Poetry Class with Rosemary Royston

Rosemary Royston

NCWN-West is holding a poetry workshop with outstanding poet, Rosemary Royston, author of several books. She teaches annually at the John C. Campbell Folk School in their writing program. To learn more about Rosemary, Google Rosemary Royston poet. She holds an MFA in Writing from Spalding University. Read some of her poetry here.

Rosemary’s chapbook, Splitting the Soil, is available through Finishing Line Press and Amazon.

I have known Rosemary for many years. 

She was a member of the North Carolina Writers' Network. She served as Program Coordinator for NCWN-West. 

Visit her new website: https://www.stitchandstories.com/general-1

We always had a full class when Rosemary taught at Writers Circle around the Table, my studio in Hayesville. 

I like this description of Rosemary's book, Second Sight:

Rosemary Royston’s poems speak in the tongues of rural folks in a way that only a linguistical conjurer could have managed. She takes her readers on a tour through Appalachia and its cultures—showing the reader creek bottoms, retold Garden of Eden stories, and her grandmother’s medicine cabinet. Royston is an eloquent wordsmith who tenderly crafts each word, each line, and each stanza. This collection of Royston’s is honest, timely, and beautiful. It is a love letter to Appalachia and rural people everywhere who often don’t get their stories told in such a powerful and compassionate manner.

If you write poetry, no matter what level, you will enjoy and learn from taking this class. 

Location: 355 Main St. N, Suite C, Hiawassee, GA 30582

Date and time: July 26, 2025  - 10:00 AM- 12:00 

Registration: Fee: $40  For registration information contact gcbmountaingirl@gmail.com 

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Writing Stories about Ourselves

I am happy to announce that I will be teaching another memoir writing class through the Institute of Continuing Learning, an adult education program at Young Harris College in Young Harris, Georgia.

The class will be taught online using Zoom. I have been teaching these classes online since the pandemic, and I enjoy them. Now that I don't live near Young Harris, GA, I am grateful they allow me to teach through their program. I used to teach there in person, and I will always remember the interesting students I met in my classes. 

Now that my life has taken a significant turn, I am glad I started using Zoom back in 2020. I moved from North Carolina in September of 2024 to north of Atlanta. My sister and generous brother-in-law built an apartment for me in the daylight basement of their house. I have a lovely deck overlooking a small lake where I hear the ducks quacking during the day and see turtles sunning themselves on a floating log in the middle of the water. Trees are thick on both sides of me, so I feel I am in the woods even though I am living in the city.

I continue to work with my writing groups in western NC as Program Coordinator, and the members seem to appreciate my involvement. I assume, when they no longer need my help, they will let me know.

My new class will begin on Monday, June 30, 3 - 5 PM, and continue for the next two Mondays, 3- 5 PM, July 7 and July 14.

To register for the class, go to www.ICLYHC.org and JOIN ICL first. There is a fee of $35.00. Then click on Courses and register for the class. Fee is $25 for the six hours of class. 

The title is Writing Stories about Ourselves. 

In my classes, we write short pieces, a maximum of 2000 words each week, based on prompts I offer the students. We are not writing a memoir in class, but learning how to write our true stories so they will be as interesting as a fictional story. Students learn about characterization, using place or setting to tell the story, using dialogue and action to build tension and keep the reader interested right up to the last word written.

Too many of our memoirs are stuck up on a high shelf in the homes of family members because the writer did not know how to keep the reader entertained and wondering what was going to happen next.

When we open a novel and begin reading, we want the writer to arouse our curiosity on the first page or at least the first chapter, and, if he doesn't, we often put the book aside unread. In today's culture, it is a fact that our attention span has become extremely short. We now read short emails and texts, or watch TV shows that grab us in the first scene, so we want to know what will happen next. Looking at screens all day, scrolling constantly for the next little bit of content has created a difference in how we read books.

In a memoir, we want to tell the truth, the facts, but we must do so in a way that entertains our readers. That is my mission in my classes: to help my students learn how to entertain as well as inform. 

We are storytellers, and we know that a good story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. So our written memories must have the same. 

Join us in our summer classes on Zoom. You meet the nicest people and often form a bond of friendship with someone who was a perfect stranger until you began sharing stories in class.

Remember, you have a unique story and no one can tell that story but you.

 

Radiant Blues by Joan Howard

My dear friend and fellow poet, Joan M. Howard, has published this beautiful book of poems, Radiant Blues.

Being a woman of a certain age—like me—Joan's subjects are relatable to ageing, and beautifully written. She lost her husband to illness some years ago, and that has also been a bond between us. I admire her for many reasons, one of which is that she kayaks on Lake Chatuge. She walks on the dam almost every day. She keeps moving outdoors. She lives on the lake and has easy access to the water.

Insight

by Joan Howard  

If he could see home now, what would he think?  

Cobwebs in his study, meticulous  

order through the workshop littered—clutter  

on his saws! The deck chair from pressurized wood  

he built her, gray and broken in the yard.  

"You don't like change," he said; she had preserved  

it all—every bowl, table, tray, jigsawed  

masterpiece, and his ashes by her bed.  

But yet, outside had transformed.  

Camellias he'd planted from pots as tall as some trees,  

magnolia, lilies, gardenia blooming,  

sparse brown lawn grass a soft green moss cover.  

If he looks, she sees him everywhere, in  

the weathered trellis, spring daffodils—his?

Three Women on the Dam

We walked for years, three women on the dam—  

divorced or married, widowed. We all knew  

each other well—three miles, four days a week,  

kept secrets of suffering, heroics.  

Once Kathy said that sun and cloud could make  

a living halo in daylight. I scoffed.  

Years later though, in heavy morning mist,  

low eastern sun behind us, it was there:  

our three heads surrounded by green-gold light,  

distinguished each one, bodies a pure black  

in shadowed pantomime, our heads radiant,  

transformed, moments long, an epiphany.  

                                        ----Joan Howard  

A New Writers Circle Around the Table for 2025

After my husband, Barry, died of cancer in 2009, I felt completely lost. I did not see how I could go on without him. We had spent the past year dealing with radiation, chemotherapy, his unimaginable pain, and my constant fear of losing him. After weeks and weeks in Emory Hospital where I was with him around the clock, I insisted he come home, not to our home in the mountains, but to my sister's and brother-in-law's house in Roswell, GA. It was evident that if he had more chemo, it would kill him. He had a heart condition already. It had been suggested to me by medical staff that unless I wanted him to have more chemo, I should call Hospice Care. That was my only recourse. When his body swelled horribly and he had to be sedated most of the time, I knew I had to do the hardest thing I had ever faced.

Barry and Glenda at Chimney Rock, NC 

With my loving family and our dear friends, I finally got through it all. I came home to an empty house except for our dog, really Barry's dog, Rocky, who grieved for his master. Our sweet canine kid, sat by the bedside for hours waiting for the man who would not come home again.

I had resigned from NCWN-West as Program Coordinator when Barry was diagnosed. I wanted nothing to interfere or need my attention other than his care. I did not go back to church after he died. I knew I could not face the kindnesses and sympathy I would find there. My tears were always on the surface and I didn't want to break down at church.

I lost interest in our writing groups. Nothing mattered to me anymore. Two months after he died, I had cataract surgery. I needed him to help me with the eye drops that were required, but I had to depend on myself now. I didn't eat anything that required cooking. What would I do with all the leftovers?

I had always wanted to attend Wildacres retreat in Little Switzerland, NC  the highlands of western NC Appalachians. I was accepted for a residency there in 2008, but in a couple of months, Barry was diagnosed. I refused the invitation. 

As I sat at home miserable and wondering what would become of me, I received a notice about the Wildacres Fall Gathering, a week for all artists, craftspeople, painters, or writers to spend time working on a project of their choice. I thought about going, but I felt so alone, and I would not know anyone there. I decided not to mention that my husband had just died. I would pretend all was well in my life.

Packing the car and driving alone for several hours was new to me. I had never gone off on a trip without him. For forty-five years, he drove the car when we traveled. He packed the car after I made everything ready to go. He was in charge of the route we took. I never looked at the map. I had confidence that Barry would get us there with no problems. 

Filled with excitement and anxiety, I found a parking place near the front door of the building where registration was going on. I entered a big room with a huge fireplace and chairs and sofas. It was the lobby of the main lodge, a large two-story building, wood no brick, if I remember. Inside I signed in and was given directions to my room and instructions about meals, place and times.

Since it was a little while before dinner, a cocktail party was happening between the two large buildings that would house us, and I meandered down to the area. I stopped to look at the view to my right. Wow, I thought. I am on top of the world. I could just sit out here, feast my eyes on the mountains, the sky, and not think about anything else. I didn't need people. I didn't need to talk to anyone. I could sit and drink in the everlasting vastness spread before me.

I did not reach out to anyone or try to start a conversation. They all seemed to know each other. My misgivings stirred inside me and I thought, Maybe I will just go into the main lodge and sit down. 

Just as I entered the door, an attractive woman with a sweet face, came to me and introduced herself. I relaxed and we struck up a conversation. I liked her. I learned she was the sister of the director of Wildacres. 

I brought my mother up here because I thought it might help her. She lost her husband, my father a few weeks ago, they had been married for over fifty years. She said to me.

That seemed to be a cue for me to say, "I just lost my husband a few months ago." So much for keeping that quiet. Well, it changed everything. 

(Names have been changed)

Kathleen told me she was a nurse. She had helped care for her father and was now looking after her mother.  Let me introduce you to Mother. She took my hand and walked me over to a small woman with gray hair talking and laughing with others. Helen did not appear to be mourning. She was enjoying the people, chatting and laughing. I wished I could do that, keep the pain and grief buried so I could talk, laugh, and not think about the huge void in my life. 

Throughout the week I spent time with Helen talking about losing our husbands and not knowing what to do with ourselves. The family made me feel welcome, and after that afternoon, I felt right at home.

When we went to dinner down the hill to the dining room, I sat with strangers because Kathleen and Helen sat with the director at a special round table out of sight of the guests. The round tables sat eight or ten people. Too big to talk across so I tried to engage with someone beside me. On one side sat a husband and wife who had their own private thing going on, but on the other side, a woman was more approachable. I met painters, quilters, potters, and other artists in the following days while eating family-style meals.

By the time I left Wildacres at the end of the week, I had become good friends with another writer. She was working on a memoir. We talked and shared our reasons for being there. We had an instant feeling of friendship. She was a Morman living in North Carolina. I found her to be most interesting. 

My major goal for being at the retreat was to figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. 

I made lists. What did I really like to do? What did I not want to do?

I liked writing and taking writing classes. I liked being my own boss.

During that week at Wildacres, I devised a plan. I decided to make the basement level of my house a writing studio. Finally, I had a reason to be. I would help other writers and do something that I totally enjoyed. My mind went wild with plans.

I encountered some opposition from one of my best friends. She thought I was abandoning NCWN-West but I wasn't. I even asked if my studio could be a part of Netwest, but was told it would be best to do it as my own. With fresh paint on the walls and some simple decor, the daylight basement became my writing studio. Writers Circle Around the Table became synonymous with excellent teachers and pleasant classes. 

Today I am in new surroundings. I am teaching from home using Zoom. But my business is still Writers Circle Around the Table. I will continue to teach and ask good instructors to teach at reasonable prices just as I did in 2010 in Hayesville. Beginning writers will be comfortable in an encouraging non-competitive environment. With technology being what it is today, most people have learned how to study online. Even the John C. Campbell Folk School offers online instruction. I will help anyone who doubts their ability to participate.

For the past 2 years, I have taught memoir courses with three 2 hour sessions on Tuesday evenings. I will continue that format with classes on March 11, 18 and 25. We meet from 6:00 PM EST - 8:00 PM EST.  Many of my students register for each class I teach because they enjoy it so much and it helps motivate them to make writing a priority. As all writers know, few non-writers recognize your writing time as important. 

I look forward to my writer friends who teach holding classes at the new Writers Circle Around the Table.

If you want more information or wish to register for the March classes, email me: at gcbmountaingirl@gmail.com  Write "Writing classes" in the subject line.

A World War II veteran's letters home

Dear Folks: Letters Home

I am reading the most interesting book published by Sandy Geib Benson. The title is: Dear Folks: Letters Home 1943-1946 World War II

George David Geib, the father of Sandy Benson, joined the Army Air Force in 1943 and was stationed in several places across the country. Some of his letters were also written overseas, in London and Paris. He wrote letters home to his parents and his sister almost every day. When the war was over, he found that his mother had kept every single letter he wrote.

Fifty years later, George edited and compiled those letters and made about thirty books at the Quick Print. He gave them to family members including Sandy. George is gone now and Sandy, his daughter who is an author and journalist, formerly published this book with photographs, maps, certificates, and diagrams that help the reader understand what this young man was doing as he learned to fly airplanes. He had an interesting life and we read about it in his letters.

I particularly like page 2 of the Foreword. George tells how he gained weight so he could meet the required number on the scale. This part was written fifty years after the letters were written.

We follow this young man as he leaves home in California and travels by train across the country to Nebraska, where he was first stationed for training. The tone of the letters goes from happy curiosity and enthusiasm to days when he seems homesick, but he doesn't dwell on it. They are written in the voice of a nineteen-year-old, and I can see him as I read his words to his mother and father. I can imagine how much those letters meant to his folks. When George came home in 1946, he could not believe how many letters he had written until he saw them all in a large paper bag.

This book reminds me of my cousin, Henry, who was in the Army Air Force. Henry didn't come home. He died while in training when his plane was shot down by friendly fire over the Gulf of Mexico. And I remember my older brother, Ray, just out of high school joined the Navy. I can still see my mother and father weeping and holding each other the day my brother left. Everyone was overjoyed when he came home to stay.

Sandy Benson did an excellent job with this book. She says it was not easy and I can imagine with all the graphics included that formatting this manuscript was a tough task. But what a special outcome for not only her but for anyone who reads it. It is available on Amazon.com.

Writing Tips

Here are some writing tips you might find helpful:

Title your work before you write it. That will help you stay on the subject and not ramble. If you want to change it later, you can.

Know the point of the story. What do you want the reader to take away.

A story must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. 

Don't leave the reader hanging at the end. Plan your ending before you begin writing. 

Try to include dialogue in your creative nonfiction. Learn how to properly write dialogue. You don't have to quote the exact words, but they must fit the situation.

These books are helpful. They answer all your questions about using punctuation, when and why.

Purge Your Prose of  Problems by Bobbie Christmas

The Author's Journey: A Road Map for Writers - From Draft to Published  by PC Zick

MY SISTER, THE DANCER

Chris, the fabulous dance instructor stands between two of his students at a dance competition in Atlanta, October 17, 2024. My sister, Gay Moring is beautiful in her red dress. Chris said he was very proud of her dancing. Lisa is on Chris's right. Both Gay and Lisa brought home medals.

Finding old E-mails and remembering my teachers

Moving from the home I love, and going through a ton of boxes trying to sort out what I can keep, what is useful, and what I will never use again is stressful, frustrating, and sad. But it is also interesting. While looking through files, I found emails I had saved from my teacher and my mentor, Nancy Simpson, the wonderful poet who was a founder of NCWN-West back in the 1990s. 

She was a dedicated leader of the writers in our western NC area, encouraging, motivating, and inspiring. She taught special education for children in elementary school. She adopted an orphan Vietnamese boy and raised him with her two biological sons. She adored him and he felt the same about her. 

Recently, I have begun to learn about emotional intelligence. Nancy was smart, funny, and above all caring. She felt empathy and compassion for others, and she expressed her feelings in her poetry.

Goleman's EQ theory comprises five core components: empathy, effective communication or social skills, self-awareness, self-regulation, and motivation. 

Nancy exhibited all of these in her daily life. I didn't know at the time that I had a high EQ myself. Perhaps that is what she saw in me because she immediately selected me for a leadership position with NCWN-West. She asked me to take the publicity coordinator's job. I had done publicity for our genealogy group in south Georgia where I lived before moving to the mountains. It is my nature to do the best job possible when I take on a task.


It was perfect for me. I interviewed the writers who were going to do readings and wrote articles about them for the local newspapers. I had them send a photograph to go with the articles. The local newspaper liked them and always published them. In the past, the announcements of writing events were typed and mailed through the USPS to the county papers. But I used the computer which was beginning to be popular. I had worked in an office for five years and I knew something about the Internet.


Nancy was so good to me that I would do anything she needed me to do. When she asked me to become the Clay County Representative I accepted the job and enjoyed it. She and I grew close as we worked together over the years and I took all of the classes she taught at the local community college. Without Nancy, I would never have published my poetry chapbook. She read it, helped me organize it, and even chose the title for it. Now Might as Well be Then. That was a line in a poem in the book.

I am a product of the teachers in my life. Nancy was one of them. I had an art teacher, Verna, in Albany, GA, who taught me to paint in oils. She also became a wonderful friend. I could lose myself for an entire afternoon as I painted on canvas following her classes. She helped my self-confidence and made me realize I had talent.

My older sister and my younger sister have been teachers in my life. June, the oldest, taught me when I was a child, by example. I admired how she always looked her best, behaved like a lady, gentile and well-spoken. I wanted to be like her and will always remember her kindness and generosity to me. Her words of encouragement and approval got me through college years and boyfriend breakups. She, like my mother, enjoyed people. She was friendly and had a beautiful smile for everyone.

Gay, June, Lee, her daughter, and me

My younger sister, Gay, is still teaching me. Because of her, I see that it is never too late to follow your dreams. She will be taking part in a ballroom competition this week. She has always loved to dance and decided a couple of years ago to take ballroom dancing simply because she wanted to dance again with excellent partners. Now she dresses up in beautiful gowns, wears dancing shoes with heels, and enters competitions with others in her age category. Not too many in her category, but it matters not. She dances as well as many who are younger. She is a great role model. This is just one of her many attributes I admire.

My sister, Gay, Dancing

I learn from the students who take my writing classes. I think I am a life-long student as well as a teacher. Hearing their stories about their lives takes me to interesting places, people, and lifestyles I will never know first-hand, but can experience through their words. One of my students, Abbie, is visually impaired but has written and published several books. She has a lively website and blog on which she stays connected to other writers with vision disabilities, and is generous with her reviews and promotion of their books. I admire Abbie because she doesn't let her disability stop her. She lives alone but still goes out to sing at the nursing home and she travels by air to visit family many miles away from her home. She has mastered the technology available for the vision impaired and helps others who take classes like mine. Abbie has brought several blind students to my classes.

I have been blessed with wonderful teachers and you probably have individuals in your life who helped make you who you are.  Tell me about them in the comments.