Preface & Dedication Late last night, January of 2001, temperatures on this Vermont hill farm dropped below zero. Jeff was in the loft of our cabin, sleeping under two blankets and a down comforter, while downstairs in my pajamas and slippers, with a blanket draped over my head and around my shoulders, I stepped outside…
I didn’t exactly grow up on them-not like the way my teenage years were permeated with the music of Josh White, Lightnin’ Hopkins, Bob Dylan, and the Beatles. The Rolling Stones grew on me later, late in the sixties when I was in my early twenties and my subconscious was searching for some kind of…
After two and a half years in Hollywood, I came back home to Boston in 1980 feeling like the cartoon man in a barrel. After making the most money I’d made in my life, from writing a TV series I created called James at 15, I was (amazingly) broke. In addition to being out of…
When I edited my issue so many years ago, featuring Amherst poets, I knew I wanted to have Saint Emily preside over our doings. So I got Jerry Liebling, then teaching at Hampshire, and a very distinguished photographer with many awards and shows at places like the Guggenheim in New York, to agree to take…
DeWitt Henry (without whom there would be no Ploughshares) running the magazine out of his Brookline Street, Cambridge, apartment, a book-crammed fifth-floor walkup, and later from a storefront next to a pizza shop on Waverley Avenue, Watertown: DeWitt, who kept the faith and wrote the grant proposals and answered the mail and talked endlessly of…
After graduating from Amherst College in 1963, I lived in Manhattan for the summer and worked at Redbook, of all places. At night, I pounded out Kafkaesque short stories, which I promptly sent to The New Yorker and which were promptly rejected. In the fall, I headed for Cambridge. I had been granted a Woodrow…
Ploughshares Vol. 2/1-the issue that I edited-was published twenty-seven years ago. Contained in its pages are the markings of a very specific period in Boston, including a line drawing of Peter O’Malley sitting in the Plough and Stars, cap pulled low, newspaper raised, and notices for the Grateful Union Bookstore, Guinness stout, and Emerson College’s…
When I think of those early years, I think of hard labor in brutal conditions — ridiculous, I know, patently false and nostalgic, as if we were working in a gulag, an outpost in the literary tundra. I first volunteered to read manuscripts for Ploughshares in 1986, then began working part-time as an assistant editor…
When I think about my beginnings as a writer, I think of the floor. I suppose I could think about burning desire, or tenuous talent, but really I have to say that without the particular place where I sat on the floor, I might never have become a writer. Because it was cold in New…
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