Page Lambert: All Things Literary & All Things Natural

At the Tattered Cover signing in Denver last Tuesday night, BK Loren told us that creative nonfiction was a form she only recently discovered.   “I mean, how many people here just rush right out to get the newest nonfiction book?”   Well, apparently dozens of us did that night—at least those of us who loved her recent novel THEFT and hungered for more of her wily take on life. We had come to listen to BK tell labor stories about the birth of ANIMAL MINERAL RADICAL .   Like midwives, we wanted to be present at the birth for that first lungful.   We wanted to see the swaddling cloth wrapped, and unwrapped, and re-wrapped. “Books are about community,” BK said.   “We gather together for books.”   We knew that, of course, but we still nodded our heads and smiled, happy to be there—gathered—eager—expectant.   Friends, fans, family, even perfect strangers—all gathered together.   For a closer look at perfect strangers, read about Ragman in...

If you ever spent a few minutes talking with Gaydell Collier , or heard her read her poignant poetry, or one of her funny essays, or experienced her deep way of listening, or soaked in any of the humble, wise opinions solicited from her, then most likely you loved her too.  Gaydell’s presence is in every nook of my writing office, in every cranny of my heart, in nearly every word I have written in the last 20 years.  Like the thousand winds she wrote about—those which decades ago blew her serendipitously from New York to Wyoming , and those that blew her across the western landscape to Just Beyond Harmony , where she reared her children, planted her roots, sang her songs, wrote her stories, raised her horses, and loved her dogs—she inspired a thousand writers, and more. I first met Gaydell in 1987 when I walked into the little library in Sundance, Wyoming, and she greeted me, handing me the monthly calendar of library events.  “What’s Bearlodge Writers ?”...

The moment the nurse laid my newborn son’s swaddled body next to my pillow, I looked into his eyes and a guttural sound rose from my belly, up my throat and out my mouth – like the sound a cow makes when her calf is just moments old.   The PRIMAL SOUND rose - deeper than any cognitive behavior – linked to the rising tide of my emotions as surely as my son had been linked by umbilical cord to my body.   At first, I didn’t even recognize the sounds as my own.   Without analyzing, I FELT motherhood.   I was alive with the power of it, ANIMATED by my son – by his scent, his shape, his features, his whimpering, by the vibration of his vocal chords when he howled. His entire physical presence vibrated within me in a different way than it had when he was in my womb, and in a way I would later learn to recognize in cows and ewes.  Watching and listening to the new musical film production of Les Misérables , my body reacted in a similar way.   I felt th...

Okay, I confess.   I want this title.   I want this cover.   I covet the complexity of this accomplished work and the gracious wisdom of this accomplished author.   To read Priscilla Stuckey’s memoir KISSED BY A FOX requires patience – it is not for the reader seeking a “fast book” experience.   But if you’re drawn to the slow food movement , which is all about savoring each bite and commitment to environment and community, then you’re the perfect reader for this Counterpoint Press release.   Priscilla Stuckey elegantly weaves into this memoir the many grasses that make up the fields and open spaces of her life.   Spirituality – as seen through the lens of an arduously gained doctorate in religious studies and feminist theory.   Humanity – as seen through the lens of a woman once ill, adrift and grieving, now firmly rooted to health, love and community.   And Nature – humbly seen through the lens of a two-legged mammal learning l...