Woods Wanderer

With Thanksgiving almost here, I figure now’s a good time to reflect upon the past and give thanks for all the good fortune that has come my way. Having Judy in my life is at the top of the list, certainly, closely followed by family and friends. Having a new business is also on the list, along with good health, a home, and access to the woods. Then there’s my dog Matika of course. But that’s not all. There’s also my literary work.

I’ve been so busy with online bookselling this year that I’ve completely ignored an important milestone: My small press, Wood Thrush Books, is now 30 years old.  I started it in 1985 with the self-publication of a chapbook of poetry, Shadows Dancing. I’ve published over 40 chapbooks and paperbacks since then – mostly self-publications but also anthologies, works by other writers like Walt Franklin, Rob Faivre and Michael Jewell, and the Writers of the 19th Century series to boot. So today I’m giving thanks for the ability to have done that, and for all the readers who have made that possible.

What is a small press without people like you supporting it? Some of you have done so for many years, for decades. What good are all my written words without readers? Some of you have almost as many of my books on your shelves as I do. And for that I am grateful. Your checks have kept WTB going. Your words of encouragement have kept me writing and publishing even though I’ve been close to quitting many times. So I count you, dear readers, among my blessings. Thank you. Thank you very much!

Tags: publishing, thanksgiving, writing

In the summer of 1980, on the second day of a solo trek into Oregon’s Cascade Mountains, I stopped for lunch. A wood thrush landed in nearby bushes and began singing its flute-like song. Intoxicated by that melody, I left the trail shortly thereafter and wandered for hours through alpine meadows before making camp for the night. And there I stayed for two days, grooving on wild nature in what felt like the lap of God.

That same year I self-published my first chapbook. Five years later I started up Wood Thrush Books, naming it after the bird that has called out during so many of my deep woods excursions. As I see things, the wood thrush symbolizes life and hope and joy and beauty. Its song is mystical. It is nothing less than the call of the wild.

As any one who has attempted it knows, running a small press is a kind of holy madness. It’s a lot of work, plenty of frustration, very little recognition, and even less money. To call it a business is to miss the mark. To call it a hobby is to insult the publisher. Those who have done it as long as I have know it’s more than an occupation or a pastime – much more. It’s a vocation.

Last year was a dangerous year for WTB. I came close to calling it quits. Then I realized that I could no more give up publishing than I could writing or woods wandering. Together these three activities make me what I am, for better or worse.

Thirty-three years later, I still hear that divine, flute-like song. I hear it even when I am stuck in the developed lowlands, doing mundane work, trying to navigate the matrix that we call the modern world. I just cleaned out my office – WTB world headquarters – and am ready to take on a whole new set of challenges. Even now, in my late fifties, I still heed the call.

Tags: nature writing, publishing, the wild, wood thrush, wood thrush books