I’ve been self publishing since 1990 with quite a bit of success via my Clearwater Publishing Company. I’ve published five non fiction books (including There Are No Electrons and Calculus for Cats), three novels (one was a finalist in the 2018 Oregon Book Awards) and one book of poetry. I’ve written several other novels that remain in my desk drawer. The last couple of years I’ve been working on a time-travel/ghost story/coming of age novel that is getting pretty close to ripe.

I moved from Colorado to Oregon in 2016, leaving behind many writing friends that I have not, so far, replaced. Beyond being in several critique groups over the years, I’ve been an officer or board member of a few large writing and publishing organizations.

What I’d really like is to locate a handful of experienced writers who’d like to get together once in a while, individually or en masse, over lunch or coffee to whine about the writing process. But I’m open to suggestions.

Monthly feedback group writing and reading work set in or about the American South. Short fiction only (no novels-in-progress, sorry). Stories will be submitted to the group for feedback two weeks before meeting with comments/suggestions from fellow members provided via track changes. Group will then meet to give the writer an opportunity to ask fellow members specific questions they may have, either to clarify comments or in general. 

Y'all means all, so we're open to genres, but writing must be about the South or writer must be Southern. This group was started by a Kentuckian who moved to New York City, joined a writers' group, and got tired of explaining that yes, Southern characters can have extensive vocabularies or what a dry county is every time she shared a story. Not that we can't write for readers outside our region, but in receiving feedback from authors we are in partnership with, we should not have to constantly explain, apologize for, or adjudicate it. We write the South as it is, no apologies, and want feedback from others on how to make these stories better.

Interested in joining? We'd love to have you! Email Terena Elizabeth Bell at terenaebell [at] gmail.com, send her a Twitter direct message @TerenaBell, or flag her down this month at AWP.

Thanks, y'all.

I am a mother, union organizer and poet who calls Philadelphia home. I am an emerging writer with work appearing in South Shore Review and forthcoming in Willows Wept Review. I build campfires in any weather with love and prowess.

I started writing poetry when I was ten. Attempts at cursive in a little diary with flowers and a metal key. I transitioned to hardbound journals with harsh colors –bloody, dark, and as expansive as the universe that I realized I was stumbling my way through. In high school, thanks to the inspiring teaching of Marjorie Stelmach, I discovered poetry as art. I read a lot, a lot. I was introduced to the craft. Writing oetry hpad permeated the barrier of my skin. In college, I fell in love. I snuck into every creative writing course until I no longer fit- I had chosen a different major which led me to a down a different life path. 

When I was 22, I became a union organizer. I woke up in the middle of the night mourning the loss of poetry in my life. Neither my brain nor the mere 24 hours in a day allowed space to be still, to mull, to create. I cried; I sweat through the sheets; I had dreams of lost babies. Yet, within a couple of months, I fell in love again. This time with organizing. I made my peace with the loss of poetry in my life and embraced my identity as a union organizer, political activist, leftist, movement person. I decided that I could not both be in the trenches and on the page. I knew on an intellectual level that this was a false choice- my experience of living in Nicaragua where poetry was practically the national sport taught me that. Emotionally, I thought, there just was not enough of me to give. For twenty years I didn't write poems.

Fast forward, I was t-boned and had to have surgery. I conveleced in the the darkest days of winter. I knew I would lose my mind if I didn’t do something. My close friend pushed me to write. My partner believed in me and signed me up for a writing workshop series through River Heron Review. The AWA method insisted, "a writer is someone who writes."  So, for six months between sandwitched in a recliner between ice packs and physical therapy, I wrote almost every single day. 

I make the most incredible discovery:  I said that I was no longer a writer yet in my head I held moments waiting. Poems composed while taking a shower never found their way to paper poured out. I was whole. So, here I am trying to build a community to hold me accountable to keep writing, keep growing as a poet and be faithful to my whole self and the multitudes of love.

I've been writing for a while now but everyday I feel there's still so much to learn about the craft of writing. It's like one is a student always. 
I write poetry mostly. My poems are on existentialism, on gender, on nature and environment and on climate change. 

I'd love to receive feedback on my poems here. Just anything that might help to make them better. In return I'd be happy to offer the same to all the others here.