Emerging Writers Network

A Pride-Inducing Note Regarding the EWN

The Emerging Writers Network started as a bit of a lark--me seeing just how lousy a book review I could write. It was intended to be newspaper-style and was of Alyson Hagy's Keeneland (that sad little review can still be read over at Amazon--I'll not be providing you a link though). That first year (2000) was fun, I was reading again (something I'd somewhat given up for a five year period--hmm, my first was born in 1995...) and people were actually emailing me and asking to be put on this mailing list I had created that sporadically sent out book reviews.

By 2002 those poor bastards were receiving  an email just about every other day as i reviewed 102 books and interviewed over 30 authors during that calendar year.

2005 was a highlight year though. Sometime in late 2004/early 2005 I got some confirmation that a small publisher I was excited about was going to take on a manuscript of an author that I really liked, and had put in touch--my first bit of agenting (though at the much less than standard, zero percent take). Somewhere around the same time, a person I'd befriended online, another reviewer (though one who also wrote fiction) with similar tastes as my own, David Abrams, found out he was being sent to Iraq via Kuwait. I was one of the fortunate few that was on his email list when he began sending journal entries back home. After some asking and his verifying it wouldn't lead to a court marshal on his end and me disappearring from the world--we received permission for me to share these journal entries with the Emerging Writers Network. At the end of each entry I'd add something about David's military address and how was a voracious reader that liked movies and sand was everywhere and snacks were cool, etc.

And here's where the bit of pride comes in--the members of the EWN, political views non-withstanding, thoughts on the war set aside, flooded David with books and dvd's and chocolates and baby wipes and thank yous and praise. It was fantastic knowing I had a small part in seeing that happen.

February 28, 1995. That would be the day I received an email from super-agent Nat Sobel noting he'd been reading the journal entries and wondered if David had an agent. If I remember hard enough, I think I can hear David yelling ARE YOU KIDDING ME, OF COURSE I KNOW WHO NAT SOBEL IS in reply to my email to him asking if it was okay to pass along his contact information.

Today Fobbit, the novel David wrote that are at least somewhat based on his meticulous journals from his time over there, is officially published. While I received a galley not long ago, I purchased  a final copy Saturday morning. David was overly kind in his acknowledgments section stating:

My thanks to:

Dan Wickett who posted some of my journal entries from Iraq at his Emerging WritersNetwork blog in early 2005.  The result was an outpouring of care packages full of not baby wipes or foot powder, but the finest kind of surprise a soldier like me could have found after he ripped away the packing tape: books.  The EWN members kept me well-supplied with enough reading material for five deployments.  Thank God it never came to that.  Aside from the wartime support, Dan's EWN introduced me to an entire army of writers who have continued to support me over the years as I hunkered down at the keyboard.  I've met some of those writers, but for the others, I remain little more than a mute avatar on Facebook.  They have never stopped buoying me up with encouragement and for that, I am truly grateful.

It was great reading that and reliving the experience of watching something go wildly beyond whatever motion I thought I could nudge forward. It's the sort of thing that makes me realize I need to make better efforts at keeping this site alive daily so people continue to stop by with visits.

 

EWN Veteran's Day Post

I know there are more than 2 or 3 veterans in the audience here at the EWN.  One of by far the nicest things that has ever gone on via the EWN was when a very early member, David Abrams, was sent over to Kuwait and then Iraq some 5-6 years ago (maybe even 7).  David pretty religiously kept a journal while over there and shared it with some via email.  He and I exchanged a few more emails and he gave me permission to posts excerpts of his journal emails here at the EWN.  What it led to was an outpouring of support from other EWN members--sending David books, handy wipes, snack foods, and perhaps most important of all the fact that there was a steady stream of reminder that there were people, many of whom certainly were not backing the war/operation going on at the time, back home appreciative of what he was doing as a member of our armed forces.

Of all the emails David sent me during that span, this one was the one I was most excited to share with EWN'ers, back in late December 2005:

 

Dear Dan,

The e-mail you (and I) have been waiting for!

I am now safe at home in the arms of America.  It's been a long, strange, frustrating, and ultimately rewarding year.  Believe me when I say I could not have made it through as well as I did without the undying support of my friends at EWN, Readerville and a couple of other "Soldier support" websites.  No matter what their views on the Iraq Situation may be, your subscribers, in their own special way, helped fight the War on Terrorism through their endlessly surprising care packages and e-mails of encouragement.  If any of them feel so moved, they can continue to support other literature-starved soldiers over there through websites like anysoldier.com or booksforsoldiers.com.

And now, if you'll excuse me, my wife is calling from the other room.  I must heed love's invitation.

Happy Holidays to everyone.

Peace,
David

David now blogs over at The Quivering Pen and is well worth your time and reading.

Fobber Update - David Abrams

This particular missive is the most exciting one I’ve had the pleasure of sending to you all year – it is to announce that David Abrams has returned from his tour of Iraq.

Dear Dan,

The e-mail you (and I) have been waiting for!

I am now safe at home in the arms of America.  It's been a long, strange, frustrating, and ultimately rewarding year.  Believe me when I say I could not have made it through as well as I did without the undying support of my friends at EWN, Readerville and a couple of other "Soldier support" websites.  No matter what their views on the Iraq Situation may be, your subscribers, in their own special way, helped fight the War on Terrorism through their endlessly surprising care packages and e-mails of encouragement.  If any of them feel so moved, they can continue to support other literature-starved soldiers over there through websites like anysoldier.com or booksforsoldiers.com.

And now, if you'll excuse me, my wife is calling from the other room.  I must heed love's invitation.

Happy Holidays to everyone.

Peace,
David

December 18, 2005: 

      We are grimy, stubble-faced, eyes bloodshot, heads clogged with airplane oxygen, yet we are as happy as we've not been since Christmas decades ago when the trees of our childhood were a-glitter and nearly hidden behind towers of gifts.   We are going home.  In our minds, our wives are decked in tinsel and bows.
In the brain fog at the end of this tortuous flight, some of us think of our wives, others make their plans with food and booze—how they will abuse both to gluttonous degrees.   Two sergeants in front of me discuss their strategies.
"First thing I'm gonna do when we land is kiss my wife, then I'm gonna get me some McDonalds.   And real Diet Coke—none of that imitation, haji-shit, 'Coke Light' they had in the chow halls."
"No beer?"
"No, I wanna be clear-headed when she and I…you know…"
"Me, I think I'll toss back a couple of Bacardis and make sure the wife does the same.   Enhances the experiences, you know."
We land at Hunter Army Airfield.  We stand, pushing and nudging and shuffling toward the open plane door.   I stop at the top of the metal staircase and take a photo.  Hello, America!
The line of Soldiers walk across the tarmac to a table where they turn in their weapons before they walk inside a building.   They're greeted by two happy Georgian good ole boys holding huge American flags and shaking every hand that passes by.  They're the same men who were there eleven months ago to see us off.   "Welcome back, Soldier!"
"Good to be home, sir.  Thanks."
We go inside, stand in more lines to hand in our deployment checklist sheets and sign a prepared counseling statement saying we will not drive a car for the next 24 hours, punishable under UCMJ law.   The Army has learned its lesson well: no matter what you say, Soldiers will drink, so get it in writing that you told them not to drive.
We board another set of buses and start rolling through Hunter, skirting the business district of Savannah.   We have a police escort blazing a path for us with lights and sirens.  They block the intersections and allow us to roar past, heading down the highway toward Fort Stewart.
We're quiet for most of the ride, all of us wondering if our loved ones have gotten the word to be at the parade field and if they have how quickly we'll be able to pick them out of a crowd.
Someone in the back of the bus sprays his neck with cologne and the smell rolls forward.   We cough, then start laughing.  "Dude's getting ready for the ladies."  Then a female sprays herself with gardenia perfume and we laugh even more.
We're through the gate of Fort Stewart and we whoop as we pass the gate guard saluting us.   Tears form in the corners of our eyes as we drive past the grandstands where there's a sizeable crowd holding hand-painted signs and balloons and yelling and cheering and waving arms and jumping up and down.   I cannot see Jean, but I can feel her there.

Fobber Update - David Abrams

For those of you new to the EWN – David Abrams has been a participating member since 2001.  He is one of the better book reviewers around (January Magazine, Long Island Press, and San Francisco Chronicle) and last year received his MFA. 

Early in January 2005, David was sent to Kuwait and late Feb/early March he went on to Iraq.  Since the beginning of the year he’s been sending me his journal entries to share with EWN members.

These journals have attracted the attention of an incredible agent, and due to the efforts of he and David, in terms of potentially publishing David’s work, I have not been posting them on the web at all.  To date, they have only been forwarded to all members of the EWN, and will continue to be in the future.

With the permission of David and his agent however, from time to time, I will post an excerpt of his emails to this blog.  If they interest you and you’d like to read everything David is writing – join the network and they will be sent to you on about a monthly basis.

If you have any interest in publishing David’s work, please contact me and I will pass along the information to David and his agent as quickly as I can.

For those wanting to send well wishes to David (or care packages):

[email protected]

SFC David Abrams
PAO, HHSC, STB, 3rd ID
APO, AE 09352

*      *      *

September 25, 2005:

Two days ago, I reported to Baghdad International Airport for a zero-nine-hundred formation. I’m on my way to Qatar for a four-day R&R. At the formation, we hand in our ID cards to the admin personnel and they tell us to be back at BIAP no later than twenty-forty-five—our C-130 flight is due to leave at twenty-two-forty-five. We groan. What a way to start our rest and relaxation, being stuck at Camp Liberty another day. I’m fortunate to catch a ride back to my LSA (about five miles away). I briefly toy with the idea of going into the office and giving them a half-day’s worth of work. But just as quickly, I reject that. This is, after all, the start of my R&R and I’m entitled to spend a day holed up in my hootch watching movies, reading novels and sleeping like a log. Which I do.

 I return to BIAP as scheduled, and sit around as promised out in the dusty courtyard (which is still sweltering hot at 9 p.m.), and then the announcement comes over the tinny loudspeaker: “Glide 63, your new scheduled departure time is zero-two-hundred hours. I say again, Glide 63, you will not be leaving until two-hundred hours.” A bigger groan. I sit there, sucking down bottles of water and fighting off waves of sleep. I read two novels while I’m sitting at the picnic table. Other Soldiers stand around smoking, playing spades—slapping the cards ferociously on the table and whooping, “There it is! There it is, you motherfuckers!”, and some Soldiers just lay on the picnic tables, sleeping on the hard, dirt-and-germ-filled surfaces like it was nobody’s business.

 When we finally stumble on board the C-130, we are hungry, tired and sweat-clogged. The flight is horrible. Nearly three hours of the web seats cutting a cross-hatch pattern into the soft flesh of our asses, our knees and calves and thighs locked into one arthritic position for hours on end because we’re afraid to move an inch and disturb the guy across from us whose legs are delicately intertwined with ours. Beneath the hard, hot turtle shell casing of our ballistic vests and Kevlar helmets, our skin throbs and frantically tries to cool itself with a torrent of sweat. When we finally arrive at Qatar, it is 5 a.m. As the back door of the C-130 cracks open and drops, dawn light floods in on us.

 Outside, all is flat, hot and a monochrome of beige sand, beige sky, beige vehicles, beige buildings. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear we’d landed in Kuwait.