Tag: books

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Reflections

Books Lists and the Joy of Going Off-Script

Ok, I’ll admit it. I’ve both fallen victim to and become addicted to book lists. They’re a wonderful thing: resources that allow you to outsource your literary curation and taste to the experts. But is that always a good thing?

A few years back I turned to a book list to complete that year’s reading goal. I was ambitious and the list I found on Pinterest boasted the books as “must reads.” So, in a flurry of inspiration, I purchased the first five on the list. I can’t even remember what the titles were, I disliked them that much! They’ve since been donated, and I’ve learned to slow down, do some research, and rent instead of buying.

I haven’t given up lists entirely, though, especially when it comes to my kids. I have a strong desire to foster a love of reading in them, and book lists have introduced us to some truly beautiful stories.

My go-to book lists are from Read-Aloud Revival, a movement created by Sarah Mackenzie to help inspire and revive your family’s reading habits. I especially love her September Book List. For the past few Septembers, I’ve been consistently renting the list in its entirety from my local library. Every year though, my kids gravitate to the same few books:

Goodbye Summer, Hello Autumn
Flora’s Very Windy Day
The Apple Doll

They all but ignore the rest or are downright distraught when I pull out a Clarkson favorite, Ox-Cart Man by Donald Hall, or the classically illustrated Autumn Story by Jill Barklem.

So why do I keep renting the entire list, especially the books they explicitly, and quite vocally, dislike? Am I holding onto a small thread of hope that they will suddenly wake up one day with the same exquisite literary taste as Sarah Clarkson? Or do I feel pressure to manufacture that taste for them?

Growing up, my sister loved Nancy Drew, while I was more of a Trixie Beldon fan. Both of the protagonists were young, female detectives, but each one spoke to us differently.

Our mom didn’t push either one on us, they were simply readily available on our bookshelf, and we were given the individual freedom to choose.

This memory gave me an idea. I called Nina (5) and Felix (3) into the office and pointed them to our bookshelf. “Out of all the books we have here, which one is your favorite?” Of course, I thought, Felix will choose Little Blue Truck and Nina will choose Extra Yarn.

Needless to say, that was not the case. Watch Our Favorite Books Right Now to hear their earnest responses.

I had the strong urge to ask Nina to pick a different favorite. A book about farting would never make an appearance on a Sarah Mackenzie booklist or on a Clarkson’s bookshelf!

But then I remembered when Nina picked it out at the library’s book sale, how excited she was when I agreed to buy it. I remembered her wit and sense of humor and decided that sometimes the best things in life aren’t from a carefully curated list, but rather the things that organically spark joy.

It’s a fun read too, with a surprisingly tender message about the flawed beauty of being human.

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Uncategorized

Local Lore: The History of Wisconsin’s Elusive Werewolf

I grew up in Walworth, a small southeastern town in Wisconsin, but always a little apart from it. I say apart because we belonged to the uber conservative, Baptist homeschool community. This community consisted of cousins, a few close (like-minded) family friends, and a deep-rooted belief that the secular world was to be avoided at all costs.

You can imagine then, the challenges that arose when my parents’ divorce thrust my siblings and I into the terrifying realm of public school. I spent most of 8th grade stumbling awkwardly through my new environment and it took me a while to find a new sense of community.

When my mom married my stepdad, Terry Mayer, in the spring of 2013, it was easy to see how involved he was in his community. He’d worked at The Week newspaper for many years. During his time with the paper, he met and photographed countless musicians, local public figures, and participated in the occasional investigation into werewolves.

Yes, you read that right. Call it what you want, beast, werewolf, cryptic, but The Beast of Bray Road is a big part of Wisconsin’s folklore. It dates back to its first “sighting” in 1936 and is often described as a towering, red-eyed, humanoid creature covered in thick fur.

A documentary and horror film have been made based on this local lore and the late Linda Godfry, who my stepdad worked closely with, turned her series on The Beast into a book titled The Beast of Bray Road: Tailing Wisconsin’s Werewolf.

I don’t remember who told me about The Beast back in high school, but I do remember being too terrified to ride along with my new friends to Bray Road. They were hoping to catch a glimpse of the creature of legend, I wanted no part of it.

I’d since forgotten about the lore until recently. I was searching for an event to attend and cover for my Digital Storytelling and Social Media class when I stumbled on the 2025 Beast Fest event. I mentioned it to my stepdad and his eyes sparkled as he shared about his time investigating the story alongside Linda Godfry.

So, he agreed to go with me to Beast Fest and even said he would try to find his original “WereWolf Of the Week” shirt as seen in this 15-year anniversary article. Stay tuned for updates this afternoon on my X and Facebook accounts as Terry and I revisit the legend of The Beast of Bray Road. I’m looking forward to an afternoon steeped in community and folklore.

To learn more about the late Linda Godfry, see the articles below:

Tracking down ‘The Beast of Bray Road’
Beast of Bray Road Author Linda Godfrey Has Passed Away
Categories
Reflections

Submittable: A Cautionary Tale on Reading the Fine Print

Some days were stronger than my bones, some months were stronger than my soul, but no year was ever stronger than me as a whole.

-Ruchi Acharya, Founder and CEO of Wingless Dreamer Publisher

It was May 2024, and I was hot off the high of my advanced poetry workshop. I’d just learned about Submittable and spent hours sifting through the endless open calls for submissions. I took my professor’s advice to heart and did my research—no sketchy sites and no fees over $3. I was a new and barely published poet, but I was cautiously optimistic.

I found three promising landing pads for my work: MER, 805, and Wingless Dreamer. After meticulously drafting cover letters, bios, and manuscripts for each one, I hit submit. There was something equally exhilarating and terrifying about sending my work out into the world to be judged by experts in the craft.

Then, only five days later, I received my first acceptance letters. I was stunned. And immediately suspicious. Funny how my brain works, huh?

I skimmed Wingless Dreamer’s email and got stuck at the line “We will proceed with the necessary steps for publication, including editing and formatting.” Most people would think, Hurray! My poem is on the path to publication! Not me. I saw that and immediately turned into a poema bear.

I responded with gratitude, and a request to be involved in the editing process. I sweated it out for 24 hours before following up again. Finally, the editor Shreya sent me a reassuring response, promising to loop me in if there were any major changes. I thanked her and asked a couple follow -up questions regarding the publication timeline. After ten days with no response, I started to question their legitimacy and wrote that I wanted to withdraw my poems. One poem’s status was changed to “withdrawn,” but the other remained “accepted”

I wondered about it, but life got busy. A couple weeks later I received an email congratulating me on my publication in the Mother’s Reverie Anthology. I followed the link to Amazon and there it was, a legitimate book for sale! I was still skeptical, especially since contributors didn’t get a free copy, but I bought it anyway.

It made the perfect 2025 Mother’s Day gift, and yes, my poem’s integrity was still in-tact. Recently, I looked back over that initial acceptance letter, and something in hyperlink blue stood out for the first time: their Terms and Conditions. I opened it read: We reserve the right to modify the accepted work in terms of phrasing, punctuation, word usage, spelling, and capitalization. We will notify the author beforehand if there are any major changes.

I took an experiential course on literary magazines in spring of 2025, and all I can think of now is how annoyed that editor must have been! I know now that it’s a thankless, often unpaid job and she was probably rolling her eyes at my crash out. To Shreya, if you ever see this, I apologize for my barrage of questions that could have easily been answered if I had simply slowed down and read the fine print.

I have yet to receive any more acceptance letters in Submittable, but I know that when I do, I will read them in their entirety.

Below is my poem as it appears in Mother’s Reverie by Wingless Dreamer Publisher:

Mother Greeted Us

With Spring came the promise
of dirt-black fingernails
from digging trenches
and shaping mountains
to sprinkle with new beginnings.
When the seeds took root
and the garden turned green,
we went to war with the weeds
invading its borders. But,

before the battle could be won,
humidity rode in on Spring’s delicate back,
driving us to the sandy shores
of Geneva Lake. It was here
that we shapeshifted into
crooning mermaids or shipwrecked pirates
and always returned home
lobster red. Mother greeted us,
coaxing the burns out
with sticky, soothing aloe vera.

When Autumn’s gentle kiss
bade Summer’s heat farewell,
we raked orange needles
into a town. Piney Point
with the best mudpies around.
We strung sheets from trees’ low hanging limbs
that ripped beneath our weight,
sending us tumbling to the earth.

When snow erased this made-up town,
we attacked snow-ploughed mountains
with shovel and hand and foot;
carving caves and tunnels to shelter us
from the biting cold.
We journeyed, trudging, dragging broken sleds
past True Value and over train tracks
to the slopes of Old Faithful.

We slid down the hill’s slippery face
and returned home sloppy, chilled
to the bone. Mother greeted us,
coaxing the cold out
with gentle kisses and steaming cocoa.