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    <title>Sherwood Anderson Foundation</title>
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    <updated>2008-09-29T19:16:47Z</updated>
    <subtitle>In the mid-1980s, first- and second-generation members of Sherwood Anderson&apos;s family decided to use royalties from Sherwood Anderson&apos;s books to help writers. It was an obvious decision that followed a course that Anderson himself took during his lifetime. In order to do this, the family established the Sherwood Anderson Foundation, a non-profit trust.</subtitle>
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<entry>
    <title>Nelly Rosario</title>
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    <published>2008-09-22T01:36:13Z</published>
    <updated>2008-09-29T19:16:47Z</updated>
    
    <summary>Writer Nelly Rosario of San Marcos, Texas, is the 2008 winner of the annual $15,000 Sherwood Anderson Writer&apos;s Grant, Michael M. Spear,co-president of the Sherwood Anderson Foundation, has announced. Our judges in selecting Rosario had this to say: &quot;Hers is...</summary>
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        <name>Mike</name>
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        <category term="Current Winner" />
    
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        <![CDATA[<p><img src="/images/nellyrosario.jpg" alt="2008 Winner, <a href="Nelly Rosario" title="2008 Winner, Nelly Rosario" class="floatimgleft" />Writer Nelly Rosario of San Marcos, Texas, is the 2008 winner of the annual $15,000 Sherwood Anderson Writer's Grant, Michael M. Spear,co-president of the Sherwood Anderson Foundation, has announced.  Our judges in selecting Rosario had this to say: "Hers is fearless writing, and she's able to juggle several points of view credibly in her 2002 generational saga of Dominican women, 1916-1999 titled <a href="http://www.randomhouse.com/vintage/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9780375725494&<br />
view=excerpt"><em>Song of the Water Saints</em></a>.  Employing rich imagery, whether lush or abominable, Nelly depicts a wide continuum of sensed life."</p>

<p>Rosario is a New York City native born in the Dominican Republic.  The 1998 MFA graduate of the Columbia University School of the Arts submitted Airman Basic Training from her novel-in-progress <em>The Three Eyes of Water</em>, of which excerpts appear in Callaloo: A Journal of African Diaspora Arts and Letters and will be forthcoming in Review: Literature and Arts of the Americas.</p>

<p>The Village Voice Literary Supplement named Rosario a "Writer on theVerge" in 2001.  Her 2002 debut novel <a href="http://www.randomhouse.com/vintage/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9780375725494&<br />
view=excerpt"><em>Song of the Water Saints</em></a> won a PEN Open Book Award and was nominated for a Hurston/Wright Legacy Award.  Pulitzer-Prize winner Junot Diaz called Rosario's <em>Song of the Water Saints</em>: "An electrifying debut."</p>

<p>Powerfully written, meticulously imagined, and arresting to its core, Nelly Rosario's novel is a flame for the mind and heart, the sort you areendlessly grateful for.</p>

<p>Though Rosario has an undergraduate degree in engineering from MIT, she said, "I never left [engineering] for literature, as literature has always been with me" and is grateful for the "passion-ahead-of-profit values" embodied by the Sherwood Anderson Writer's Grant. She has taught writing at Columbia University and currently teaches at Texas State University in San Marcos.</p>

<p>In making the award each year, the foundation is carrying on a tradition started by Anderson in the last century when he helped both William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway get published initially, Spear said. Since the Sherwood Anderson Foundation started helping struggling writers in1988, it has given more than $165,000 in grants, Spear said.</p>

<p>For more about the foundation and the grant competition, visit this website: <a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org">sherwoodandersonfoundation.org</a></p>]]>
        
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<entry>
    <title>Robert Garner McBrearty - Biography</title>
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    <published>2007-09-17T22:56:36Z</published>
    <updated>2007-09-17T23:03:08Z</updated>
    
    <summary>Robert Garner McBrearty of Louisville, Colorado, is the winner of the 2007 Sherwood Anderson Foundation Fiction Award, for his three stories that are part of a book in-progress. Episode was previously published in North American Review, Teach Us was first...</summary>
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        <![CDATA[<p>Robert Garner McBrearty of Louisville, Colorado, is the winner of the 2007 Sherwood Anderson Foundation Fiction Award, for his three stories that are part of a book in-progress. <a href="/2007/09/episode_by_robert_garner_mcbre_1.php"><em>Episode</em></a> was previously published in North American Review, <em>Teach Us</em> was first published in <em>Narrative Magazine</em>, and <em>The Bike</em> is his most recent story. </p>

<p>"Of the many fiction entries in the Writer's Grant competition this year, we think McBrearty's writing is especially noteworthy for its blend of humor and pathos, and brings to American fiction many of the same strengths as Sherwood Anderson's writing," said Michael Spear, president of the Sherwood Anderson Foundation.  </p>

<p>Episode serves as the title story for his new collection of stories and describes a young man's attempt to care for his bipolar brother.  McBrearty says, "It's also about the way the past haunts us, and the different ways we interpret the past."  For <em>Teach Us</em>, McBrearty drew from his days of working as an attendant at a mental hospital.  <em>The Bike</em> explores a couple's way of dealing with grief.     </p>

<p>McBrearty started writing as a teenager and in his early twenties moved to Mexico to write and study, earning a living by teaching English.  A few years later, he graduated from the Iowa Writer's Workshop and shortly after his stories began to appear in such major literary publications as: The Pushcart Prize anthology, <em>StoryQuarterly</em>, <em>Missouri Review</em>, <em>Mississippi Review</em>, <em>New England Review</em>, <em>North American Review</em> and <em>Narrative</em>.  "A lot of those earlier stories were written late at night after working another job, or at dawn when the kids were small," he says.  "I'd tried to write before they woke up." He often draws from his upbringing in Texas and the many varied odd jobs he's had.  He lives with his wife and two sons, and teaches writing at the University of Colorado.  </p>

<p><em>Publisher's Weekly</em> noted this about his first book A Night at the Y: "The modern day Walter Mittys of these 12 humorous stories shuffle carefully from their humdrum existences into wider, more exhilarating, often quite humorous worlds." <em>The Chicago Tribune</em> said, "What threads through McBrearty's work is a humaneness toward his characters and a gentle, sometimes sad irony that pervades their world views."  The collection was also featured in the 2001 Writer's Digest Novel and Short Story Writer's Market.   </p>

<p>McBrearty's work has also been used frequently at large public readings at Stories on Stage in Denver and at the Dallas Museum of Art.  "I love the direct connection with the audience," he says.</p>

<p>The award is "immensely helpful, both financially and in the way it boosts the writing morale.  It's a tremendous reaffirmation.  I believe it will inspire my work for many years to come."  Currently, he is completing a collection of stories and two novels-in-progress.</p>]]>
        
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<entry>
    <title>Episode By Robert Garner McBrearty</title>
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    <id>tag:sherwoodandersonfoundation.org,2007://1.47</id>
    
    <published>2007-09-17T19:12:48Z</published>
    <updated>2007-09-17T19:14:05Z</updated>
    
    <summary>My older brother Len&apos;s off his meds again. I&apos;ve felt his breakdown coming the last couple of days, though my father hasn&apos;t wanted to face up to it yet. This morning Len came into my bedroom and looked at one...</summary>
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        <![CDATA[<p>My older brother Len's off his meds again.  I've felt his breakdown coming the last couple of days, though my father hasn't wanted to face up to it yet.  This morning Len came into my bedroom and looked at one of my paintings on the wall, something I'd done in art school, an abstract southwestern landscape sort of thing, and not all that great.  He stared at it, riveted, his eyes tearing up.  "That's the most beautiful painting I've ever seen," he said.  "That should be in the Dallas Museum of Art.  That should be in the Louvre."  With his strong arms, he drew me to his chest.  "I can feel that horse between my thighs.  That's me with the lance in my hands."  He moved closer to the painting, eyes round and shiny.  "No, I'm both.  I'm the Comanche and the one being chased.  God, that's brilliant!  You're a genius!"  I stared at my painting, but hard as I tried I could not see a single Comanche.  At least I had not consciously included an Indian in the painting.  There was only the prairie rolling away to the distance, and some trees and boulders and lots of colorful swirls.  He released me from his embrace, then gripped both my hands and held them in his calloused palms.  "Don't do manual labor with these," he said.  "Don't be like me.  I'll send you money when you need it." <br />
	He disappeared for the day, and now he's surfaced late at night, and we sit at the kitchen table as he sips whiskey, a vain attempt to calm himself.  Every few seconds, his hand opens and shuts like a man giving blood.  Len's thirty-two, I'm twenty-five, but since he started having his bipolar disorder a few years ago, I feel like the older brother.  He moved back home with my father a few months ago, and I'm back home this summer after grad school, trying to get my bearings and move on.  <br />
	He squints his eyes, cocks an ear, listening for something, listening maybe for the sounds of the horses' hooves, the horses carrying the Comanches back through time into a moonlight raid on our house in the hilly suburbs north of Austin.  Len had a thing about the Comanches, even when we were kids; in a kind of love and hate he'd talk in awe of them as the greatest horse warriors who ever lived.  He's been staying up all night this week, reading Larry McMurtry's Lonesome Dove trilogy, James Michener's Texas, and my mother's roots material about our family's frontier days, devouring thousands of pages of the novels and the family lore, apparently not the best reading material if you're manic.  <br />
	I take a breath, trying to steady my voice when I speak.  "Listen, Len," I say, "I talked to Dr. Wilson."<br />
	He lurches back as if stabbed, eyes widening at the mention of Dr. Wilson, the psychiatrist whom he's seen off and on for the last few years.  "That old hack?" he says.  "Doctor Electrode?  You got anybody else on the list?  I mean, Kenneth, really..."  He leans in close, breathing his whisky breath in my face, eyes turning squinty and wizened, like a con man working a deal.  "Do we have any back up?  Do we have a fucking plan here or not?"  <br />
	"I should drive you down to the hospital, Len.  You know, just get checked out."<br />
	His voice edges into bitterness.  "You mean checked in?  Whose side are you on, Kenneth?  Whose side?"<br />
	I feel my throat tightening.  "I'm on your side, Len, you know that."<br />
	 He takes another swig from his whiskey glass.  "Hey, I'm feeling good.  I can handle this.  This will all be gone in the morning.  We'll play golf.  Do you want to play golf in the morning?  Because I plan to play golf in the morning, and I'd like you to come."  He smiles too widely.  "It'll be great, playing golf with you again."  He cackles with sudden laughter.  "I'm not carrying your bag anymore!  Remember the way you used to make me carry your bag when you got tired?  You're old enough to carry your own damn bag this time!"  <br />
	I sit there, not answering, until he demands, "So do you want to play golf or not?"  <br />
	I shrug my shoulders.  "Sure, Len, whatever."<br />
	He lets out a long breath between tight lips, and leans in, eyes anxious.  "Seriously, do I seem a little weird or something?"<br />
	"Oh not, not at all.  You don't seem weird at all, Len."<br />
	His shoulders shake with quiet laughter as he gets the sarcasm, knowing I think he's being weird as hell, but the opening allows me to tell him the truth.  "Len, I think you're having an episode.  We've got to get some help."<br />
	He lowers his head, contemplates the suggestion for a moment, considers the weeks ahead in the hospital, the medications, and he sits back, squaring his shoulders as if to ward off something coming at him too fast and hard.  "It happened here," he says in a hushed voice.  "Right here.  Close your eyes.  Listen."<br />
	I stare at him, until he hisses, "Close your eyes."  <br />
	I close my eyes, and I hear a faint wind against the windows.  I hear his breathing, a heavy agitated sound.  I hear the tinkle of ice in his glass.  "Do you hear it?" he asks.  	I keep my eyes closed.  "Hear what, Len?  Hear what?"<br />
	"The screaming."<br />
	I open my eyes.  His lips tremble with excitement.  "Do you get it now?" he asks.  "It happened here, right here.  Mother knew.  She hinted at it.  She was going to break it to me first.  She knew I was the only one who could handle it."<br />
	"What are you talking about?"<br />
	"Her roots stuff she was always looking into.  Great-great Uncle Ira, the one who fought the Comanches?" <br />
	"I don't remember anything about it."<br />
	"God, how could I have missed it?  Can't you hear the screaming?  People died here.  That's what she was trying to tell me.  The house is full of spirits.  It always has been."<br />
	I shake my head.  "I just hear the wind, Len.  It's just the wind."<br />
	He smiles, nods his head with the pretend patience of one dealing with a slow-learning child.  "Remember the arrowheads we found when we were kids?"<br />
	"Mom said those were from a peaceful tribe."<br />
	 "Of course she would tell you that.  She tried to protect you."  He leans in close, eyes gouging into mine, his voice a rapid, hoarse whisper.  "She knew.  She referred to a ranch not far from here.  A ranch where Uncle Ira lived with his wife and son.  But it was here.  Our house is built right over the bloody soil.  This is where they fought and died."   	"In the kitchen?"  I rock back in my chair, creating a little more space between us.  "Holy shit, Len, you're freaking the hell out of me." <br />
	He stares at me, eyes glittering.  "They killed his wife and made off with the little boy.  He grew up with the Comanches, but he was ransomed back.  Only he was never the same.  He was wild.  He could never adjust."  Len's been hiding something in his lap and now he brings it up onto the table, a butcher knife from one of our kitchen drawers.  "They were up in the hills watching.  Then they rode in.  It was pure adrenaline back then, Kenneth.  Late at night, listening, wondering if this was the night they'd punch your ticket.  It's coming clear to me now.  My God, it all makes sense now."  <br />
	He presses the point of the knife against the Formica table and spins it.  He clasps it during its wobbly rotation.  "I like knives," he says.  "Do you like knives?"<br />
	"They're okay," I say, hearing the quiver in my voice.  "I kind of like butter knives.  Do you want me to get you a butter knife?"  	<br />
	"I've always liked sharp knives," he says.  "The beauty, the power, the symmetry."  He tests the air with the blade.  Short and thick-muscled, Len's a pretty tough guy from his years of construction work and studying the martial arts.  He's let his hair get shaggy and his ragged beard has got some streaks of blood or ketchup in it.  He stands and swoops around the kitchen, doing deep knee bends, coming up, sweeping the air with the knife.  "Come at me," he whispers to an imaginary enemy. <br />
	We hear a cough in the hallway, a clearing of a throat, and Len's face suddenly changes.  He retreats to his chair at the kitchen table, and as if some calming wax has been spread over his features, his wild eyes sink inward, his agitated brow seals into a smooth surface, and with a quick motion he hides the knife beneath his shirt.<br />
	"You boys are up late," my father says, wandering in his old bathrobe into the kitchen, going to the sink for a glass of water.  Maybe my father's seen the knife, but he doesn't let on.  I think he tells himself he hasn't seen it. <br />
	Since my mother's death a year ago, he wears an eternally fragile, bewildered expression.  He sleeps poorly, in his tattered bathrobe moves about the house like a ghost, checking doors and windows in the night.  Lately, for the first time I can remember, he seems troubled by his Korean War experiences.  He never talked about the war when we were growing up, and even now he says little, but sometimes he gets a far away look.  A couple of mornings ago he stood at the sliding glass door, looking at our large, well-cared for backyard, and he said to himself, quite clearly and distinctly, continuing an interior conversation, "He's been dead all these years.  He never had a chance."<br />
	I joined him at the glass door and asked him whom he was referring to.  My father didn't start a family until he was older than usual, and even when we were kids, he kept his distance in a detached, kindly sort of way.  But he likes being asked questions, and he always responds politely, even generously. <br />
	"Bill Richards," he said.  "One of my friends in Korea."  He took off his glasses and rubbed at his tired eyes.  "Not my best friend.  But a good friend.  A sweet guy.  Not a mean bone in his body.  Nineteen when he got killed.  I woke up thinking about him.  I've been alive all this time and he never had a chance.  He was just getting started."  He made a kind of waving gesture out at the backyard, as if to indicate all the things in life that Bill Richards never got to experience.  <br />
	He put his glasses back on.  "When did that get so dirty?" he asked.  His eyes had focused on the birdbath near the patio.  "When did the birds decide to poop all over that?"<br />
	My father's become more philosophical and introspective since my mother died.  He goes to daily Mass, and I go with him sometimes.  He likes the 6:30 dawn special.  The priest doesn't fart around at that hour; he gets the crew in and out in thirty minutes. Everybody there beside me is old, and they look beat up.  With stiff hips they hobble up for communion.  But I admire them.  They endure.  They go on. <br />
	My father sits down with us at the kitchen table, pulling up a chair between Len and me.  "What were you talking about?"<br />
	Len pinches his lips shut.  He clams up around my father.  Afraid he'll give away his secret.  That he's losing it again.  My father's always the one who ends up signing the hospital papers. <br />
	"We were talking about the frontier days," I tell my father. "The Comanches." <br />
	"Oh," my father says.  "That sure was a long time ago.  Do you boys remember when this house was first built, all the mud instead of grass?"<br />
	"It wasn't so long ago, Dad," Len says with a quaver in his voice.  "It wasn't so long ago.  Do we have to pretend it never happened?  Do we have to ignore the dead Indian on the table?"  <br />
	My father blinks and squints at the table as if looking for the dead Indian, and Len's hand reaches out to clutch my father's robe near his throat.  My father's pale, skinny chest seems to pulse.  Len stares in wonder at the robe, running the fabric between his fingers.  "That's the most beautiful robe I've ever seen, Dad."<br />
	My father chuckles.  "This old thing?"  But he sounds faintly pleased by the compliment.<br />
	Len's eyes mist over.  "You're a beautiful man, Dad.  You break my heart.  You're Saint Francis of Assissi.  I just want to take you in my arms and hold you."<br />
	My father draws his robe tighter about him, easing away from Len.  "Say, let's have some pie," he says.  "As long as we're up." <br />
	"That's a great idea, Dad."  I follow him to the refrigerator.  "Dad," I whisper, "I told you so.  Len's having an episode."<br />
	My father leans in and out of the fridge and hands me an aluminum dish with some congealed peach pie in it.  "Should we have some ice cream, too?  Do you want to get some bowls, Kenneth?"<br />
	As my father ladles ice cream over the wedges of pie, Len's poised at the table.  Listening.  Watching us.  Prepared to bolt. <br />
	We bring the bowls back to the table and my father sits between Len and me.  "Didn't your mother have something about the Comanches in her roots stuff?" my father asks.  "She used to love that old stuff, but I could never get very worked up about it.  I wish I'd paid more attention to it now, for her sake."<br />
	"You're damn right she had stuff about the Comanches," Len says, his voice cracking with righteous indignation.  "You're damn right she did!  They came howling out of the hills, dragged Uncle Ira into the night, cut off his balls and staked him out on the plains."<br />
	My father swallows a big lump of pie.  "My God," he says, "I never knew that."<br />
	"You had to read between the lines.  They killed his wife and made off with his son.  Uncle Ira survived.  But he went crazy.  He rode after them, became a vigilante.  He did terrible things.  Burned their villages.  Killed women and children.  He became a horror even to himself." <br />
	My father stares into space, holding his spoon in mid-air.  Then he says, a little sadly, "Well, it was all a long time ago, Len." <br />
	"By the time they found the boy, nobody recognized him.  Even his own father, Uncle Ira.  The boy didn't know where he belonged anymore.  He had a raccoon for a pet, but it got rabies and died.  Uncle Ira disappeared in the Gold Rush.  The boy became an outlaw, then a sheriff, or he was a sheriff and then an outlaw.  Mother wasn't clear about that.  She always wanted a happy ending.  Finally he just disappeared too.  You could read between the lines."  <br />
	We look at Len and we realize there are tears splashed on his cheeks.  My father touches Len's hand.  "You miss your mother.  I've been missing her too.  All that roots stuff.  It makes you think of her." <br />
	Len springs back from his touch, then smashes his fist down on the table.  "Are you both out of your minds?" he screams at us.  "Don't you understand anything I've been trying to tell you?  Stop pretending you don't know what happened here!" <br />
	"My God, Len, easy, son," my father says.  He reaches out to embrace Len, but Len shouts, "I will not abide it!  This is an outrage!  An outrage!"  <br />
	He pushes my father away and ducks out the sliding glass door into the backyard.  We follow him into the thick heat of a full moon's summer night in Texas.  My father raises his hand to his mouth and bites at the flesh between his thumb and index finger.  "Oh God, not again," he mutters.  "Not again."  He puts out his hand, tries to catch up with Len, who has retreated towards the flowerbed at the far side of the lawn. <br />
	"Watch it, Dad, Len's got a knife."<br />
	"He wouldn't hurt us.  He doesn't have a mean bone in his body."<br />
	"We've got to get him to the hospital, Dad, before something happens."<br />
	"Len?" my father shouts across the lawn.  "Len?"  His voice sounds like something cracking in two.<br />
	Len strides back and forth on the far side of the lawn, near the flowerbed.  We cross the yard, huge shadows floating before us.<br />
	"Wow!" he says happily.  "Fireflies!"  He grabs our shoulders like a school kid with his buddies.  "Look at all the fireflies, you guys!  Don't you love fireflies?  God, I love fireflies!"<br />
	My father and I look around as Len points.  "There!  Over there!  Do you remember putting them in jars, Kenneth?  Putting them in jars in a dark room and they glowed?"  He lightly punches my arm.  "But you always made me let them go.  You were so smart.  You were so sensitive.  God, I adore you.  You're the best person I know.  You are too, Dad.  You're the best person I know.  There's something sexy about you.  I don't mean that in any weird sort of way."<br />
	My father rubs the side of his face, as if wondering if he's missed a shave.  "I don't know why we don't have fireflies like we used to," he says.  "We used to have fireflies all over the place, and we'd come out here, all of us, and your mother..."<br />
	Len chuckles as if listening to a child.  "Don't be silly, Dad.  We still have fireflies.  Look at them!  They're everywhere!"  <br />
	My father and I stand in the warm, humid air; the yard looks much the same as always, the expanse of neat lawn, the flowerbed, the oak trees with their huge branches, the shrubs back by the alley, and the only thing amiss with the picture is that there aren't any fireflies.  Not a one.  If I were to paint the scene, I would have to imagine the fireflies.  <br />
	"Don't you see them?  Don't you see them?"  He steps between us and looks desperately at us, as if we're playing a trick on him.  "Are you guys blind?"<br />
	"Len," my father says heavily.  He frowns down at his feet, his next words seeming to leak out of his mouth one by one.  "We've got to do something about this, son."<br />
	Len recoils from us, making a cross with his fingers as if warding off a vampire. His shadow lengthens.  As he whirls around to run, he stumbles and it gives me time to catch him.  I try to tackle him, but he's twice as strong.  He sends me flying.  My father takes hold of his arm, but Len throws him to the ground.  He pins my father's chest with his tennis-shoed foot.  The knife comes out from underneath his shirt and he bends and holds it to my father's throat.  "Don't make me kill you," he says.  "Just ride off."<br />
	I ease myself towards them, afraid to come too fast.  Afraid to startle him.  I find my voice cracking.  "Please, Len, it's Dad.  It's Dad, Len." <br />
	He looks up at me, as if through a mesh screen, in the full moonlight blinking to get me in focus.  His eyes fill with tears and he shudders and drops the knife, and I move in quickly to take it away and throw it up on the patio.  He embraces my father, wedging his hands under my father's armpits and pulling him into a sitting position.  "I'm sorry, Daddy.  I'm sorry," he weeps.  "Help me, Daddy.  God help me."<br />
	"I will, son.  I will."  He cradles Len's head.  "My sweet boy..."<br />
	"I can work through this, Daddy.  Everything will be fine.  You'll see.  I'm playing golf in the morning.  Just like old times.  Like normal."<br />
	My father shakes his head, his voice coming out in a moan.  "It's not normal, Len.  Nothing's normal right now." <br />
	Len grips my father's arms, his blunt fingers digging into the flesh, his eyes wide and frightened.  "I won't make it home this time, Daddy."  He hangs his head.  "Don't leave me there.  Don't forget me." <br />
	My father's voice grows stronger.  "We'll never forget you, Len.  We'll make it home.  I promise."<br />
	"I won't go back."  He shoves my father away, and my father rocks back in the blue shadowed grass, thin pale legs beneath his bathrobe swinging up in the air like a rising see-saw.  <br />
	I dive at Len, but he breaks for it.  At the far side of the lawn, he springs nimbly over the chain-link fence into Mr. Robinson's backyard.  My father sits up with a start, as if an alarm clock has blared in his ear.  "The Doberman!" he cries.<br />
	Mr. Robinson's automatic floodlights click on and illuminate his yard.  I help my father up and we hurry after Len to the fence, in time to see the Doberman, old Jeeter, eighteen now, go into his Hound of the Baskervilles' act.  With the guttural snarl of an enraged drillmaster, he staggers stiff-legged across his turf.  He's a horrid looking thing, one-eyed, with scabby patches of orange-tinted medicated fur.  The old dinosaur moves on memory.  One last glorious mission. One last neighborhood ass to chew. <br />
	As old Jeeter bares his teeth and hunches his shoulders to leap at Len, Len gives an ear splitting karate cry, reminscent of a man being skewered alive, and launches a sidekick at Jeeter's head.  He misses, but Jeeter yelps in fear.  Tangling his legs in the retreat, Jeeter rolls like a flipped wrestler, but rage gives him youth and he springs back at Len, who yells, "Yow!" and breaks for the trampoline.  He jumps up on it, and Jeeter yaps proudly as Mr. Robinson, in his bathrobe, perennial drink in hand, comes out on the flagstone patio. He observes Len bounce up and down on the trampoline, and he gives my father and me a friendly wave.  <br />
	"Hoo boy," Mr. Robinson says with a chuckle.  "Calm down, Jeeter, you old asshole.  Don't give yourself a stroke." <br />
	Jeeter stops yapping, but he patrols the perimeter of the trampoline while Len bounds up and down, going higher and higher.  "Hi there, Mr. Robinson," Len calls from mid-air.<br />
	"Howdy, Len.  You know, I don't know if that old tramp will hold you any more.  Mostly just the grandkids use it now."  He pauses, cracks ice between his teeth.  "Little guys."<br />
	Len tucks, lands on his butt, bounces back to his feet.  "Feels okay."<br />
	Mr. Robinson chuckles.  He's got a way of cracking ice in his teeth and talking at the same time.  "Glad to know it's held up.  It just sits out in the rain.  I think the kids oil the springs sometimes when they're in town."<br />
	"Hey there, John," my father calls.  We lean over the chain-link fence and wave at Mr. Robinson.<br />
	"Hey there, Tom, Kenneth."  While Jeeter stands guard over Len, Mr. Robinson joins us at the fence.  His bathrobe, a thick, creamy beige, is in much better shape than my father's.  He's a bullish looking man of seventy-two, with thick white calves beneath the robe.  <br />
	My father clears his throat.  "I'm mighty sorry to disturb you, John.  We've got a kind of situation going on with Len again."<br />
	Mr. Robinson swings his head around to study Len bouncing high on the tramp, legs spread-eagled at the top of his flight.  "I suspected that, Tom.  Well, Len's welcome to bounce all night if it helps.  Anything I can do?"<br />
	My father sighs.  "Thank you, John.  We're mighty obliged.  He'll calm down and then we'll drive him to the hospital.  He'll be ready to go."<br />
	"Come on over.  Old Jeeter won't bite you.  This has really sparked him up.  He hasn't chased one of your boys in years."<br />
	I start to climb the fence and Mr. Robinson chuckles and cracks ice in his teeth.  "You can use the gate now, Ken."<br />
	We go out our side gate and through Mr. Robinson's into his yard and we shake hands.  His big hand engulfs mine and I feel my knuckles pop a little when he squeezes.  <br />
	"How's Annie, John?" my father asks.<br />
	Mr. Robinson gets a tight sound in his throat.  "Not so good, Tom.  Not so good."<br />
	"I'm sorry to hear that."<br />
	He shrugs, the collar of his bathrobe shifting a little around his broad neck.  "You know the score, Tom.  You fellas want a drink?"<br />
	"No thanks, John.  We'll just wait here."<br />
	"I'm going to check on Annie.  She's restless tonight."<br />
	Mr. Robinson goes inside to check on his wife.  I eye old Jeeter, but he looks nervous to be left alone with us.  He retreats to the patio and hides under the swinging bench.  <br />
	"Look at this!" Len calls.  He bounces high and turns a flip, landing neatly on his feet. <br />
	"My God, Len, don't do that," my father says.  "Do you want to hurt yourself?"<br />
	"I'm good," Len says.  "Aren't I good?"<br />
	"Sure.  But you don't need too prove anything." <br />
	"Drumroll please."  He launches another flip.  He stumbles as he lands, running forward a couple of steps, but stopping before he falls.  "Tuh dah!"  He holds his arms aloft, the Olympic winner on display.  <br />
	Mr. Robinson appears with a fresh drink.  "Len, you're going to give my insurance agent a fit." <br />
	Len talks to my father as he bounces.  "How come you didn't give me gymnastics lessons when I was a kid?  I could have amounted to something."<br />
	"I didn't know you wanted gymnastics classes."<br />
	"I did, but I just didn't know it back then."<br />
	"Would you like to come down and have a scotch, Len?"  Mr. Robinson asks.  "Or maybe some milk?  Buttermilk?  Maybe we got some old buttermilk around here, in a jar someplace.  I fancy a nice cold drink of buttermilk now and then myself..."  He frowns at his glass, jostles the liquid around a little and murmurs, "Though this works in a pinch." <br />
	"I could have been a flying Wallenda!"  The springs creak in the old trampoline as Len flies higher and higher.  He pulls his knees up, tucks his head to flip.<br />
	"No, Len!" my father cries. <br />
	He doesn't get all the way around, but crashes on his neck and shoulder.  He lets out a moan and curls into a ball.<br />
	"Len!"  Dad shouts.  "Are you hurt, son?"<br />
	"Aw hell, Tom, you're going to clean me out," Mr. Robinson says with profound resignation.  "I'll call my insurance agent.  There goes the boat."  He sighs, shakes the ice in his glass around.  "Shit.  I wanted to leave something to the kids."<br />
	I jump on the trampoline to help Len, but he rolls over the springs to the ground.  Clutching his neck like a man waking up with a terrific charley-horse, he lurches over the lawn, falls into the swimming pool, and sinks straight to the bottom.<br />
	I do a moon-walk to the other side of the tramp and jump hard to the ground, falling and skinning my knees.  As I pull my T-shirt over my head, my father pinches my arms with skinny strong fingers.  "Don't!  He'll drag you down!"  He kneels on the edge of the pool and puts his face near the water and shouts, "Get up here right now, Len!  I mean it!"<br />
	"I've got a long pole here someplace," Mr. Robinson says.  "A cleaning net.  I think I can hook him."<br />
	I jump in, feet first.  When I sink down to the bottom, I see Len doing a kind of underwater ballet act.  In a bluish light, he pirouettes, spreads his arms, operatic, Romeo beckoning to Juliet.  His hair's blown back in the water.  When he sees me, his eyes widen as if a fearsome creature has swum into God's glorious lagoon.  He slugs me in the jaw and leaps on me.  A long pole pokes into the back of my neck and a net wraps around my face.  Len gets me in a headlock and kicks us toward the surface.  He's seventeen again.  A lifeguard once more.  The best in the neighborhood.  The best everything. <br />
	He drags me out and throws me on the tiles bordering the pool.  He frees my face from the cleaning net, begins to administer CPR, but then jumps back in horror.  His finger traces the long scar on my chest from my heart surgery when I was a child.<br />
	"They cut his heart out!" he shrieks.  <br />
	As Len runs for the street side of the corner lot, Jeeter streaks out from under the swinging bench like a torpedo released from its chute.  Len's a step ahead as he hits the fence.  He leaps to hurdle it and howls as he lands.  He's caught on the fence, straddling it, while Jeeter gnaws at his jeans.  Len topples free and limps into the night, running beneath the full moon, a crazed scout turned loose on the neighborhood.<br />
	Mr. Robinson holds his cleaning net like a lance.  "Well, this has been a hell of a night," he says. <br />
	He leads us to the gate.  Old Jeeter struts behind.  He growls low in his throat, gives me a last malevolent glare.  Next time, punk, he warns.  Next time. <br />
	Mr. Robinson shakes my father's hand.  "Good luck, Tom.  Come back for a drink sometime.  Don't be a stranger, Ken."<br />
	An apparition appears on the lawn.  A woman all in white, aglow in the moonlight.<br />
	"Are the boys home?" a trembling voice calls.  "Is it the boys?"  She opens her arms to us, her white nightgown full of billowy loose folds.<br />
	"Oh hell," Mr. Robinson mutters.  "Go inside, Annie," he calls.  "Go inside."  He gives me a sudden, forceful hug, drawing me into a thick neck scented with aftershave.  "Go find him, Kenneth.  Find him!"<br />
	He turns to comfort his wife.  She's on her knees, sobbing near the trampoline, and he lifts her gently under the arms and leads her inside.<br />
	We back my father's sedan out of the garage.  I drive in my wet clothes, and my father pulls his bathrobe tighter about his throat.<br />
	We prowl the neighborhood.  It's a nicely established neighborhood now, new when I was growing up, a mix of ranch and two-story brick houses.  One house up the block has white columns in front, but it has always stood out as pretentious.  <br />
	We catch glimpses of Len hiding behind trees, darting down alleyways.  Our headlights zoom in on him as he crouches behind some trash cans.  He shields his eyes with his arm, then runs. <br />
	He crosses Bandera Road into a rough part of town.  Shotgun homes.  Peeling paint.  Broken machinery in the yards.  The oaks and willows press hard to the road, branches untrimmed, and our lights sweep into the shrubbery alongside the houses, probe into the secret places.	<br />
	A new brick apartment building has gone up.  It has a gentrified look, an attempt to reclaim this part of town.  But a keg party's underway on the balustrade and revelers spill in and out of open doorways.<br />
	My father adjusts the flaps of his robe over his thighs.  "When did this all happen?" he asks.  "When did it all happen?"<br />
	Our headlights catch up with Len as he races across a weedy, vacant lot.  Deer-like, he freezes a moment before sprinting off again, and for a moment I feel like I enter his world.  One oak ahead in the distance.  A lone runner on the prairie, arms raised to take an arrow in the back, the hooves of the horses pounding after him. </p>]]>
        
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<entry>
    <title>Past Winner: Robert Garner McBrearty</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2007/09/robert_garner_mcbrearty.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/cgi-bin/mt/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=1/entry_id=43" title="Past Winner: &lt;em&gt;Robert Garner McBrearty&lt;/em&gt;" />
    <id>tag:sherwoodandersonfoundation.org,2007://1.43</id>
    
    <published>2007-09-17T17:02:31Z</published>
    <updated>2008-09-22T01:46:19Z</updated>
    
    <summary>Writer Robert Garner McBrearty of Louisville, Colorado, is the 2007 winner of the annual $15,000 Sherwood Anderson Writer&apos;s Grant, Michael M. Spear, co-president of the Sherwood Anderson Foundation, has announced. &quot;Of the many fiction entries to the Writer&apos;s Grant competition...</summary>
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        <category term="Past Winner" />
    
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        <![CDATA[<p><img src="/images/mcbrearty.jpg" alt="2007 Winner, <a href="Robert Garner McBrearty" title="2007 Winner, Robert Garner McBrearty" class="floatimgleft" />Writer <a href="/2007/09/robert_garner_mcbrearty_biogra.php">Robert Garner McBrearty</a> of Louisville, Colorado, is the  2007 winner of the annual $15,000 Sherwood Anderson Writer's Grant,  Michael M. Spear, co-president of the Sherwood Anderson  Foundation,  has announced.</p>

<p>"Of the many fiction entries to the Writer's Grant competition this year, we think McBrearty's writing is especially noteworthy for its blend of humor and pathos, and  brings to American fiction many of the same strengths  of Sherwood Anderson's writing," Spear said.</p>

<p>McBrearty, a native of San Antonio, Texas, and a 1981 MFA graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop,  submitted three short stories from a book he is working on titled, <em>The Bike</em>, <em>Teach Us</em>, and <a href="/2007/09/episode_by_robert_garner_mcbre_1.php"><em>Episode</em></a>. The latter is the title of the book.  Some stories from the new collection in-progress have already been published in the <em>North American Review</em>, <em>StoryQuarterly</em>, and <em>Narrative Magazine</em>.  </p>

<p>McBrearty won the Pushcart Prize in 1983 and has received three subsequent nominations for that prize. </p>

<p>McBrearty's first collection, <em>A Night at the Y</em>,  received glowing reviews from <em>Publisher's Weekly</em> and the <em>Chicago Tribune</em>, which called it a "warm and engaging collection."</p>

<p>McBrearty called the writer's award a  reaffirmation of his work.  "It will serve as an inspiration for my future work," he said. He teaches writing at the University of Colorado in Boulder.</p>

<p>In making the award each year, the foundation is carrying on a tradition started by Anderson in the last century when he helped both William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway get published initially, Spear said.</p>

<p>Since the Sherwood Anderson Foundation  started helping struggling writers in 1988, it has given more than  $150,000 in  grants, Spear said. </p>

<p>Among former Writer's Grant winners who have received significant recognition in recent years are Randall Kenan, Ron Rash, <a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/jacob_appel.php">Jacob Appel</a> and <a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/karen_fisher.php">Karen Fisher</a>, Spear said. </p>

<p>For more about the foundation and the grant competition, visit this web site: <a href=http://www.sherwoodandersonfoundation.org>sherwoodandersonfoundation.org</a></p>]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Foundation History</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/the_sherwood_anderson_foundati.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/cgi-bin/mt/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=1/entry_id=1" title="Foundation History" />
    <id>tag:sherwoodandersonfoundation.org,2006://1.1</id>
    
    <published>2006-07-16T16:02:50Z</published>
    <updated>2006-08-14T15:57:18Z</updated>
    
    <summary>In the mid-1980s, first- and second-generation members of Sherwood Anderson&apos;s family decided to use royalties from Sherwood Anderson&apos;s books to help writers. It was an obvious decision that followed a course that Anderson himself took during his lifetime. In order...</summary>
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        <![CDATA[<p>In the mid-1980s, first- and second-generation members of Sherwood Anderson's family decided to use royalties from Sherwood Anderson's books to help writers. It was an obvious decision that followed a course that Anderson himself took during his lifetime. In order to do this, the family established the Sherwood Anderson Foundation, a non-profit trust.<br />
Anderson helped both William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway get published when they were getting started. Faulkner reportedly asked Anderson to read his manuscript and Anderson replied, "Look, I'll send it to my publisher, as long as I don't have to read it." Joke or not, he knew talent when he saw it and wasted no time supporting it. It should be mentioned that both writers later parodied Anderson's work -- Faulkner with <em>Mosquitoes</em> and Hemingway with <em>Torrents of Spring</em>. Faulkner and Anderson were later reconciled.</p>

<p>Anderson continues to incur writer and reader interest. An August 1998 issue of Newsweek, in commenting on the recent list of the 100 best 20th Century novels in English, called the short stories that make up Anderson's <em>Winesburg, Ohio</em> (listed 24th) "our own favorite neglected masterpieces." Well-known writers when asked to lend their support to the foundation readily did so. Norman Mailer wrote back immediately, saying: "I would not hesitate to support something that was connected with Sherwood Anderson. Winesburg Ohio was one of the most important books in my developing life." Studs Turkel said something similar, and so it went.</p>

<p>The founding members of the foundation were Anderson's daughter Marion Anderson Spear, first secretary-treasurer; and grandchildren Michael M. Spear, first president; David M. Spear, first vice president; and trustees Karlyn Spear Shankland, Elizabeth Anderson, Margaret Anderson Stuart. Charles Modlin and Hilbert Campbell, both Anderson scholars at Virginia Tech, also lent early support to the effort.</p>

<p>The foundation has been giving grants and scholarships to developing writers since 1988. <strong>Deadline for grant applications is April 1 of each year.</strong> If you would like to be considered for a grant, see <a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/how_to_compete_for_a_grant.php">How to Compete</a>.</p>

<p><strong>Michael M. Spear<br />
Co-president<br />
Sherwood Anderson Foundation<br />
216 College Road, Richmond, Va. 23229</strong></p>

<p>If you have questions about contributing, you can contact him at 804 282 8008 or by e-mail: <a href="mailto:Mike Spear <mspear@richmond.edu>">mspear@richmond.edu</a>. The non-profit foundations's tax identification number is 59-1717970.</p>

<p>Other current foundation officials are David Spear, co-president and treasure, and trustees Elizabeth Anderson, Karlyn Spear Shankland, Anna Spear McKean, Michael Abraham Anderson Spear, Linda Hobson, Robert Jolly, and Margaret Anderson Stuart.</p>

<p>Honorary trustees include Norman Mailer, Studs Terkel, Kim Townsend, Paul Shankland, Tippe Spear Therrien, and Susie Spear Cloos.</p>]]>
        
    </content>
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<entry>
    <title>Sherwood Anderson Foundation Grant Writing Winners</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/sherwood_anderson_foundation_g.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/cgi-bin/mt/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=1/entry_id=7" title="Sherwood Anderson Foundation Grant Writing Winners" />
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    <published>2006-07-15T20:06:17Z</published>
    <updated>2008-09-29T19:18:10Z</updated>
    
    <summary>Valerie S. Golightly (1988)An undergraduate student enrolled at the University of Richmond. King Andrews (1989)An undergraduate student enrolled at N.C. State University. Gillian Kim Ashley (1990)An undergraduate student enrolled at East Carolina University, and Pamela Johnson, an undergraduate student enrolled...</summary>
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        <category term="Grant Winners Over the Years" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/">
        <![CDATA[<h3 class="pastwinnername">Valerie S. Golightly <span class="date">(1988)</span></h3>An undergraduate student enrolled at the University of Richmond.
 
<h3 class="pastwinnername">King Andrews <span class="date">(1989)</span></h3>An undergraduate student enrolled at N.C. State University.
 
<h3 class="pastwinnername">Gillian Kim Ashley <span class="date">(1990)</span></h3>An undergraduate student enrolled at East Carolina University, and Pamela Johnson, an undergraduate student enrolled at Methodist College.
 
<h3 class="pastwinnername">Karen Coats <span class="date">(1991)</span></h3>A graduate student enrolled at Virginia Tech.
 
<h3 class="pastwinnername">Patricia Snell <span class="date">(1992)</span></h3>An undergraduate student enrolled at George Mason University.
 
<h3 class="pastwinnername">Dawn Radford <span class="date">(1993)</span></h3>A graduate student enrolled at the University of North Carolina at Wilmington.
 
<h3 class="pastwinnername">Debra Allbery Gildea <span class="date">(1994)</span></h3>A graduate student at the University of Virginia who published a book of her poems Walking Distance in 1991.
 
<h3 class="pastwinnername">Randall Kenan <span class="date">(1995)</span></h3>A lecturer at Columbia University and Sarah Lawrence College who has published two books A Visitation of Spirit and Let the Dead Bury Their Dead.
 
<h3 class="pastwinnername">Ron Rash <span class="date">(1996)</span></h3>A lecturer at Tri-County Tech, a two-year college in Pendleton, S.C., who published a book of short stories The Night the New Jesus Fell to Earth in 1994. He has also published a number of poems in magazines around the country.
 
<h3 class="pastwinnername">Gail Pollock <span class="date">(1997)</span></h3>A resident of Trinidad, Colo., she is working on a screenplay for Kit Brandon, Sherwood Anderson's novel, published in 1936, about the bootleg industry in the South during Prohibition. Pollock has had extensive experience as a film editor in New York and has been involved in the production of numerous features and documentaries.
 
<h3 class="pastwinnername">Kamil Turowski <span class="date">(1998)</span></h3>A native of Poland and a resident of Athens, Ohio, who has produced a film adaptation of Nobody Knows, a story in the Anderson book Winesburg, Ohio. Turowski hopes to adapt more of the Winesburg stories to film.
 
<h3 class="pastwinnername">Tammy Greenwood <span class="date">(1999)</span></h3>A native of Vermont, currently lives in San Diego, Calif., where she works part-time for a computer software company. Her first novel Breathing Water was published in May by St. Martin's Press. She is currently working on a second novel.
 
<h3 class="pastwinnername">Paola Corso <span class="date">(2000)</span></h3>A native of the Pittsburgh area, currently lives in Brooklyn with her husband, Michael, and son, Giona. Corso teaches creative writing at Fordham University and has written a story collection, Giovanna's 86 Circles, and two novels, The River in Me and San Procopio.
 
<h3 class="pastwinnername">Doug Crandell <span class="date">(2001)</span></h3>A grant writer and instructor of poetry and literature in a community mental health program in Georgia, is the author of numerous poems and short stories, including If He Is a Slave.
 
<h3 class="pastwinnername">Joseph Bathanti <span class="date">(2002)</span></h3>An associate professor of creative writing at Appalachian State University in Boone, N.C, has written most recently the novel, East Liberty, winner of the 2001 Carolina Novel Award. He is also the author of four books of poems, the most recent of which, This Metal, was nominated for the National Book Award.
 
<h3 class="pastwinnername">Peggy Payne <span class="date">(2003)</span></h3>Is author of Sister India, a New York Times Notable Book of the Year, and of a second novel Revelation, as well as co-author of The Healing Power of Doing Good, a Literary Guild selection.  A resident of Apex, North Carolina, she has published articles,  reviews, or essays in magazines including  Ms., Family Circle, Cosmopolitan, Travel & Leisure, and has published in most of the major American newspapers.  She offers consulting services to other writers on manuscripts and marketing through wwwpeggypayne.com.
 
<h3 class="pastwinnername">Mary Beth Caschetta <span class="date">(2004)</span></h3>Lives in Massachusetts, where she is finishing her first novel. She is the author of Lucy on the West Coast (Alyson Publications, 1996) Interrelated stories from her new collection, What's Not My Fault? have appeared in the Missississippi Review, the Red Rock Review, Bloom Magazine, and Blithe House Quarterly. A recipient of several writing awards, including the W.K. Rose Fellowship for Emerging Artists (2000), Ms. Caschetta makes her living as a copywriter in medical advertising and communications. She has been an adjunct instructor at Fordham University, Vassar College, and New York University.

<h3 class="pastwinnername"><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/jacob_appel.php">Jacob M. Appel</a> <span class="date">(2005)</span></h3>Jacob lives  in New York City. His short fiction has appeared in Agni, Colorado Review, Florida Review, Raritan, Southwest Review, Story Quarterly and elsewhere. He is a graduate of the MFA program in fiction at New York University, and teaches at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island, and the Gotham Writers' Workshop in New York City. His website is: <a href="http://jacobmappel.com">http://jacobmappel.com</a>.

<h3 class="pastwinnername"><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/karen_fisher.php">Karen Fisher</a> <span class="date">(2006)</span></h3>Fisher writes and raises children, trains horses, and builds houses with her husband on Lopez Island, Washington.  Her debut novel, <em>A Sudden Country</em>, in addition to winning the Sherwood Anderson Writer's Grant, was a finalist for the 2005 PEN/Faulkner Award. It won the 2006 Mountains and Plains Booksellers Association Best Fiction Award  and the 2006 Virginia Commonwealth University's First Novel Award.

<h3 class="pastwinnername"><a href="/2007/09/robert_garner_mcbrearty.php">Robert Garner McBrearty</a> <span class="date">(2007)</span></h3>Robert Garner McBrearty lives in Louisville, Colorado, with his wife and two children. His short stories have appeared in major literary publications including The Pushcart Prize, Missouri Review, Mississippi Review, and New England Review. His first book of shorts stories, A Night at the Y, received glowing reviews from Publisher's Weekly and the Chicago Tribune, which called it a "warm and engaging collection."  His new collection of stories-in-progress is called <a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2007/09/episode_by_robert_garner_mcbre_1.php">Episode</a> and includes a story by that title, previously published in North American Review,  and "Teach Us, " which first  appeared in Narrative Magazine. Those stories were included in his entry for the Anderson Award. Other stories from the new collection were first published in StoryQuarterly and Green Hills Literary Lantern.  McBrearty teaches writing at the University of Colorado at Boulder.

<h3 class="pastwinnername"><a href="/2008/09/nelly_rosario.php">Nelly Rosario</a> <span class="date">(2008)</span></h3>Nelly Rosario  (2008)
Nelly Rosario was born in the Dominican Republic and raised in Brooklyn, New York.  She received a BS in engineering from MIT and an MFA from Columbia University. She has received numerous awards, including a 1999 Barbara Deming Memorial Fund Fellowship, two National Arts Club Writing Fellowships, and a Hurston/Wright Award in Fiction.  She was named "Writer on the Verge" by the Village Voice Literary Supplement in 2001.  Her debut novel <a href="http://www.randomhouse.com/vintage/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9780375725494&
view=excerpt"><em>Song of the Water Saints</em></a> won a PEN Open Book Award in 2002.  Currently she teaches at Texas State University in San Marcos.]]>
        
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<entry>
    <title>Past Winner : Jacob Appel</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/jacob_appel.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/cgi-bin/mt/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=1/entry_id=6" title="Past Winner : &lt;em&gt;Jacob Appel&lt;/em&gt;" />
    <id>tag:sherwoodandersonfoundation.org,2006://1.6</id>
    
    <published>2006-07-15T17:51:41Z</published>
    <updated>2006-08-17T20:23:59Z</updated>
    
    <summary>The 2005 winner of the annual $15,000 Sherwood Anderson Writer’s Grant is Jacob Appel of New York City, Michael M. Spear, co-president of the Sherwood Anderson Foundation, has announced. “Of the more than 40 fiction entries to the Writer’s Grant...</summary>
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        <category term="Past Winner" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/">
        <![CDATA[<p><img src="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/images/jacobappel.jpg" alt="Winner of the Sherwood Anderson Foundation 2005 grant, Jacob Appel" title="Winner of the Sherwood Anderson Foundation 2005 grant, Jacob Appel" class="floatimgleft" />The 2005 winner of the annual $15,000 Sherwood Anderson Writer’s Grant is Jacob Appel of New York City,  Michael M. Spear, co-president of the Sherwood Anderson  Foundation, has announced.</p>

<p><span class="pullquote">“Of the more than 40  fiction entries to the Writer’s Grant competition this year, we think Appel’s  short stories <a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/the_frying_finn_by_jacob_m_app.php">&#8220;The Frying Finn&#8221;</a>, <a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/measure_of_sorrow_by_jacob_m_a.php">&#8220;Measures of Sorrow&#8221;</a>  and  &#8220;The Ataturk of the Outer Boroughs&#8221; best illustrate the thoughtful, quirky simplicity and the economy of effect that Anderson himself used in his “Winesburg, Ohio” stories,” Spear said.</spam></p>

<p>Appel has published regularly in the last half dozen years in publications that range from medical and law to literary reviews.  He is the 17th recipient of the annual grant, which the foundation began  awarding  to emerging writers in 1988.</p>

<p><span class="pullquote">“The award will give me a momentary reprieve from the tasks of breadwinning and an opportunity to concentrate fulltime on my writing,” Appel said.  “ I am currently working on a novel set on the barrier islands off Florida's Gulf Coast, also the setting of many of my short stories.  When this project finally comes to fruition, it will owe a great debt of gratitude to the Sherwood Anderson Foundation for its generosity.”</span></p>

<p>In making the award each year, the foundation is carrying on a tradition started by Anderson in the last century when he helped, both William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway get published initially, Spear said.</p>

<p>Appel teaches a course at Columbia University titled  “Challenges in Bioethics,” and a course at Brown University titled “Medicine, Law and Morality.”</p>

<p>Among former  Writer’s Grant winners who have received significant recognition in recent years are Randall Kenan and Ron Rash, Spear said. </p>]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>The Sherwood Anderson Review</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/the_sherwood_anderson_review.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/cgi-bin/mt/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=1/entry_id=5" title="The Sherwood Anderson Review" />
    <id>tag:sherwoodandersonfoundation.org,2006://1.5</id>
    
    <published>2006-07-15T17:21:44Z</published>
    <updated>2006-08-04T15:45:46Z</updated>
    
    <summary>The Sherwood Anderson Review, now archived, was an expanded version of The Winesburg Eagle, which began publication in November 1975, edited by Professor Welford D. Taylor at the University of Richmond. Its appearance coincided with events in 1976 that observed...</summary>
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        <category term="The Sherwood Anderson Review" />
    
        <category term="The Winesburg Eagle" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/">
        <![CDATA[<p>The Sherwood Anderson Review, now archived, was an expanded version of The Winesburg Eagle, which began publication in November 1975, edited by  Professor Welford D. Taylor at the University of Richmond. Its appearance coincided with events in 1976 that observed the centenary of Anderson's birth. The announced purpose of the Eagle was "to help further Anderson scholarship and to broaden interest in the man and his work."</p>

<div class="sareview"><ul class="sareviewlist"><li class="reviewheader">Issues</li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_1996.php">Summer 1996 <span class="date">(Eagle)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_1997.php">Winter 1997 <span class="date">(Eagle)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_1997.php">Summer 1997 <span class="date">(Eagle)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_1998.php">Winter 1998 <span class="date">(Eagle)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_1998.php">Summer 1998 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_1999.php">Winter 1999 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_1999.php">Summer 1999 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_2000.php">Winter 2000 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_2000.php">Summer 2000 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_2001.php">Winter 2001 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_2001.php">Summer 2001 </a><span class="date">(Review)</span></li></ul></div>

<p>In 1987, the editing of the Eagle was assumed by Professors Charles E. Modlin and Hilbert H. Campbell at Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University. They have since retired and Modlin has since died. The Review continued into the 1990s in much the same manner as the Eagle with semi-annual (winter and summer) issues containing critical and biographical essays relating to Anderson and his circle, newly edited texts, book reviews, photographs and art work, an annual Anderson bibliography, and coverage of the activities of the Sherwood Anderson Foundation and other organizations relating to Anderson.</p>

<p>The Review is available from the list to your right.</p>]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Sherwood Anderson&apos;s Major Books</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/sherwood_andersons_major_books.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/cgi-bin/mt/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=1/entry_id=4" title="Sherwood Anderson's Major Books" />
    <id>tag:sherwoodandersonfoundation.org,2006://1.4</id>
    
    <published>2006-07-14T17:09:08Z</published>
    <updated>2006-08-02T14:25:24Z</updated>
    
    <summary>Windy McPherson&apos;s Son (1916)In the restaurant the young man began talking of himself. He was a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania. His father had died while he was yet in school and had left him a modest fortune, upon...</summary>
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        <![CDATA[<ul><li><img src="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/images/windymcphersonsson.jpg" alt="Windy Mcpherson's Son" title="Windy Mcpherson's Son" class="floatbookleft" /><h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0252063570/103-4361115-2267035?v=glance&n=283155">Windy McPherson's Son</a> <span class="date">(1916)</span></h3>In the restaurant the young man began talking of himself. He was a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania. His father had died while he was yet in school and had left him a modest fortune, upon the income of which he lived with his mother. He did no work and was enormously proud of the fact.<br /><br />

<p><img src="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/images/marchingmen.jpg" alt="Marching Men" title="Marching Men" class="floatbookleft" /><h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1406508705/sr=1-1/qid=1153505594/ref=pd_bbs_1/103-4361115-2267035?ie=UTF8&s=books">Marching Men</a> <span class="date">(1917)</span></h3>It is evening and the people of Chicago go home from work. Clatter, clatter, clatter, go the heels on the hard pavements, jaws wag, the wind blows and dirt drifts and sifts through the masses of the people. Every one has dirty ears. The stench in the street cars is horrible. The antiquated bridges over the rivers are packed with people. The suburban trains going away south and west are cheaply constructed and dangerous. A people calling itself great and living in a city also called great go to their houses a mere disorderly mass of humans cheaply equipped. Everything is cheap. When the people get home to their houses they sit on cheap chairs before cheap tables and eat cheap food.</p>

<p><img src="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/images/midamericanchants.jpg" alt="Mid-American Chants" title="Mid-American Chants" class="floatbookleft" /><h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0974450340/sr=1-1/qid=1153591349/ref=sr_1_1/103-4361115-2267035?ie=UTF8&s=books">Mid-American Chants</a> <span class="date">(1918)</span></h3>Originally published in 1918, <em>Mid-American Chants</em> is Sherwood Anderson's first book of poems. Undeniably influenced by Walt Whitman, Anderson seeks in this collection to sing of the "heart" (geographically) of the United States, and to sing of the rising age of industrialism. The lines are long, and the rhythms almost prosiac; in fact, some view these poems as prototypical American prose poems.</p>

<p><img src="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/images/winesburgohio.jpg" alt="Winesburg, Ohio" title="Winesburg, Ohio" class="floatbookleft" /><h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0192839772/sr=1-2/qid=1153591492/ref=pd_bbs_2/103-4361115-2267035?ie=UTF8&s=books">Winesburg, Ohio</a> <span class="date">(1919)</span></h3><em>Winesburg, Ohio</em> (1919) is Sherwood Anderson's masterpiece, a cycle of short stories concerning life in a small town at the end of the nineteenth century. At the center is George Willard, a young reporter who becomes the confidant of the town's solitary figures. Anderson's stories influenced countless American writers including Hemingway, Faulkner, Updike, Oates and Carver. This new edition corrects errors made in earlier editions and takes into account major criticism and textual scholarship of the last several decades.</p>

<p><img src="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/images/poorwhite.jpg" alt="Poor White" title="Poor White" class="floatbookleft" /><h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0811212424/sr=1-1/qid=1153591877/ref=pd_bbs_1/103-4361115-2267035?ie=UTF8&s=books">Poor White</a> <span class="date">(1920)</span></h3>Hugh arose and stood in the moonlight in the cabbage field, his arms still going stiffly up and down. The great length of his figure and his arms was accentuated by the wavering uncertain light. The laborers, aware of some strange presence, sprang to their feet and stood listening and looking. Hugh advanced toward them, still muttering words and waving his arms. Terror took hold of the workers. One of the woman plant droppers screamed and ran away across the field, and the others ran crying at her heels. "Don't do it. Go away," the older of the French boys shouted, and then he with his brothers also ran.</p>

<p><img src="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/images/triumphofthegg.jpg" alt="The Triumph of the Egg" title="The Triumph of the Egg" class="floatbookleft" /><h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0766195082/sr=1-1/qid=1153592171/ref=sr_1_1/103-4361115-2267035?ie=UTF8&s=books">The Triumph of the Egg</a> <span class="date">(1921)</span></h3>Anderson, whose prose style, derived from everyday speech, influenced American short story writing between World Wars I and II. He directed the American short story away from the neatly plotted tales of O. Henry and his imitators. The stories in The Triumph of the Egg are characterized by a casual development, complexity of motivation, and an interest in psychological process. Anderson also made his name as a leading naturalistic writer with his masterwork, Winesburg, Ohio, a picture of life in a typical small Midwestern town, as seen through the eyes of its inhabitants.</p>

<h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0742655016/sr=1-3/qid=1153593038/ref=sr_1_3/103-4361115-2267035?ie=UTF8&s=books">Horses and Men</a> <span class="date">(1923)</span></h3>

<h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0742655016/sr=1-3/qid=1153593038/ref=sr_1_3/103-4361115-2267035?ie=UTF8&s=books">Many Marriages</a> <span class="date">(1923)</span></h3>

<p><img src="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/images/astorytellersstory.jpg" alt="A Story Teller's Story" title="A Story Teller's Story" class="floatbookleft" /><h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0766199770/sr=1-1/qid=1153598135/ref=pd_bbs_1/103-4361115-2267035?ie=UTF8&s=books">A Story Teller's Story</a> <span class="date">(1924)</span></h3>Anderson, whose prose style, derived from everyday speech, influenced American short story writing between World Wars I and II. He directed the American short story away from the neatly plotted tales of O. Henry and his imitators. A Story Teller's Story is Anderson's own tale of an American writer's journey through his own imaginative world and through the world of facts, with many of his experiences and impressions among other writers-told in many notes-in four books and an Epilogue.</p>

<h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0006AWTKS/sr=8-2/qid=1153760853/ref=sr_1_2/002-9438223-7029627?ie=UTF8">Dark Laughter</a> <span class="date">(1925)</span></h3>

<h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0849501121/sr=1-2/qid=1153761029/ref=sr_1_2/002-9438223-7029627?ie=UTF8&s=books">Modern Writer</a> <span class="date">(1925)</span></h3>

<h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00085D3NS/sr=1-2/qid=1153761107/ref=sr_1_2/002-9438223-7029627?ie=UTF8&s=books">Sherwood Anderson's Notebook</a> <span class="date">(1926)</span></h3>

<h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/999740601X/sr=1-1/qid=1153761176/ref=sr_1_1/002-9438223-7029627?ie=UTF8&s=books">Tar: A Midwest Childhood</a> <span class="date">(1926)</span></h3>

<h3 class="booktitle">A New Testament <span class="date">(1927)</span></h3>

<h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0883050390/sr=1-1/qid=1153761359/ref=sr_1_1/002-9438223-7029627?ie=UTF8&s=books">Alice and the Lost Novel</a> <span class="date">(1929)</span></h3>

<h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0911858040/sr=1-1/qid=1153761423/ref=sr_1_1/002-9438223-7029627?ie=UTF8&s=books">Hello Towns!</a> <span class="date">(1929)</span></h3>

<h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0841429863/sr=1-1/qid=1153761519/ref=sr_1_1/002-9438223-7029627?ie=UTF8&s=books">Nearer the Grass Roots</a> <span class="date">(1929)</span></h3>

<h3 class="booktitle">The American County Fair <span class="date">(1930)</span></h3>

<h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0911858059/sr=1-2/qid=1153761803/ref=sr_1_2/002-9438223-7029627?ie=UTF8&s=books">Perhaps Women</a> <span class="date">(1931)</span></h3>

<h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0871409917/sr=1-1/qid=1153761946/ref=sr_1_1/002-9438223-7029627?ie=UTF8&s=books">Beyond Desire</a> <span class="date">(1932)</span></h3>

<p><img src="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/images/deathinthewoods.jpg" alt="Death in the Woods" title="Death in the Woods" class="floatbookleft" /><h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0871401851/sr=1-3/qid=1153762156/ref=sr_1_3/002-9438223-7029627?ie=UTF8&s=books">Death in the Woods</a> <span class="date">(1933)</span></h3>Still fresh and strikingly contemporary, the stark realism of these stories carefully explores the dreams and emotions of Sherwood Anderson's unforgettable characters. In Death in the Woods, we travel deep into the heart of America as Anderson saw it, to find an introspective man, in a desolate landscape, questioning the very meaning of his world. "Death in the Woods is a signal junction in Anderson's career and is to my mind one of the finest stories in our language." — Jim Harrison.</p>

<h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0911858067/sr=1-1/qid=1153762502/ref=sr_1_1/002-9438223-7029627?ie=UTF8&s=books">No Swank</a> <span class="date">(1934)</span></h3>

<h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0911858075/sr=1-1/qid=1153762574/ref=sr_1_1/002-9438223-7029627?ie=UTF8&s=books">Puzzled America</a> <span class="date">(1935)</span></h3>

<h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000859BYI/sr=1-1/qid=1153762629/ref=sr_1_1/002-9438223-7029627?ie=UTF8&s=books">Kit Brandon</a> <span class="date">(1936)</span></h3>

<h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000BPMIZO/sr=1-1/qid=1153762698/ref=sr_1_1/002-9438223-7029627?ie=UTF8&s=books">Plays, Winesburg and Others</a> <span class="date">(1937)</span></h3>

<h3 class="booktitle">Hometown <span class="date">(1940)</span></h3>

<h3 class="booktitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000FIEBJI/sr=1-3/qid=1153763279/ref=sr_1_3/002-9438223-7029627?ie=UTF8&s=books">Sherwood Anderson's Memoirs</a> <span class="date">(1942)</span></h3></li></ul>]]>
        
    </content>
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<entry>
    <title>How to Compete for a Grant</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/how_to_compete_for_a_grant.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/cgi-bin/mt/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=1/entry_id=3" title="How to Compete for a Grant" />
    <id>tag:sherwoodandersonfoundation.org,2006://1.3</id>
    
    <published>2006-07-14T17:06:36Z</published>
    <updated>2006-08-11T15:12:13Z</updated>
    
    <summary>The Sherwood Anderson Foundation has been helping developing writers since 1988 in order to honor, preserve, and celebrate the memory and literary work of Sherwood Anderson, American realist of the first half of the twentieth century. The amount of the...</summary>
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        <name>Webmaster</name>
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    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/">
        <![CDATA[<p>The Sherwood Anderson Foundation has been helping developing writers since 1988 in order to honor, preserve, and celebrate the memory and literary work of Sherwood Anderson, American realist of the first half of the twentieth century. </p>

<p>The amount of the award each year depends on a number of factors, including the investment market.  The 2005 award was $15,000.  Applications must arrive postmarked no later than April 1 of each year.  The winner will be announced the following September 1 on the foundation's web site.  If the applications are not deemed to have high literary merit, no award will be made in that year.</p>

<p>To apply, you should have published at least one book of fiction or a collection of short stories published in major literary and/or commercial publications. Self-published stories do not qualify. There is no form to complete, but send a detailed resume that provides a bibliography of your publications.  Include a cover letter that provides a history of your writing experience and your future plans for writing projects.  Also, submit two or three examples of what you consider to be your best work.  We accept manuscripts only in English.  Do not send your work by e-mail. </p>

<p>An application fee of $20 should be made payable to The Sherwood Anderson Foundation.  No manuscripts or publications will be returned.  Mail your application and fee, payable by check, to:<br />
                                   <br />
<strong>The Sherwood Anderson Foundation Fiction Award<br />
C/O Michael M. Spear<br />
Foundation Co-President<br />
216 College Road<br />
Richmond, Va. 23229</strong></p>]]>
        
    </content>
</entry>

<entry>
    <title>Past Winner : Karen Fisher</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/karen_fisher.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/cgi-bin/mt/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=1/entry_id=42" title="Past Winner : &lt;em&gt;Karen Fisher&lt;/em&gt;" />
    <id>tag:sherwoodandersonfoundation.org,2006://1.42</id>
    
    <published>2006-07-10T20:14:41Z</published>
    <updated>2007-09-17T17:06:06Z</updated>
    
    <summary>The 2006 winner of the annual $15,000 Sherwood Anderson Writer’s Grant is Karen Fisher of Lopez Island, Washington, Michael M. Spear, co-president of the Sherwood Anderson Foundation has announced. Fisher’s winning entry is titled, A Sudden Country, a novel she...</summary>
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        <name>Webmaster</name>
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        <category term="Past Winner" />
    
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        <![CDATA[<p><img src="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/images/karenfisher.jpg" alt="Winner of the Sherwood Anderson Foundation 2006 grant, Karen Fisher" title="Winner of the Sherwood Anderson Foundation 2006 grant, Karen Fisher" class="floatimgleft" />The 2006 winner of the annual $15,000 Sherwood Anderson Writer’s Grant is Karen Fisher of Lopez Island, Washington, Michael M. Spear, co-president of the Sherwood Anderson Foundation has announced.</p>

<p>Fisher’s winning entry is titled, <em>A Sudden Country</em>, a novel she began in 1991 and one in which she taught herself to write with the encouragement of independent film producer Laurie Parker, she said. While going through numerous revisions over the years, she said she also worked with her husband, Dave, building houses to support their family, which includes three children. </p>

<p>The foundation felt that the novel was well worth waiting for, Spear said.  It is the story of an 1847 journey made by an Iowa family on the Oregon Trail in a covered wagon with other families.   “The book is vivid, complex and dramatic, and offers excellent period details and believable expressions of consciousness under different and often extreme circumstances,” Spear said.   “These circumstances include smallpox, fear, repression, drunkenness, hostility and love.”</p>

<p>Fisher worked on the novel under a narrow margin of affluence, she said, adding that there were many ordinary jobs that supported and informed her writing. “The award was unexpected, and maybe even inexplicable, but it’s unbelievably welcome, “she said.</p>

<p>She is now working on her second novel, titled <em>The Burning Tree</em>.  In it, she will take up the story of the American West in the years following the Civil War. Set in Idaho’s Nez Perce reservation, it is based on the true story of two middle-aged women sent west to enforce the government’s new policy of “Indian Allottment.”  she said.<br />
      Fisher is the winner of the 2006 Virginia Commonwealth University First Novel Award  and winner of the 2006 Mountains and Plains Booksellers Association Award. She is a 2006 finalist in the Pen/Faulkner Award and the 2006 Spur Award. Find out more about her and read excerpts of her writing at this site. <a href="http://www.asuddencountry.com/">asuddencountry.com</a><br />
     In making the award each year, the foundation is carrying on a tradition started by Anderson in the last century when he helped both William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway first get published, Spear said.</p>]]>
        
    </content>
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<entry>
    <title>Summer 2000</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_2000.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/cgi-bin/mt/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=1/entry_id=23" title="Summer 2000" />
    <id>tag:sherwoodandersonfoundation.org,2006://1.23</id>
    
    <published>2006-07-08T22:55:47Z</published>
    <updated>2006-08-04T16:21:21Z</updated>
    
    <summary>Impressions of an Inauguration by Sherwood Anderson The Education of Sidney Adams: Anderson&apos;s &quot;Letters to Cynthia&quot; by Charles E. Modlin The Old Teacher&apos;s Story by Al Craz How Sherwood Anderson Saved My Career by Will Schuck Anderson Foundation Awards Corso...</summary>
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        <name>Webmaster</name>
        <uri>http://solidhang.com</uri>
    </author>
    
        <category term="Summer 2000" />
    
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        <![CDATA[<ul><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/impressions_of_an_inauguration.php">Impressions of an Inauguration by Sherwood Anderson</a></li>
<li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/the_education_of_sidney_adams.php">The Education of Sidney Adams: Anderson's "Letters to Cynthia" by Charles E. Modlin</a></li>
<li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/the_old_teachers_story_al_craz.php">The Old Teacher's Story by Al Craz</a></li>
<li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/how_sherwood_anderson_saved_my.php">How Sherwood Anderson Saved My Career by Will Schuck</a></li>
<li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/anderson_foundation_awards_cor.php">Anderson Foundation Awards Corso</a></li>
<li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/from_the_river_in_me_span_clas.php">From "The River in Me" by Paola Corso</a></li></ul>

<p>Al Craz is a retired teacher and Anderson collector, residing in East Moriches, New York. Will Schuck is a corporate communications writer living in Avon Lake, Ohio. He is director of The Anderson Project, a community literacy center planned for Elyria, Ohio.<br />
Their essays show that Sherwood Anderson's ideas are still applicable in the twenty-first century marketplace!<br />
Paola Corso received the 2000 Sherwood Anderson Foundation award at the North Carolina Writers Network annual conference in Raleigh, North Carolina, on November 11. She teaches creative writing at Fordham University and, as her autobiographical sketch in this issue indicates, has published extensively.<br />
Anderson's first published story, "The Rabbit-pen," was re-published in Harper's 300 (April 2000): 84-87. It originally appeared in the July 1914 issue of Harper's.<br />
Additional copies of Sherwood Anderson's "Honeymoon Journal and Other Early Writings, 1904," published in the inagural issue of the Sherwood Anderson Review in 1998, are available for $4. They may be ordered from Sherwood Anderson Review, Department of English, Virginia Tech, Blacksburg, Virginia 24061-0112.</p>

<p><strong>Other Issues</strong><ul><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_1996.php">Summer 1996 <span class="date">(Eagle)</span><a/></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_1997.php">Winter 1997 <span class="date">(Eagle)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_1997.php">Summer 1997 <span class="date">(Eagle)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_1998.php">Winter 1998 <span class="date">(Eagle)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_1998.php">Summer 1998 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_1999.php">Winter 1999 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_1999.php">Summer 1999 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_2000.php">Winter 2000 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_2000.php">Summer 2000 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_2001.php">Winter 2001 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_2001.php">Summer 2001 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li></ul></p>]]>
        
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<entry>
    <title>Summer 2001</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_2001.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/cgi-bin/mt/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=1/entry_id=15" title="Summer 2001" />
    <id>tag:sherwoodandersonfoundation.org,2006://1.15</id>
    
    <published>2006-07-08T19:33:20Z</published>
    <updated>2006-08-02T23:04:49Z</updated>
    
    <summary>A Speech at Boulder: Number Two by Sherwood AndersonSherwood Anderson, Once of Clyde by Edith BrillantThe Sherwood Anderson Literary Center by Will SchuckA Chapter from Mother Belle by Doug CrandellWhat Say! Other IssuesSummer 1996 (Eagle)Winter 1997 (Eagle)Summer 1997 (Eagle)Winter 1998...</summary>
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        <category term="Summer 2001" />
    
    <content type="html" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/">
        <![CDATA[<ul><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_2001_a_speech_at_boulde.php">A Speech at Boulder: Number Two by Sherwood Anderson</a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_2001_sherwood_anderson.php">Sherwood Anderson, Once of Clyde by Edith Brillant</a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/the_sherwood_anderson_literary.php">The Sherwood Anderson Literary Center by Will Schuck</a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/a_chapter_from_mother_belle_by.php">A Chapter from Mother Belle by Doug Crandell</li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/what_say.php">What Say!</a></li></ul>

<p><strong>Other Issues</strong><ul><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_1996.php">Summer 1996 <span class="date">(Eagle)</span><a/></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_1997.php">Winter 1997 <span class="date">(Eagle)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_1997.php">Summer 1997 <span class="date">(Eagle)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_1998.php">Winter 1998 <span class="date">(Eagle)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_1998.php">Summer 1998 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_1999.php">Winter 1999 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_1999.php">Summer 1999 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_2000.php">Winter 2000 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_2000.php">Summer 2000 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_2001.php">Winter 2001 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_2001.php">Summer 2001 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li></ul></p>]]>
        
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<entry>
    <title>The Story of Sherwood Anderson and Valenti Angelo By Ray Lewis White</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/the_story_of_sherwood_anderson.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/cgi-bin/mt/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=1/entry_id=35" title="The Story of Sherwood Anderson and Valenti Angelo &lt;span class=&quot;author&quot;&gt;By Ray Lewis White&lt;/span&gt;" />
    <id>tag:sherwoodandersonfoundation.org,2006://1.35</id>
    
    <published>2006-07-04T21:10:56Z</published>
    <updated>2006-08-13T22:22:58Z</updated>
    
    <summary>On March 11, 1932, Sherwood Anderson, fifty-five, left his rented room in Marion, Virginia, to begin another of the lecture tours by which he supported himself whenever his writings failed to sustain his modest needs. The author of Winesburg, Ohio...</summary>
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        <![CDATA[<p>On March 11, 1932, Sherwood Anderson, fifty-five, left his rented room in Marion, Virginia, to begin another of the lecture tours by which he supported himself whenever his writings failed to sustain his modest needs. The author of Winesburg, Ohio (1919), The Triumph of the Egg (1921), and Horses and Men (1923) was still famous enough to draw to his lectures sufficient paying listeners to keep his tours profitable to himself and to his lecture agent; but Anderson dreaded the fatigue of extended train travel and the difficulty of lecturing enthusiastically before social clubs (especially women's clubs) and academic audiences unresponsive to his increasingly revolutionary political concerns as the Great Depression of 1929 more and more seriously devastated America's economically disadvantaged.</p>

<div class="sareview"><ul class="sareviewlist"><li class="reviewheader">Winter 2000</li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/the_story_of_sherwood_anderson.php">The Story of Sherwood Anderson and Valenti Angelo By Ray Lewis White</a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/broken_by_t_greenwood.php">Broken By T. Greenwood</a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/the_fairhope_cabin_by_david_sp.php">The Fairhope Cabin By David Spear</a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/whos_who.php">Who's Who</li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/what_say_2.php">What Say!</a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/another_fugutive_anderson_publ.php">Another "Fugutive" Anderson Publication By Hilbert H. Campbell</a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/the_sherwood_anderson_review.php"><strong>All issues</strong></a></li></ul></div>

<p>Having earlier in 1932 lectured in New York City and in Washington, D.C., Anderson on this western tour would travel thousands of miles and lecture in several cities, among them Detroit, Chicago, Evansville, Urbana, Tucson, Los Angeles, Portland, and Salt Lake City. Occasionally he would lecture more than once in a city; and in Los Angeles he would lecture to several groups, often speaking more than once each day. Then, defeated by his overwork in Los Angeles and depressed by his dislike of that plastic and meretricious city, Anderson on April 9 made his way north to San Francisco.</p>

<p>To see art works by Angelo, click here<br />
Sherwood Anderson's 1932 stay in San Francisco, from April 9 through May 14, would prove to be among the happiest experiences of his life, for in San Francisco Anderson found a beautiful and exotic city, he met people friendly to the arts and to individualism tempered by social concern, and he found reunion with his fiancee and renewal of their secret love. For since 1929 Sherwood Anderson, yet legally tied to his third wife, had been in love with another woman -- with a career social worker for the YWCA, a woman from a prominent family in Marion, Virginia, one who had returned the older writer's love and had led him into sharing through his speeches and writings the radical economic concerns that she held. But, because Eleanor Copenhaver's demanding research work in San Francisco for the YWCA involved a survey of the employed and unemployed working women of the area and because the YWCA was, despite its economic liberalism, a morally conservative organization, Eleanor had to be discreet in her travels and her meetings with Sherwood, for her employers could fire her for such immoral conduct as having an affair with a married man who was several years her senior and considered by the public to be religiously questionable and politically extremist.</p>

<p>In San Francisco, while Eleanor Copenhaver worked at her labor statistics, Sherwood Anderson enjoyed wandering over the lovely city and the Bay area; and he enjoyed meeting liberal writers, lawyers, newspaper editors, artists, and Bohemians. But his closest friendship in San Francisco developed with the booksellers and fine printers Leon Gelber and Theodore M. Lilienthal, who had in 1925 as The Lantern Press published Anderson's small book The Modern Writer; and on April 25, 1932, Gelber and Lilienthal introduced Anderson to a young book illustrator and designer whom Anderson, always eager to meet young artists whose work and manner pleased him, cultivated over the rest of his stay in San Francisco.</p>

<p>The young artist whom Anderson met was Valenti Angelo, who at their first meeting told Anderson his life-story -- of birth in 1896 in Tuscany; of his father's disappearance to hunt for wealth in Brazil; of his sudden reappearance with money to bring his family to America in 1905; of their settling in Antioch, California, a town where young Valenti, though quite poor, became enamored of beautiful books and fine printing; of his onerous work in various factories in California; of his move to San Francisco to work in hotels and bakeries while absorbing the culture of the city; of his establishing a studio where he could learn to paint; and of his need to support himself through photo-engraving and, eventually, book design. In 1926, Angelo had met and begun working for Edwin and Robert Grabhorn, printers of fine books in San Francisco; and over the next six years the artist had designed for the Grabhorn brothers more than forty books and many broadsides and ephemera; and it was toward the end of his Grabhorn Press period that Angelo met and came to be influenced by Sherwood Anderson.</p>

<p>So much impressed was Anderson with the personality and art of Angelo that the writer at first introduction bought from the young man a painting of a factory workman with wife and child and a distant factory, a painting that Anderson liked so much that he placed it before him in his San Francisco hotel room while he began writing a lengthy attack on fellow writers and other artists blind to economic injustice and political repression.</p>

<p>So much did Sherwood Anderson, repeatedly visiting Valenti Angelo to admire his work, come to enjoy the art pieces on view that he commissioned the young artist to attempt in a medium new to him -- in terra-cotta -- a bust of Eleanor Copenhaver, his beloved, a busy woman who was yet able to find time in her work and her affair with Anderson to pose, reluctantly, several times at the Valenti home, where she, a modest woman who preferred to work for the disadvantaged more than to indulge herself in any attention to her appearance, was understandably nervous about sessions with the sculptor and his family and friends, a sculptor who time and again had to rework his model busts to capture her evanescent beauty . . . all the while the watching Sherwood Anderson longed to dip his own hands into the clay to sculpt the head and shoulders of his lover.</p>

<p>Not only did Anderson enjoy the admiration that he as a famous writer received from Valenti Angelo, but he strongly encouraged the young artist to devote himself, while still living by designing expensive books for buyers with rich tastes, to painting the subjects that he knew best and should most sympathize with -- the workers in American factories who were more worthy of attention, Anderson believed, than landscapes or portraits or abstract designs. Whether Angelo had already by the spring of 1932 decided to leave book design to concentrate on his painting is unclear; but, already concerned with painting the factory workers and their families among whom he had lived, Angelo took Sherwood Anderson's advice and followed that advice after Anderson had to leave San Francisco, on May 15, 1932, with the bust of Eleanor Copenhaver yet to be finished and fired and shipped to her family home in Marion, Virginia.</p>

<p>Although Valenti Angelo shipped to the east on May 31, 1932, what he called his terra-cotta "portrait" of Eleanor, the work for some reason did not reach Anderson and the Copenhaver family in Virginia until August 14, a delay which caused anxiety to the young sculptor who was still following in San Francisco Sherwood Anderson's advice to paint mostly factory scenes. Impressed with the finished bust except for some details of the mouth, Anderson inexcusably did not acknowledge receipt of the package from San Francisco until October 4, several weeks after Angelo had nerved himself to ask the busy writer to contribute a statement of appreciation for the catalog of an exhibit of the painter's work, an exhibit to be held in the Vickery Atkins and Torrey gallery in San Francisco. With less grace than could be desired, Anderson on October 21 responded to photographs of several Angelo paintings sent to him by Leon Gelber; and the letter that Anderson mailed to Gelber became, if belatedly, the introduction for the Angelo exhibit, mounted from November 14 through December 3:</p>

<p><strong>A Letter From Sherwood Anderson</strong></p>

<p>I hear that Valenti Angelo is to have an exhibition of paintings and drawings in San Francisco and I am writing this letter to say how much I admire the man and his work.</p>

<p>I was in San Francisco last year and for some weeks lived there, putting the finishing touches on a novel, and it was at that time that I first saw Angelo's work. I have very little money but immediately bought one of his paintings and carried it off to my room. It stayed with me while I worked there and I brought it home to hang over my desk. I found the painting very warm & living and as the months passed it has grown more alive. It represents very perfectly what good painting means to me. Valenti Angelo has been touched and moved by men at work. These builders & miners & makers he sees with his painter's eyes, connecting them with skies and hills and trees. There is surely here a connection -- man and nature -- man in the modern world we are making.</p>

<p>To get back the dignity of our living again. This man Valenti creating that in paint. Valenti's painting got me and, as you know, I did try to express my appreciation and my belief in the only sensible direct way we can express it now -- by immediately buying one of his paintings.</p>

<p>I think there is power of feeling in these paintings & that the power goes out of them into a room and returns into them. I think we Americans need this kind of painting and this kind of painter. I think we need such paintings in our houses. I do. They are reaching for some lost dignity in man and, in reaching, help bring it back.</p>

<p><strong>Sherwood Anderson</strong></p>

<p>In generous response to Sherwood Anderson's exhibit tribute, Valenti Angelo mailed the author, with his appreciation and compliments, The Girl with the Bird, a painting of a girl holding a canary, a picture that Anderson had earlier suggested be called, after one of his own stories, The Triumph of the Egg. Then, after several months of no correspondence with Anderson, Angelo on September 23, 1933, mailed the writer a catalog of his second exhibition in San Francisco, with the statement that he had in his painting turned substantially away from "industrial subjects" -- the kind of subjects that Anderson had in the past spring so strongly encouraged the painter to devote himself to.</p>

<p>It is possible that Sherwood Anderson and Valenti Angelo met again, after San Francisco, for Angelo moved himself and his family to New York City late in 1933; and Sherwood Anderson and his new wife, Eleanor Copenhaver Anderson, visited and worked in that city; but there are no records of a continuing friendship between the mutually admired and admiring artist and writer. Though intense, their fine association centered on a happy month in San Francisco in the spring of 1932.</p>

<p>Yet Valenti Angelo did maintain until his death in 1982 a good memory of Eleanor Copenhaver Anderson. When Angelo learned in 1975 of the forming of the Sherwood Anderson Society, he wrote Eleanor from his home back in San Francisco that "Sherwood should be remembered among the greats of America" and that "I often think of our meeting and the modeling of your portrait. That was a long, long time ago. . . ."</p>

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<entry>
    <title>Summer 1999</title>
    <link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_1999.php" />
    <link rel="service.edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/cgi-bin/mt/mt-atom.cgi/weblog/blog_id=1/entry_id=34" title="Summer 1999" />
    <id>tag:sherwoodandersonfoundation.org,2006://1.34</id>
    
    <published>2006-07-04T21:08:30Z</published>
    <updated>2006-08-04T21:09:45Z</updated>
    
    <summary>Two Versions of the &quot;American Stuff&quot;: Sherwood Anderson and William Carlos Williams by Christopher MacGowan &quot;Dear, you are making yourself a very charming woman&quot;: Anderson&apos;s Letters to His Daughter, 1929-1933 by Hilbert H. Campbell What Say! Will Schuck&apos;s Anderson Project...</summary>
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        <category term="Summer 1999" />
    
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        <![CDATA[<ul><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/two_versions_of_the_american_s.php">Two Versions of the "American Stuff": Sherwood Anderson and William Carlos Williams by Christopher MacGowan</a></li>
<li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/dear_you_are_making_yourself_a.php">"Dear, you are making yourself a very charming woman": Anderson's Letters to His Daughter, 1929-1933 by Hilbert H. Campbell</a></li>
<li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/what_say_1.php">What Say!</a></li>
<li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/will_schucks_anderson_project.php">Will Schuck's Anderson Project</a></li></ul>

<p><strong>Other Issues</strong><ul><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_1996.php">Summer 1996 <span class="date">(Eagle)</span><a/></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_1997.php">Winter 1997 <span class="date">(Eagle)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_1997.php">Summer 1997 <span class="date">(Eagle)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_1998.php">Winter 1998 <span class="date">(Eagle)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_1998.php">Summer 1998 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_1999.php">Winter 1999 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_1999.php">Summer 1999 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_2000.php">Winter 2000 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_2000.php">Summer 2000 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/winter_2001.php">Winter 2001 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li><li><a href="http://sherwoodandersonfoundation.org/2006/07/summer_2001.php">Summer 2001 <span class="date">(Review)</span></a></li></ul></p>]]>
        
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