It may be hibernation season, but I can feel the literary world heating up again–professors building syllabi, organizational emails flying. I’m participating in some of that planning energy toward two local events in the next month: “Writing from the Underworld” at Rockbridge Regional Library branch three blocks from me (1/29, 5:30-7:00, a short reading followed by a free workshop), and, an hour’s drive away in Charlottesville, a panel discussion called “Guardians of Wonder: Writing What We Must Not Lose,” sponsored by the Botanical Garden of the Piedmont (2/6, live music starting at 6:30 pm). Thanks to an NEA grant (what a miracle to win one this year!), the garden is giving away copies of You Are Here: Poetry in the Natural World to the first 125 people who register to attend. Both were invitations rather than events I pitched or applied for. A nice effect of my 2025 travel seems to be that people think of me for events more often.
“Writing from the underworld”–not just mycocosms but whatever lurks below our visible lives–certainly fits my January mood. I want to be writing, and I feel intensely introspective, but it’s hard to warm myself up into language. To get started after a break, I often circle around like a dog seeking a comfortable position, chasing whatever dim sparks distract me. I had trouble even doing that this week because I’m so upset by escalating political horrors. I’d promised myself to check the news less often–surely morning and evening is enough–but then what’s happened by 5 pm so thoroughly knocks the wind out of me, maybe that’s not the right strategy. It’s almost as if contemporary media is ingeniously designed to bait and hook a person at the neurological level. Consumer, stay in your phone-cave!
At least I’m reading. I’ve spent this week with some terrific recent poetry collections I picked up at the Punch Bucket Lit Fest in Asheville in September, including Sara Moore Wagner’s daring poems about Annie Oakley in Lady Wing Shot and Han VanderHart’s spare and heartbreaking Larks. Soon I’ll read collections I bought at AWP 2025, followed by books authored by poets I’ll co-panel with at AWP 2026 in Baltimore. It’s fun to group books around events I was and will be part of, as a way of remembering and anticipating. I’ve also been mesmerized by a few novels, most recently The Sleeping Land by Ella Alexander, chosen from Lit Hub’s 100 Notable Small Press Books of 2025: the mini-review said it’s “about three archaeology graduate students vying for the attention and admiration of their charismatic advisor as they travel to Siberia…This story is controlled and deliberate in its delivery yet also wildly imagined and unhinged.” The voice is entertaining, the pacing suspenseful, and bonus: they’re exploring a haunted cave!
I also, via another invitation born of 2025 connections, have a Zoom reading coming up in the Bardic Trails series run by Art Goodtimes (Zoom link not posted yet but it will be soon on the Telluride Institute’s literary calendar). That’s 7 pm Central Time/ 9 pm Eastern on February 3rd. I attended Dane Cervine’s reading in the series this week and it was a medium-sized crowd with warm and engaging vibe, so I’m looking forward to it, even though 9 pm is late for aging East-Coasters. Audience members have the option of delivering one of their own poems after the reading and Q&A, which steps up the heat, too.
In the meantime, the main creative fire at hand is a glow of rumination, considering projects rather than producing pages. I’m booking travel for my April Storyknife residency in Alaska, too, with a few days tacked to one end for looking around–exciting but complex work, when I know so little about the state. And, of course, there’s the January joy of writing inspiring documents such as my annual faculty activities report. I counted thirty-three Mycocosmic–related professional events last year, so hunkering down in my lair is surely the right move for now, even though I spotted a patch of spring crocus this morning–lovely but too early. Is there a way to stay inward and focused while bearing witness to democracy’s death-rattle? I don’t know how.
Here’s to trying to consider how my light is spent–and spend it on fires I genuinely want to fan. Sorry I’m mixing metaphors, but like lots of us, I’m a mixed-up bear, tossing and turning with unnerving dreams.
LESLEY WHEELER 