Rivendell
Editor's Note
Editing this journal, I have been constantly taken aback by the generosity of the authors I come in contact with. How easily they allow me to reprint their work. The donations they offer. How they connect other writers and editors and booksellers to our project by bringing copies of RIVENDELL to readings or putting our postcards in letters to friends.
When I tell people about RIVENDELL, they often shake their heads and say, "That must be a labor of love!" I want to say, "What isn't?" But I smile, instead, and tell them how much fun we're having. It is hard work, but the kind that repays our efforts ten-fold.
Hands down the best part of the job has been the correspondence. I thought this might be the case going in, for I have always loved sending and receiving mail. But there's something special about the connections I've made compiling each issue. By exchanging letters with so many other writers and artists, I am deepening my own understanding of the creative process. Or maybe it's RIVENDELL's special emphasis on place. Whatever the reason, I end up feeling like I am in close touch with a region.
The writers in this issue are a particular, dare I say peculiar, bunch. Many are editors of small presses, independent bookstore owners, handset press operators, farmers, carpenters. Some don't use email, or own a computer--and are proud of it. The one thing they all do, and do well, however, is write letters. It's exciting to come upon their letters in the mailbox.
There's something thrilling in reading one of Donald Hall's typewritten pages or poring slowly over Kate Barnes' calligraphic lettering. Twice, I have received brittle overseas envelopes from Cid Corman that fold out into a page of hand-written poetry. There is the elegant handwriting of Wesley McNair, small and neat on its note-sized paper, or the even smaller writing of naturalist David Carroll. I came to cherish the few letters that arrived from Ted Enslin; they were friendly but prickly, challenging me on my half-formed ideas about place while whole-heartedly supporting my endeavors.
It's just plain fun to receive packages stuffed with poems, essays, photos and ads. I never know what to expect. One envelope came bearing maps of Maine, another a cartoon illustrating a contributor's poem. On one summery weekday, a large package arrived full of original charcoal sketches drawn in the late sixties.
Email gets a bum rap, at times deservedly so. But email has been integral to putting together these first two issues. In fact, emails, phone calls, and letters have all blended together in our daily goings-on. Often I'll check my email in the morning to find one of Bob Arnold's pleasant, talky, smart emails, or news from Peter Money along with a new section of his epic poem, "The Mountain." Or I'll find one of David Budbill's generous responses to my many queries regarding his interview, each email accompanied by one of his poems at the bottom of the screen.
After my morning coffee, I drive over to RIVENDELL's box at the local post office. My dog insists on coming along, and we go out walking on the nearby trails behind the old insane asylum where Fitzgerald brought Zelda. I read the poems as I ramble. Their woodpiles and crows, old diners and back roads could easily have come out of the Appalachian hills. It is on these walks that I come upon the poems of Elizabeth Tibbets, John Hyland, and Jim Schley--all new voices recommended to me by other New England writers. And on these walks that old friendships are re-ignited and new ones kindled. Indeed, it's been a romantic, almost nostalgic time, bringing me back to own childhood years in New England.
When I get back to my desk, I write letters or drop a contributor an email. Later in the day, after dinner, I might receive a call from Albert Dole with questions about the review he's working on, or I may call up Walter Clark and jot down his new edits on the canoe journal. (The canoe journal--with the four-way communication between fellow editor Ryan Walsh, Sam Manhart, Walter and myself--is a prime example of this beautiful weaving together of phone calls, emails, and postal routes.)
And this network of correspondence seems fitting, too, for these writers and the world they live in. It is just in this way that writers in Northern New England manage to stay in touch. Earlier this year, Hayden Carruth celebrated his eightieth birthday. A series of readings were organized in his honor, and a plethora of tributes on the internet and in journals including a wonderful anthology of poems from Bob Arnold's Longhouse archives. Talk of the birthday event must have filled up the phone lines, email, and postboxes. The news traveled at various speeds and was, no doubt, welcome wherever it arrived. And now, here is our collection of "news" from Frost's land, "North of Boston."
Sebastian MatthewsAsheville, NC
Winter, 2002
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