Welcome to the Workshop Blog

A few months ago, Hidden City Philadelphia editor Nathaniel Popkin wrote a beautiful piece called Begin the Begin  wherein he mused on the cultural parallels between the rites of spring and the blossoming of Philadelphia’s creative economy. So as we begin what is shaping up to be a very exciting spring, it’s our great pleasure to announce that The Head & The Hand Press has recently signed a contract to publish Mr. Popkin’s third book, Lion and Leopard, in the fall of 2013.

While Nathaniel Popkin’s first two books, Song of the City and The Possible City, were works of literary non-fiction, his third is a novel of historical fiction about the romantic movement that shook the foundations of the American art establishment. The tremors extend as far as the illustrious family of Charles Willson Peale, a live wire patriarch in no mood to step aside for the new school of artists and thinkers swimming in his wake in turn-of-the-nineteenth-century Philadelphia.

The multi-pronged narrative of Lion and Leopard spirals outward from the demise of John Lewis Krimmel, an immigrant German painter whose life was cut short before he could explore the full breadth and width of his potential as an artist and visionary. His works formed a bridge between romanticism’s wonder and the neoclassical realism of portraitists like Charles Willson Peale and his formidable progeny, eccentrically (and perhaps cruelly) named after European masters.

After years immersed in the drama of these clashes between father and son(s), peers and rivals, lovers and mentors, Nathaniel has emerged with a brilliant manuscript that illuminates for the reader what life was like during a time when, as one character memorably puts it, American culture was in its infancy:

Respect, and therefore enduring power, will have to wait until there was such a thing as American culture. Name an empire whose power hasn’t emanated from the richness and intricacy of its culture. Ottoman? Persian? Roman? What is the power of the Ottoman Empire? Is it the ferocious sultans? No! It is the quiet agony of the manuscripts, the fables of love and longing and the coloring of the illuminations. Without all that, the sultans would have no followers and without followers no mercenaries and no army!  

Much like the feeling we experienced after going public with our partnership with Adrian Bonenberger, we are thrilled and humbled to have added such a talent to our author roster. Nathaniel Popkin has made his mark as a writer who combines a strong journalistic voice with defined literary grace, and we can’t wait to work with him as he delves into narrative fiction with Lion and Leopard.

Both Nathaniel and Adrian will be sharing their insights on the road toward publication “from the workbench” soon.

To learn more about Nathaniel Popkin, please visit www.theheadandthehand.com/nathaniel-popkin.

-Nic and Linda

As part of our collaboration with Duke & Winston, we have a joint t-shirt and are running a contest to give one out in exchange for a “Tale of Duke.” The contest, which runs until the end of this week, is to submit a story on Duke, the famed dog of clothing store. The picture of The Duke to the right and Duke & Winston’s mantra says it all. Our founder Nic Esposito was feeling inspired by the collaboration and wrote a tale of his own below. Learn how to submit your tale here, and enjoy Nic’s story below.

The Duke, as he’s known now, was not always called The Duke. Much speculation has surrounded his Christian name. Legend has it that he was actually Reginald Milkbone, the son who escaped his family fortune for the love of a peasant Irish Setter. Others speculate that he emigrated to England as a Enrique Purina, heir to the famous canine cuisine franchise. Whatever the case, it wasn’t long before his charm and grace ingratiated him into the halls of Parliament, taking up post as the parlour dog for none other than Prime Minister Winston Churchill himself.

This was controversial among the breeds of dogs that were enlisted into the Royal Service. The terriers were indignant that such a lethargic, brutish breed could ever keep up with the ever energetic Mr. Churchill. The poodles felt he lacked the good looks to serve as the face of the Empire. The collies felt he lacked the intelligence.

And they may have been correct. That was until one day, as the young scamp of a dog was lying on Mr. Churchill’s bearskin rug that adorned the entrance to his parlour room. The dog was just falling into the slumber of his afternoon nap, when his ears heard footsteps coming up the hall. Now, the young dog was always a friendly creature who was never bashful to lay a slobbery lick onto the face of a foreign dignitary or even the Queen herself. There was only one breed of human for whom the wrath of his inner-beast could not be suppressed, and that was the mail courier.

For the few months he had been in the Prime Minister’s service, he had bitten three couriers, chased one almost to the Thames and had forced three others to seek early retirement. Although this caused a stir in the budding labor party, Mr. Churchill found it quite amusing. But on this particular day, Mr. Churchill had also fallen into the slumber of an afternoon nap. So the dog found it strange that the courier did not ring for his master, nor did he make his presence known as he crept into the room. Slowly, the man was about to set a parcel onto the Prime Minister’s desk, when out of the shadow of the book shelf a flash of pearly white fangs and a head like a sledge hammer erupted onto the courier. Without time to set the package down, the man ran out of the room, down the hallway to where our hero gave chase.

The courier took a left and then a right and then another left until he was caught on the balcony overlooking the sitting garden. He came to a stop anticipating his next move when the dog lunged out onto the courier knocking him and his parcel over the wall. When the courier finally hit the ground a large explosion accompanied. Suddenly, the entire staff was on the scene, surveying the blast site. When they looked up, all they saw was the face of our hero, his tongue hanging out as he panted to catch his breath. It took them all a second to understand what had happened.

When they finally did, a man yelled up, “God, he saved the duke,” to which the entire staff began to shout the same slogan. On the fourth chant, the dog felt a firm hand press on his head. When he looked up, he saw his master. The entire staff quieted, allowing the Prime Minister to say, “God, save the Duke.” The entire staff erupted in applause. And that was the day the Duke was asked to share the moniker of his illustrious master.

-Nic Esposito

The Flamethrowers

I stood for a long time tracking the slow drift of clouds, great fluffy masses sheared flat along their bottom edges like they were melting on a hot griddle.

Fluffy masses sheared flat.

They rode along the seawall, Marie’s skirt and the man’s jacket flapping erratically in the warm wind. The cycle picked up speed until they seemed to be darting into the horizon, an orthogonal razor across Valera’s eye.

Rachel Kushner’s sentences are often so technically airtight and yet so lyrical and full of true, raw emotion that I had to force myself to take breaks while reading The Flamethrowers just to prolong the experience of reading. The protagonist, Reno, is a girl who rides motorcycles, skis, films, photographs, is photographed, falls in love, breaks land speed records, and marches in protest among militants, all in pursuit of a universal need to feel at home.

There is a tension that comes from Kushner’s fresh, masterful descriptions of people and places being filmed by a gifted protagonist and the knowledge that the film can never be viewed, not only because it is fictional (obviously) but because at one point in the action the camera is lost. In a crowd. After recording a scene of such pathos and import that the reader is stricken by the loss as much as the filmmaker. Stricken by the loss, stricken by knowledge that the “film” is locked away in the brilliant prison of Rachel Kushner’s brain.

Reno’s art is so compelling because knows herself — she is adventurous but not heedless, beautiful but not vain, smart but not aloof. She is cruelly alone but not a victim. She is resourceful and curious and uses what’s available to not only carve a niche for herself but to move forward. She is also marginal, stumbling into work as a “China girl,” the good-looking-but-not-beautiful models whose photographs appear in the leader of a film so that the lab technicians have a reference for the right hue of Caucasian flesh. She is never at the center but always traveling through, often at breakneck speeds. Her type of fearlessness is new, a surprise, and worth committing to memory is a reference for the right hue of original.

–Linda

More at: http://rachelkushner.com/flamethrowers.html.

On Wednesdays, The Head & The Hand takes you to The Workbench to hear from writers all over. In this blog series you’ll learn about authors and their craft – the creative process behind their writing.  Learn how to submit your Workbench entry here, and read below about Caleb Bollenbacher’s inspiration through senses and daily absorption of fiction.

When I first heard about synesthesia I fervently wished that I had it. It’s the only mental disorder I’ve ever wished for, and I’m pretty sure that it was a one-time thing. I certainly don’t plan on wishing for any other interruptions in what little bit of order I have in my life.

You see I’m a writer, and as a writer order seems to be an elusive animal. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

For those of you who don’t know, synesthesia is a neurological condition that’s essentially a sensory remix. Colors, sounds, numbers, all mesh together in odd associations that don’t seem to make a lot of sense to the uninitiated. While I probably don’t have this particular brand of sense confusion, it’s oftentimes as close as I can come to explaining how I write when people ask. Writing fiction is, after all, just one giant, beautiful mess of synthesis. “There’s nothing new under the sun.” What is new is how we mix it all together and how much of ourselves we’re brave enough to throw in.

So that’s oftentimes where my process begins: bombarding my senses in order to create the perfect blend of inspiration. More often than not this means music, but it can really be anything. I’ll go through art blogs to find paintings with just the right blend of color or imagery to elicit the feelings I’m looking for. Sometimes I just need to sit in front of the TV and watch a movie that will get me to the right place. Music is the big constant though. Usually whenever I’m writing I’ll create playlists that build scenes for me, because when I hear songs I see them in my head. They aren’t just words and instruments; they’re moving pictures in my mind, and the right song is a window into the particular moments in a character’s life. I often refer to it as a “color by number” approach. You remember what those were like in our childhood coloring books: it starts out a black and white, lifeless corpse, but by associating the right colors with their corresponding numbers on the picture (there’s the synesthesia again) things start to look like they’re supposed to. For me songs are the numbers that unlock the right colors.

But none of that matters until I have the inklings of a story. That’s where things get harder…and also easier: harder, because I hate standing still, but easier because part of the burden is shared. When I need a story I just ask. In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus states “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” I don’t see any reason why that can’t apply to me needing a story. And so I ask. I sit in stillness, and ask. I beg if necessary, and if I really am in need I don’t quit until I get what I’m looking for. When I first decided to write a novel I stood in the Gulf of Mexico for an hour getting hit by waves and refusing to leave until I got a story to write. And then it was there. Another time I made the mistake of asking as I was going to sleep and I had to get out of bed to frantically regurgitate the first several pages of a short story onto the page. A lot of people who read my work might find that a bit strange, considering that what I write doesn’t necessarily have an obvious connection to my faith, but it’s hard (read: impossible) to take credit for a fully formed story just popping into my head.

Once I’m writing, what’s most clutch is that I just do it. It’s not something I can take a break from. I get to know characters. I spend time with them until they start to speak. And I listen to hear when someone around me might be speaking the words that are supposed to come from a character. I read like my life depends on it. When I’m writing screenplays I’m reading screenplays (and watching movies). When I’m writing novels I’m reading novels. The whole time I’m taking notes on what works and what doesn’t. What I loved and what I could have done better. Sometimes writing doesn’t take the form of typing or picking up a pen, but it does take time. There’s no such thing as an “aspiring” writer. You’re either writing or you’re not.

There aren’t days off…and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

-Caleb Bollenbacher

Learn more about Caleb Bollenbacher at www.AmericanBanshee.com.

See Caleb’s comic work here, and short stories here.

One of our wood-burned work desks we’ll be moving to the new place.

Our final Workshop Tuesday at 2031 Frankford Avenue was memorable for a few reasons. The first was the impromptu reading that our workshop writers gave to honor six months worth of some great writing and talking shop. At the risk of getting too sentimental, I must admit that I was incredibly affected not just by the great writing that has been created in our workshop, but by the community of writers that the workshop has forged.

The other reason for the importance of this workshop was that for half an hour during the writing hours, I had to sneak out to sign the lease on our new space! (please excuse the exclamation point, but this is exciting). After forging an identity of opening up about our creative process through our blog, we apologize if we have been uncharacteristically cryptic and coy when talking about our new space. But we literally did not sign the lease until the night before we had to be out of our old space.

Our new workshop is just a few doors down at 2011 Frankford Avenue in a warehouse that currently houses a printing press operation on the first floor. We’re excited that we can now slightly make good on having the word “Press” in our company title. But we’re even more excited about the opportunity to transform the layout and the structure of the workshop to a model that will serve more writers, with more open hours, to ultimately produce more great writing.

When we first imagined the ideal workshop, we pictured two separate rooms: one room for our publishing work space, and another room for our writers. So it was fairly surreal to walk into our new space for the first time and see the exact layout of our vision. We’ll be keeping the workshop closed for the next two weeks so that we can paint and build more furniture (I was just at Provenance buying silver maple wood for six new desks that are going to be beautiful). But we will be back open in mid-May with an opening party on what we are now calling Workshop Wednesday.

Better alliteration is not the only improvement to our workshop nights. Starting this month we will finally open up our membership system to allow for writers to utilize our space during the week. We will be updating the website soon to post our membership rates and hours. So keep an eye out for that as well.

As always, we are so appreciative of the support our workshop has received and the great work it has produced, and we look forward to continuing to serve the great writers of Philadelphia.

-Nic Esposito and The Head & The Hand Press