(Dora: A Headcase, the book trailer)
Actually, it wasn’t on my way home.
It was afterward. Way afterward. Yesterday, in fact.
Which lead me to her publisher’s website.
And then a light went on in the closet of cluttered details and unkempt strands of thought that is my brain.
Poe Ballentine. Poe Ballentine. Poe Ballentine. Poe. Bo. Ballentine. Valentine.
One of my favorite sessions at this year’s AWP was a panel discussion on memoir writing. I sat a two rows away from Cheryl Strayed, Stephen Elliot, Lee Martin, and a writer I remembered as Bo Valentine while they discussed their experiences writing about family.
When I failed to keep a conference program, all I had for reference was my memory. Days later, I was unable to find any books by Bo Valentine. No Google searches turned up his essays.
Of course, if I had searched Poe Ballentine, I would have found his work right away. But, that’s memory for you.
Isn’t life funny?
And how books we want find us anyway?
And what we think we know and remember and what actually is?
And how the loose thread I’m trying to pull through all these lines of thought started in an AWP panel discussion titled: “Selling out everyone you love: The Ethics of Writing Nonfiction.”