all experience, strident and complex panegyrics which illuminate whatever touches her heart. Cultural awareness can be difficult when one is in the default position; beyond that position it becomes the root of everything. Social interaction, relationships with people or nature, sex, introspection, and healing fall within her scope. Her eye is unflinchingly honest, and a poem like “Desert Rain” is objective—as good writing must be—never falling into self-pity.

“a baby girl stirs in my belly
safe from this red shower
he stands over me with a fist,
I slipped and fell and now,
it’s pouring in my kitchen and
I don’t have a way out of the rain.”

This unflinching eye also acts as witness to the beauty of the natural world. As a member of the Blackfeet Indian Nation, Gerard lives her affinity for the landscape and sensory impressions of Montana. One can easily visualize this geography in the section titled Montana In My Blood, and “Sleepy Highway” perfectly illustrates this.

“This Montana day,
this long road
is lined with
thoughts of chickens,
truckloads of hay
and winter wheat
sleeping in brown dirt,
it smells like sage
and a thousand pieces
of my past . . . .”

The section titled “Letting Go” is a perfect example of objective soul searching, intensely personal evaluations, meditations on what it is to be human. The expression of self, composed for the self, offers the opportunity for reflection, consideration, and closure. Lines from “Remembering to Forget” concisely illustrate what a talented writer can do when given the opportunity for self-evaluation.

“I dig into my heart
to squeeze the feelings out,
in amazement at my life,
allow my soul to embrace
and maybe to love
the gentle pain of past losses,
to acknowledge my present life,
and all its goodness . . . .”

Part of the “Prologue” to this volume encapsulates what a reviewer can be at a loss to say. Would that others take a lesson from this highly recommended work, looking within themselves to discover who they really are.

“Life spits out a silent little girl who watches the world, a beleaguered teen into the mean streets and a married woman out the door of life as a divorcee. She is finding her way.”


Robert Kostuck is the guest editor for the February 2020 online issue of DoveTales. The theme is “Gardens in the Desert: Cultivating Awareness.” Broadly interpreted, this theme can encompass — Emotional, psychic, intellectual, physical, or social growth.

— The myriad ways we plant, nurture, harvest, or reap.

— Real or metaphorical gardens as destinations, refuges, nexus points of transformation, or starting points.

— Relationships real or imagined: the arid and/or seemingly empty places in interpersonal connections. The spaces in-between. Memory gaps, the gaps between intention and action, the passage of time forgotten. Empty pages, deleted hard drives, houses emptied of possessions, minds cleared of thoughts and desires.

— Bringing life to actual deserts, urban deserts, arctic deserts, lives that are deserts, relationships that are deserts, deserts of the past or future.

— Awareness = seeking, cultivating, residing in, exemplifying.

Submission window open through November 01, 2019. Submissions of poetry, fiction, non-fiction, interviews, art, and photography are all welcome.

 

Copyright © 2019 Writing for Peace. All rights reserved.

Writing for Peace News, August 5th, 2019

Writing for Peace News

DoveTales Online

DoveTales Online, One World, One People went live on August 1st. Find work from our panel of advisers, emerging, and award-winning writers and artists, as well as the winning stories, poems and essays from our 2019 Young Writers Contest. Stats confirm we’re reaching a much broader audience online. We’re also sharing DoveTales pieces on our Facebook page, so keep and eye out for them!

Now Reading for February Issue of DoveTales Online

The reading period for our next DoveTales Online, Guest Edited by Writing for Peace Adviser, Robert Kostuck is now open. He has themed our February issue, “Gardens in the Desert: Cultivating Awareness.”

In a world where mass shootings have become commonplace, where  politicians and their supporters revel in violent and divisive rhetoric, where television sets and the internet spew hate-filled propaganda, awareness can seem like an oasis in the desert. How will we cultivate gardens of empathy, compassion, and common sense in these barren deserts?

2019 Writing for Peace Online Youth Summit

Now accepting submissions for the Youth Summit here.

Theme: Day By Day, Hand in Hand: Seeing & Creating Peace in Daily Action

This year’s summit will focus on the power of individual, community,  and grassroots activism, exploring what we as individuals can do in our day to day lives to work toward the peace we all desire and deserve.

Join young artists, writers, and activists from around the world in conversation about the matters you care about in this online gathering. Our keynotes, young people making significant change in the world, and submitted creative work from participants, invite open and caring conversations about peace and activism in our troubled times.

Young Writers Contest

Our 2020 Young Writers Contest will begin accepting entries on September 1st. We invite teachers to make our contest a part of your regular writing curriculum. Contact us at editor@writingforpeace.org.

Now accepting applications to our Panel of Advisers

Among our panel members are poets, novelists, memoirists, and essayists – artists who have achieved a level of personal integrity in their work that inspires each of us to search for our own truth. Some panel members inspire us through their life choices, perhaps recognizing a calling toward peace after they were already well established in other careers. They show us that it is never too late to find personal fulfillment in working toward a greater good.

Advisers will be asked to contribute periodically to our blog and DoveTales Online Journal, and help with the local promotion of Writing for Peace events, publications, and readings.

Please send resumes and letters of intent to editor@writingforpeace.org.


Keep the faith and keep on writing!

Poetry       Fiction       Nonfiction       Art & Photography       Young Writers    About DoveTales      Submissions    

Copyright © 2019 Writing for Peace. All rights reserved.

DoveTales Reading Period Open

The DoveTales Online reading period will open on August 1st, 2019, and close on November 1st, 2019. This, the second issue of our online journal will be published on February 1st, 2020. Our guest editor is Writing for Peace Adviser Robert Kostuck. He has chosen the theme of “Gardens in the Desert: Cultivating Awareness.”  Check our Guidelines for further information.

DoveTales, An International Journal of the Arts is an extension of our mission to promote writing that explores the many aspects of peace.  Our goal is to expose young writers to a diverse collection of thoughtful works by our advisers, established, and emerging writers.

DoveTales includes art and photography, as well as poetry, fiction, and nonfiction, occasionally including interviews with writers and individuals working to promote peace through environmental, human rights, and  social justice activism.

Pilgrim’s Progress, by Robert Kostuck (Part 2)

Butterfly, The Pilgrim's Progress, By Robert Kostuck

The Pilgrim’s Progress

(Part Two of Two)

By Robert Kostuck

Sunday, January 28th, 1945

Now we have rumors of surrender, spoken in hushed voices. What will happen? The Russians will turn to our nation of islands built on the cracked spine of the Pacific Ocean. Depredations continue. We wash linen and clothing without soap, in cold water. Two days ago some rice was delivered, heaven-sent. Unlike my village here the men still go out to fish. Part of their catch is donated to the hospital, also heaven-sent. Mostly there is dashi with fish and greens, also some rather dried-up roots. Someone brought us a large basket—almost 90 kilos!—of last year’s sweet potatoes. Flavor and fiber. Shizuko tells stories of growing up in poverty on a farm. She is eighty-one years old, strong as an ox and missing two fingertips on her left hand.

“Ten years old,” she says. “An argument between me and a knife for cleaning fish. The knife won! Clean living, young woman. Rice wine and plenty of vegetables. Makes one strong and long-lived. Your Buddhist grandmother was right. Too much meat makes the body weak. You have doubt? Look at me!”

I tell her about my tuberculosis, how disease comes with indiscretion to any and all. Always there is weakness and lassitude, other times I cough so much I think it will be my last breath. Because of my illness, I am segregated from the rest of the ‘staff,’ and most definitely from the patients. My volunteer work is limited to laundry and gathering firewood for cooking. There is a park near the city center, once beautiful with decorative cherry and peach trees. Unhindered, each week we go there with the cart and the old men and the young girls cut down the trees. Everything is burned for cooking fires and the wet, green wood smolders and fumes and blows sparks upward to heaven. I want to go on my knees and pray at this perverse cooking fire shrine, bow and make obeisance like Obāsan in front of her Buddhist altar.

*

Thursday, February 1st, 1945

I’ve temporarily stopped working on the novel.

It is becoming difficult and somewhat pointless to continue keeping a journal. I discovered a ream of typewriter paper in one of the abandoned administrative offices here at the hospital. I made a brush from a thin bamboo and my own hair. Ink? That must be the office worker’s India ink that comes in a bottle. I pour a bit in a dish and pretend I have ground a black stick into the sumi stone. Mind you, all pretend. The ink is inferior for anything but practice. My calligraphy takes on a dream-like quality, one day elaborately cursive, next day crude as a child’s first attempts. And that is just my handwriting.

My sister writes:

Yuriko-chan, we miss you and pray for you. Your illness is such that no one will prevent you from leaving the hospital. Here is food, comfort, and the love of family. How can you expect to get well living in a place filled with the sick and dying? Please, Sister, listen. Come home.

*

Sunday, March 25th, 1945

Spring. Patients sun themselves. I am one of them. The wind from the sea and the scents of new life. It seems everyone except me knows how to plant a garden. Seeds for cabbage, onions, and daikon; more donations. Shizuko oversees all, orders the volunteer nurses here and there. The girls obey. Measuring out the space for the rows in the lawns behind the hospital. Grinding up the beautiful lawns and tossing out the white boulders of an unkempt decorative rock garden. In the distance a child’s loud and happy voice shouting, “Ma! Come look!”

“We won’t grow rocks,” says Shizuko. “Better to grow melons and radishes and cucumbers. You came to the right place to be sick. Too bad there’s no medicine.”

She eats less and grows stronger. I eat less and grow weaker.

I sit on a bench in the sun. Sometimes I fall asleep. Messengers and medics arrive in trucks belching smoke and deliver official documents and angry wounded soldiers. So many important papers, so many men. Mail deliveries are sporadic. If my Kuri still writes I have no way of knowing. In my mind I continue to compose the new story. I think it will be my final novel. After this I will retire to my childhood home at the age of forty-two and spend my spinster days writing poetry and feeding my sister’s chickens. If I get better. When I get better.

The new book is equal parts fantasy and autobiography. In fact as I have it now it begins and ends with autobiography. Paragraphs, sentences, entire chapters form, dissolve, and reform in my imagination. Beginning and ending = memories of my own childhood. I never cut my finger with a knife. We had a servant who helped in the kitchen. I see now that my cherished memories were made possible by the labor of others. I was a spoiled child and I became a spoiled woman. The parties, the drinking, the public scenes. We build our lives around fantasy. In the end I am left taking orders from an eighty year-old woman, left eating roots and weeds.

Today I stood at the side of the road as a convoy passed from somewhere to somewhere. Not one soldier saw me, not one turned to look. So now I am invisible, turned into a pattern of leaves and shadows of leaves, turned into smooth river rocks and silky red fox fur. Invisible.

*

Tuesday March 27th, 1945

I drift. Somehow I have run aground in an abandoned fishing village. From the signs everyone left quite suddenly. Nets rot in the boats, gulls pick listlessly at offal on the wet sand. A bicycle leaning on the single automobile, the hood of the vehicle still warm. Smoke curls from the finest house: a western-style stove warm with embers; a pot of broth hastily removed and set to the side. Watery fish broth: I eat until I am full. Back on the beach I find a beautiful seashell, large as my head. When we were children we held shells to our ears, told each other: You can hear the ocean.

I sit on the bench and watch Shizuko guide other hands in the garden. And now sick, coughing Yuriko has been conscripted! My pages of calligraphy discovered! I am pressed to the honorable task of writing letters for the unschooled soldiers. They say tuberculosis is catching but the men crowd around me. Dear Keiko-chan. Fumiko, mother dearest. Brother, I hope this letter finds you well. Secrets and fears, anxiety and anger, sadness and yes, sometimes love. One insists I write to his former employer: You bastard! Where are my back wages!? I never realized the importance of writing for those who cannot read or write. The stories and desires are warring with the plot of my novel. Who will win? The finger or the knife? I will call it unasked-for research notes. Already new stories fill my thoughts, overflow, pool around my heart like moonlight on still water.

*

Monday, April 2nd, 1945

Letters are gathered. I fold the pages into envelopes, write out the addresses. We put the letters in a bag and give them to a surprised military messenger on the way to Kyoto or Tokyo—he’s not sure. Of this I am certain: the letters will never be delivered. The soldiers remain steadfast in their devotion to the Emperor. For them there is no disruption of daily life—this in the face of food shortages!

The worst days are when my appetite returns and there is nothing to eat.

*

Saturday, April 14th, 1945

Shizuko’s garden is lush with tiny green shoots. I’m a small-town girl who forgot her roots in the city. The garden amazes me. I am beginning the second batch of letters but these are now more ‘thinking out loud’ than notices of day-to-day happenings. My novel—all jumbled in my mind now—soldiers and nurses telling stories, prophecies soon to be fulfilled, dreams for the future. They ask about my life as a famous writer. I tell them if they never heard of me then I’m not so very famous. I embellish anecdotes from a not very wild past. Some wildness. That good-looking actor with the dark eyes and quick laugh, for example. Crazy about me, followed me everywhere for months, told me he would die without me. I don’t have to embellish that.

*

Monday, April 23rd, 1945

Today we sent out another sack of letters. Where will they go?

*

Saturday, May 19th, 1945

Today is my birthday. Unlike most women I am not ashamed to tell my age. Today I am forty-three years old. Shizuko clucks her tongue.

“You look older than me,” she says.

I tell her: “I am sick and dying. Disease, unfathomable, directed by a mysterious and probably uncaring god. Besides, you were raised on rice wine and vegetables. Me? I ate too much meat and drank too much Irish whiskey and Russian vodka. And the men! Tempting me, leading me astray!”

We laugh at that.

She holds up her amputated fingers. “We both lived the life we wanted.”

“Yes,” I say, “the life I wanted. Now I am a respectable public scribe composing confessions, testimonials, and love letters for free. If only they could see me now.”

I think: This is the life I was meant to live.

*

Sunday, July 29th, 1945

Who will read this? I lost my appetite. My breathing became so shallow. I thought I was dying. I think I am dying. The girls put me in a tiny hut away from the hospital. They cleaned it out and called it a cottage but it smells of rotted plants and gasoline. A disused storage shed. Each day Shizuko comes in the morning with tea and broth. Unable to stand and use the clay pot in the corner of the room I soil myself in the night. She cleans me. The other volunteers check on me during the day. Outside someone burns incense. A moaning prayer rising and falling in pitch. I have to ask: What day is this? It is Sunday, July twenty-ninth. Why do you need to know? You see, I tell them, I am keeping a journal. I am making notes for my next novel. I am composing—creating—recording—remembering—

*

Tuesday, July 31st, 1945

I can breathe again. The air is hot and dry. There is less food. Wild mushrooms and bits of strange fish in the dashi. What would a sweet potato taste like? Fresh bamboo shoots?

One of the girls brings me a dish with radishes, cucumbers and salt! From Shizuko’s wonderful garden. We are growing our own food. While I was isolated all of the soldiers were evacuated to Tokyo and Yokohama Bay. Now it is just the volunteers and no one to serve.

*

Friday, August 3rd, 1945

Today is the Day of the Ox, hottest day of the year. Shizuko brings back eels from the fishermen and roasts them on an open fire near the garden. As per tradition of course they are expected to keep us cool on this hottest day and provide us with strength for the rest of the year. Much work for a tiny eel! For some reason I am the first served. Everyone watches me eat and swallow. Day of the Ox. Now there’s a folktale I never thought to re-write.

I seem to have misplaced my notes for The Shell God.

*

Sunday, August 5th, 1945

I feel stronger. Does tuberculosis completely leave the body? Obāsan was a spiritual woman. Maybe I can still be like her. I resolve to change my ways.

*

Monday, August 6th, 1945

Today I woke before sunrise. Everyone else is still asleep. The hospital silent and empty. Shizuko was correct about today’s weather—country folk have a secret sense about nature. Clear skies and a breeze from inland. The odors of outdoor fires, of earth giving up summer. Premonitions of autumn. My heart is calm. I think the rest of the year will be calm also. I feel stronger. Maybe I will yet return to Hashikami—my very idealized fishing village. I’ll end my days filling volumes of thin rice paper with poetry, scattering grain for my sister’s chickens and ducks. After all this sickness and traveling—to return. To stay.

To remain.

[THE END]

[The Pilgrim’s Progress was originally published in Roanoke Review, fall, 2013, Vol. 38.]

 

About Robert Kostuck, Writing for Peace Adviser

Robert Kostuck, Writing for Peace AdviserRobert Kostuck is an M.Ed. graduate from Northern Arizona University. Recently published fiction and essays appear in many American and Canadian literary journals. He is currently working on short stories, essays, and a novel; his short story collection is seeking a publisher. Learn more about Robert Kostuck and his work here.

 

Small Writing for Peace logoWriting for Peace News

Recommended Reading From Adviser Dr. Margaret Flowers:

Dr. Margaret Flowers, Writing for Peace AdviserCommunities Standing Up

“This week we are inspired by the communities that are standing up to police abuse and by the students in Mexico and Hong Kong who are placing themselves at risk in order to fight for their rights.”

Stay abreast of Climate Change and human rights activism, and learn where you can make a difference.

Writing for Peace Granted 501 (c) 3 Federal Nonprofit Status

What does 501(c)3 status mean for Writing for Peace? Well, some things will not change; our administration will continue to be board operated and volunteer based. That means 100% of contributions go directly towards the considerable costs of publishing, maintaining our website, shipping DoveTales journals and participation certificates to contributors and young writers in 24 countries, and providing modest prizes to our contest winners. We are grateful for the support of generous donors and the Colgate University Research Council.

Here’s what will change: Your donations can now be deducted from your Federal income tax! For those who chose to support us before that was the case, we are deeply moved by your belief in us, and we are so happy to finally be able to say your contribution is a deduction. For your records, our Federal Tax ID Number is 45-2968027.

If you’re a believer in Writing for Peace, we hope you’ll consider donating to support a simple mission with a profound affect on the lives of our young writers. You can make your contributions here.

As Jordan Dalton (16), put it:

Jordan Dalton, 2013 Fiction, First Place“Since writing my entry for Writing for Peace, I’ve come to realize that my work really can make a difference in the world. Words have the power to spread awareness, hope, and inspiration to people who would have otherwise despaired. We all have the ability to create, and create in the name of beauty and change. I can only hope one day to spend my life doing just that.”

 

DoveTales Call for Submissions

DoveTales, a publication of Writing for PeaceDoveTales, An International Journal of the Arts, is now accepting submissions for our 2015 “Nature” edition. Read our guidelines and submit here.

 

Enter Our 2015 Young Writers Contest 

2013 Writing for Peace Young Writers ContestCheck out our 2015 Young Writers Contest! Writing for Peace has received entries from young writers with a passion for peace from 24 countries. Go to www.writingforpeace.org to meet our previous winners and learn about our prestigious panel of judges: Antonya Nelson, fiction; Stephen Kuusisto, poetry; and Steve Almond, nonfiction. Read the full guidelines here.

 

Your Library Isn’t Complete Without DoveTales!

2014 DoveTales, "Contrast" EditionThe 2014 DoveTales, “Contrast” Edition is now available for purchase. The “Contrast” edition includes the beautiful black and white photography from Writing for Peace Artist-in-Residence, Paula Dawn Lietz, as well as the 2013 Young Writers Contest winners, and the following contributors:

Jordi Alonso, Cassandra Arnold, Maggie Bàra, Henry Braun, Lorraine Caputo, William Cass, Lorraine Currelley, Colin Dodds, John Garmon, Diane Giardi, Mark Goad, Veronica Golos, Sam Hamill, Dawnell Harrison, D. Iasevoli, Ed.D, Allan M. Jalon, Shelley Kahn, Richard Krawiec, Paula Dawn Lietz, Cory Lockhart, Shannon K. Lockhart, Veronica Marshall, Sandra McGarry, Iwona Partyka, Sy Roth, Andrew Sacks, Carol Smallwood, Julia Stein, Samantha Peters Terrell, Bänoo Zan

 

Copyright © 2014 Writing for Peace. All rights reserved.

Pilgrim’s Progress, by Robert Kostuck (Part 1)

Butterfly, The Pilgrim's Progress, By Robert Kostuck

The Pilgrim’s Progress

(Part One of Two)

By Robert Kostuck

 

Thursday, July 6th, 1944

The Emperor’s decree: all civilians who commit suicide before the arrival of American troops on Saipan will be assured equal spiritual grace in the afterlife, same as soldiers who die in combat.

*

Friday, July 14th, 1944

Thousands of men and women—NOT soldiers—took their own lives. Thousands. One era ends but nothing supersedes what has gone before.

*

Sunday, November 26th, 1944

I thought to keep a journal but everything is moving too fast. War, food; dying, food; family, food. It comes down to having something to eat. Can’t write with an empty belly. Time to leave the city—all ‘loose ends’ will be left unresolved. Where will I be welcome? There is really no future for us—for our country. Everything is changed.

Today I look to nature for my writing inspiration. A butterfly, still alive in the midst of autumn. I watch it—glistening and at the same time a bit shabby. A warm day, the door to the hospital kitchen open to the grounds, and this yellow and orange butterfly on the bush near the door. I sit on the step and I am inspired—until I realize the insect is dead. Touch it—it flutters to the ground, brittle, broken. I am like these butterfly wings—wanting to fly but no longer of this world. I told my sister Kuri everything. She begs me to come home and stay there. I will return when I have decided who I am. Who will read this?

*

For future generations: I am Yuriko Suzuki, the well-known author. I was born in 1902 in Hashikami on the northeast coast of Honshu, some miles south of the city. I had an excellent education for a girl, considering the cultural expectations for women in Japan at the turn of the century. Part of my education came from six years attendance at the Catholic Missionary school in Hachinohe. Both of my parents converted to Catholicism before my birth and the Catholic faith is something I will reject and embrace for the rest of my life. I have one older sister, Kuri, with whom I maintain an intimate and intense relationship.

The early years of my career began with a prolific output of short stories. Subsequent success and popularity owe much to the traditional subject matter of this early work. For example, “Shitakiri Suzume” (The Tongue-Cut Sparrow) is a traditional folk tale updated to reflect contemporary society. My modern version seems traditional—up to a point. There is nothing to indicate the time period or place, until the old man in my version of the story takes the smaller basket from the sparrow and brings it home to his greedy wife. In a traditional telling, the basket turns out to be filled with gold, silver, diamonds, rubies, coral, and coins. It is precisely at this point in the story that I introduced my twist on this traditional tale. “The basket was full of treasures—a razor with steel blades, dresses of the newest American fashion, leather shoes, a pearl necklace, lottery tickets, chewing gum, English cigarettes, and a black and silver camera.”

I love quoting myself. Like the American Nathaniel Hawthorne my “twice-told tales” had a built in audience since one would be hard pressed to find a Japanese reader who lacked knowledge of these folktales. At the same time, a gentle humor, picaresque characterizations, and social satire were the very elements that led to my success as a novelist.

In the early 1930s I gained a degree of notoriety due to my involvement as one of the cosmopolitan members of the literary and artistic avant-garde of Tokyo. In 1934, two decisive things occurred in my life. My first novel, Chrysanthemum was published; and I was diagnosed with tuberculosis. After that I wrote in a frenzy. My published writing after 1934 consisted of no less than an average of two novels each year for the next six years. One critic favorably compared Season of the Cranes to the English author Jane Austin, “—because of Miss Suzuki’s formal and mannered approach to delineating adult relationships in a socially stratified society.” I quote from the newspaper and magazines clippings my sister has saved in a large photograph album. Myself, early on I learned to feign indifference to fame and fortune. It does one no good to expose one’s desires, even to so-called friends.

I differed from my peers in the use of the romance novel (everyone wants to experience love!) as an expressive vehicle and by the obvious fact of my being a woman. While authors such as Tatsuzō Ishikawa, Ashihei Hino, and Shirō Ozaki had a decided influence on my work, Catholicism and the folktale tradition also had a great effect on her view of the human condition.

In 1941 war deprivations in society finally caught up to the publishing industry, severely curtailing the publication of new work not related to the war effort. That year I took an assistant editor job with the Tokyo magazine Chūōkōron. Contributions were limited to occasional articles and essays on games, cooking, history, and anonymous book and film reviews. None of my journalistic work was even remotely political in nature except for “My Childhood,” a series of essays that sharply contrasted an idealized national past with an uncertain national future. I wrote these essays during the winter of 1942-43. After that I felt I had nothing left to say. War controls destinies. I was no exception. I left Tokyo for the small fishing village of my youth. For ten months I lived a withdrawn life, solitary and self-contained. I questioned my actions in this life. I wondered, and constantly doubted, whether or not I had done anything worthwhile.

In November of 1943 I relocated to Hiroshima.

For one year I have worked as a volunteer in the military hospital. Days I attend to injured soldiers, nights are spent revising the notes for my new novel, The Shell God. It is decidedly a roman á clef, quite the opposite of my previous belles lettres. Realism, not romantic fantasy. There is too much of life and death here in the hospital for me to imagine anything else. I will tell the soldier’s story. He is Everyman, and in his limitless wandering he makes solid our nation’s torn and dying soul. His name is Ando; the woman he loves, Matsuko. Like the traveler of old he will make a pilgrimage through the rural world of the past.

The hospital is filled to the roof with fear. Fear smells like pus and hydrogen peroxide, night soil and ether. Days the men spend bragging. Nights are for nightmares and screams. The volunteers—me and the other women and girls—have sleeping quarters in the same building. Quiet only comes before dawn. In the past year three men have committed suicide. Two with knives, one jumped from a window on the third floor. That one broke his spine and did not die for two and a half days. There is immense difficulty in feeling sympathy for the injured and frightened soldiers who take their own lives. Yet some days I pity them enormously. Some days I envy them.

My own health deteriorates.

*

Saturday, December 9th, 1944

The village sits close to the sea. Pine trees spread down the slopes and line the streets, almost reaching the beach. On foggy days, the village and huge pines vanish in the mist. On these days I wander the enclosed beach, hearing only the splash of unseen waves, and the muted sound of my own footsteps in the wet sand.

The pines are dull aches in the fog. With effort I recall sentinel duty, passwords, and sharp voices. Slow my pace as memories seek and find me; then walk on firmly, resolute with even steps, pacing like an acolyte. My boots scrape the sand. Waves scratch the shore. I think it is home. It might be anywhere.

*

Monday, December 25th, 1944

Today is the Christian holiday of the birth of Jesus Christ. Rumor has it that there will be no attacks or bombing nationwide. The Americans take a day of rest. Our only doctor has been called to another hospital. He left today, hoping for an uninterrupted train journey. We wish him a safe trip. It is almost impossible to keep the sheets and bandages clean without soap. One of the older women, Shizuko, ordered two of us to bring heavy flat stones from the river. We hauled them in a cart. She put the stones in the bottom of the basins and showed us how to rub and clean the fabric on a rock, like long ago.

My sister Kuri writes:

Yuriko-chan, forgive me. I was not able to hide your fine city clothes. Our house was searched and all available clothing was taken. What would the army want with fashionable western dresses? Mother dear was heartbroken. The fishing boats lie in disrepair. The men stopped going out soon after you left for Hiroshima. They say there are demons and ningyu in the water. Superstition, but who can blame them? The men spend all day in the forest digging bamboo shoots and trapping songbirds.       

We had to kill the goat and now all that is left are a few chickens and ducks. We all soon will be vegetarians like Obāsan!—you know how she was confirmed Buddhist all through her life. I often wonder how mother and father ever converted to the faith Catholic. Although I know you are helping the war effort I miss you and I wish you would return. Love, your sister, Kuri.

My own physical pain from the complications of the tuberculosis is exacerbated by these hospital experiences. Perhaps by sublimating personal experience within fiction I will finally be able to have something to say, will be able to say it well.

*

Tuesday, January 2nd, 1945

I sleep in my clothes. No fuel for any type of heat. Coal, oil, gasoline—all gone. Wood is for cooking and sterilizing medical instruments. One young man, a boy really, a city boy with a Kyoto accent. His left leg was amputated one week ago just below the knee. Now gangrene sets in. His body flames with fever and the air in the ward so cold you can see your breath at noon. Burning and freezing at the same time. And moldy rice. Moldy rice! Me, who used to stay up until dawn at wild parties. Writers, artists, actors. The endless tables of food—the saki, beer, and gin and tonics. Now I am happy to share roots and weeds with my fellow volunteers. Kuri-chan, when did we ever go hungry?

*

(To be continued next Monday…)

[The Pilgrim’s Progress was originally published in Roanoke Review, fall, 2013, Vol. 38.]

 

About Robert Kostuck, Writing for Peace Adviser

Robert Kostuck, Writing for Peace AdviserRobert Kostuck is an M.Ed. graduate from Northern Arizona University. Recently published fiction and essays appear in many American and Canadian literary journals. He is currently working on short stories, essays, and a novel; his short story collection is seeking a publisher. Learn more about Robert Kostuck and his work here.

 

Small Writing for Peace logoWriting for Peace News

 

Writing for Peace Granted 501 (c) 3 Federal Nonprofit Status

What does 501(c)3 status mean for Writing for Peace? Well, some things will not change; our administration will continue to be board operated and volunteer based. That means 100% of contributions go directly towards the considerable costs of publishing, maintaining our website, shipping DoveTales journals and participation certificates to contributors and young writers in 24 countries, and providing modest prizes to our contest winners. We are grateful for the support of generous donors and the Colgate University Research Council.

Here’s what will change: Your donations can now be deducted from your Federal income tax! For those who chose to support us before that was the case, we are deeply moved by your belief in us, and we are so happy to finally be able to say your contribution is a deduction. For your records, our Federal Tax ID Number is 45-2968027.

If you’re a believer in Writing for Peace, we hope you’ll consider donating to support a simple mission with a profound affect on the lives of our young writers. You can make your contributions here.

As Jordan Dalton (16), put it:

Jordan Dalton, 2013 Fiction, First Place“Since writing my entry for Writing for Peace, I’ve come to realize that my work really can make a difference in the world. Words have the power to spread awareness, hope, and inspiration to people who would have otherwise despaired. We all have the ability to create, and create in the name of beauty and change. I can only hope one day to spend my life doing just that.”

 

Recommended Reading From Adviser Dr. Margaret Flowers:

Dr. Margaret Flowers, Writing for Peace AdviserA Declaration of Principles and Action for a New World

“We will combat the toxic forces on which domination and tyranny variously rely, such as the patriarchy, hegemony, colonialism, and racism that exist within external oppressors, and even within our own movements at times.”

Stay abreast of Climate Change and human rights activism, and learn where you can make a difference.

DoveTales Call for Submissions

DoveTales, a publication of Writing for PeaceDoveTales, An International Journal of the Arts, is now accepting submissions for our 2015 “Nature” edition. Read our guidelines and submit here.

Enter Our 2015 Young Writers Contest 

2013 Writing for Peace Young Writers ContestCheck out our 2015 Young Writers Contest! Writing for Peace has received entries from young writers with a passion for peace from 24 countries. Go to www.writingforpeace.org to meet our previous winners and learn about our prestigious panel of judges: Antonya Nelson, fiction; Stephen Kuusisto, poetry; and Steve Almond, nonfiction. Read the full guidelines here.

Your Library Isn’t Complete Without DoveTales!

2014 DoveTales, "Contrast" EditionThe 2014 DoveTales, “Contrast” Edition is now available for purchase. The “Contrast” edition includes the beautiful black and white photography from Writing for Peace Artist-in-Residence, Paula Dawn Lietz, as well as the 2013 Young Writers Contest winners, and the following contributors:

Jordi Alonso, Cassandra Arnold, Maggie Bàra, Henry Braun, Lorraine Caputo, William Cass, Lorraine Currelley, Colin Dodds, John Garmon, Diane Giardi, Mark Goad, Veronica Golos, Sam Hamill, Dawnell Harrison, D. Iasevoli, Ed.D, Allan M. Jalon, Shelley Kahn, Richard Krawiec, Paula Dawn Lietz, Cory Lockhart, Shannon K. Lockhart, Veronica Marshall, Sandra McGarry, Iwona Partyka, Sy Roth, Andrew Sacks, Carol Smallwood, Julia Stein, Samantha Peters Terrell, Bänoo Zan

Copyright © 2014 Writing for Peace. All rights reserved.