Monthly Archives: December 2025

Pardon Me While I Self-Promote. . . .


Creative Truth and Absolute Fiction: An Online Two-Part Workshop in Nonfiction/Memoir and Fiction Writing

February 12, 2026 @ 6:30 pm – February 19, 2026 @ 8:30 pm

Register here: https://adirondackcenterforwriting.app.neoncrm.com/nx/portal/neonevents/events?path=%2Fportal%2Fevents%2F31572

$20 – $40 Pay What You Can

The Adirondack Center for Writing Presents. . . .

Have you ever wanted to journey down the road to find your voice, craft your personal storytelling, or write creative fiction? In this two-part workshop led by Carla Stockton, we will examine the distinctions between truth writing – such as journalism, history, and biography – and creative nonfiction – such as memoir – and explore how creative nonfiction and fiction are inexorably entwined. 

We will also consider the fundamentals and craft of nonfiction/memoir writing and fiction writing, including the interplay between lived experience and creative invention. Each session will include instruction, guided exercises, discussion, and optional peer sharing. Participants will leave equipped with practical tools, fresh writing samples, and a clearer understanding of how to use your own voice across genres. Whether you are new to writing or haven’t written in a long time, then this workshop is for you!

Thursdays, 2/12 & 2/19 | 6:30-8:30 PM | Online | $20-$40 Pay what you can

Last day to register is Thursday, Feb 5!

Carla Stockton, a proud and hearty child of the Adirondacks, grew up in Saranac Lake. Now celebrating 51 years of parenthood, Stockton has been teaching writing and literature for nearly as long. Her work has been featured in publications such as Moment Magazine, The Toast, and The Guardian. She also translated Radovan Ivsic’s surrealist drama King Gordogan. Formerly a high school drama director and English teacher, Stockton now serves as an adjunct professor at Lehman College and is currently working on her second nonfiction book and a historical fiction.

Stockton’s memoir Too Much of Nothing: Notes on Feminism, Identity, and Womanhood, which has some intimate glimpses of moments in Saranac Lake, is available at Mountainash.press, through Saranac Lake’s Book Nook, bookshop.org, or anywhere books are sold, including Barnes and Noble and Amazon. To learn more about Carla Stockton, visit her website at carlastockton.me.

Looking for Poetry? How about 39 Poems, by Charles Butler!!

Walking is Believing in Charles Butler’s Powerful Collection 39 Poems

New York is a challenge on the best of days.  Summers are blisteringly hot. Winters numb the nose, freeze all digits. Every walk on a city street is an opportunity to engage with the world or let it stream by unnoticed.  Homeless folk sleeping on rat dung, playgrounds dotted with dog poop, crowded sidewalks teeming with angry people struggling to get where they need to be, pushing impediments both human and non aside with equal disregard.  And if you are paying attention, if you look life in the eye, you see what Charles Butler sees at every turn, the observations he makes in his very accessible collection of poems called simply 30 Poems.  Butler sees and describes the dark side as it blends with the light, he feels the life that refuses to be extinguished even as it fades.

“you almost miss it

almost

someone’s life bled out

at your feet

think on it

times you bled”

                                                                                                            ii legal pad poetry

Butler’s Brooklyn-twanged voice gives each poem its own resonance, singular presence. Each one is a story and a journey, part of the next story that is a journey that leads to the next all the way to the final stop.  All the poems lean on one another, leading us into hearts, minds, souls, beings that celebrate and suffer through to the end, where we see that the sum total is a stories lead to the same journey’s end.

Butler doesn’t pretend to offer answers.  His collection is a compendium of observations.  Deep as the message is, he’s not trying to be profound. 

“I leave

the big poems

t’the

assholes

y’know ‘em

ones who figure

they can change

the world

with a stanza

or a verb”

just poetry. . . man

Hey scatters the collection with human encounters, human experiences, human emotions, none of which will surprise the reader but will evoke a visceral response.  The joy and heartbreak of holding a newborn baby, black and female; the gratitude for friendship and the mourning of its loss; the taste of coffee and it likeness to young love; the shudder of knowledge as old age creeps in.  And so many more acknowledgements of the joys and sorrows, discoveries and disappointents that are the human condition. All observed in Butler”s “walkabouts at night” when he “was lucky and went this way instead of that way” (“Normal”).

At the end of the 39 Poems, his 39 Steps, walks through and around Brooklyn and America, Butler sums up in CODB:

“only. . .

joy, pain, hope, sadness

just the

cost of doin’ business

‘n livin’

Is bizness”

A powerful commitment to the vagaries that define the fragile confusion that is life.  A stimulating read.

How About A Book For the Holidays

My mother never converted to Christianity. She dutifully accompanied my dad to the Methodist Church every Sunday, and she sat proudly in the congregation when I sang my choir solos.  If she had any major discomfort at being there, we never knew. She was serenely and pleasantly present, and she was beloved of our fellow congregants and every minister of every church we belonged to.  Bit at home, she made one thing very clear.

“I am and always will be Jewish,” she often said.  “I believe in God, and I support your father’s belief in Jesus, but I shall remain a Jew as long as I live.”

What that meant — among the many things being an ecumenical household portended — was that we celebrated holidays of both religions. As a consequence, not one of my parents’ seven children ever looked down on anyone else’s religion, ever failed to acknowledge each person’s right to individual beliefs.  And Chanukah was the celebration of our enlightenment. 

Chanuka was never just an extension of our Christmas festivities.  We observed the symbolism of each, and Hanukkah was always a celebration of the intellect, a proud acknowledgement of our people’s survival, of the right of the few to have ideas different from the many.  And for Hanukkah, our parents gave us no fancy presents, no big-ticket items; we received a coin each night and a book. 

 “Because,” Mom reminded us. “Books are the windows to the world.  You get to go places, meet people, entertain new ideas, learn astonishing truths, uncover facts. . . . You learn to be sensitive to the world and the people who inhabit it. “

I grew up knowing that books are victories unto themselves.  Every book  is a miracle, even the books we don’t like, don’t understand, or don’t agree with. Creating a book is a major feat, and it is no less miraculous than a candle that burns for eight days when it only has wick enough for one.

As the end of Chanukah approaches, I suggest a book to give a loved one before the last candle has sputtered out.  A book can change a life.