The Appalachian Holiness Friendship Connection Tabernacle

She would never understand the god-awful red carpet. The only other place she’d seen carpet like this was in the Funeral Home when her great-grandmother died. Not just the crimson color, but the spongy texture that sunk down with each step. Along with the red stained glass windows and red pew cushions, Kathleen felt like she was inside of a giant human lung. She held her breath waiting for it to collapse.

The singing was over this morning and she sat counting the lightbulbs of the gaudy chandeliers. There were always 24, but this week if the center chandelier fell it would land on Mrs. and Mr. Letonek. Kathleen envisioned herself hurling the couple out of the way just before the chandelier crushed their fragile bodies. This would ensure that Mrs. Letonek would still have a purse full of peppermint candies next Sunday. The Letoneks were sitting in Aunt Bonnie’s usual spot but Aunt Bonnie never had candy and wasn’t her real Aunt anyway, so the chandelier usually landed on her leg or one of her fat arms. Kathleen would try to push her to safety but the weight of her round waist made it impossible and while Kathleen didn’t want blood on her hands, even in her imagination, she knew she couldn’t realistically save Aunt Bonnie entirely.

Kathleen uncrossed her legs and the pew gave a small squeak. She froze, her eyes bouncing to the left waiting to catch her mother’s Medusa stare. A few strands of hair around her mother’s ear was the only movement she detected. She turned her eyes back to Reverend Davis who stood gripping both sides of the wooden pulpit. “The blood of Christ,” he was saying “cleanseth the evil of our hearts and taketh away all evil desires.” Amens were murmured on cue.

For the one hundredth time that day Kathleen looked down at the small diamond ring on her left hand. Joe’s proposal hadn’t been a surprise, but she’d never dreamed he’d buy a ring. Last night they had stood next to his beat up truck in the high school parking lot, she still wearing her white dress and graduation robe, him in his suit and tie. He bent down on one knee and she had to try not to laugh when he winced from the gravel. In his thick rural Pennsylvania accent, he whispered that as they started their adult life, he wanted them to start it together. She knew she loved Joe, but in this moment of deciding to become his wife she felt a mix of
joy, liberation, panic and nausea. Her parents adored Joe. Joe’s dad and her own had been on the same softball team before her mother made her father give it up. And once Joe had been baptised in their church he won over her mother with his polite and quiet steadiness. Joe wasn’t the problem. Their combined 35 years of age wasn’t the problem. The problem was a simple gold band with a small clear diamond.

As Joe drove her home to the white farm house, she turned to him suddenly and said, “Listen, I’m already wearing white, and it’s only 5 O’clock. Let’s just go see the Presbyterian Pastor and get this thing over with.” Joe had laughed. “You know your mum would kill you.” “She’s going to kill me anyway over this stupid ring, so I might as well die a married woman.” Joe laughed again. “Let’s give your folks a chance. They’ll come round.” As she said goodbye to him from the driveway, he had promised to help smooth things over at church the next morning. Still she had stood on the grass in front of the porch, worrying her lip, until finally, she

slipped the ring off her finger and tucked it into the pocket of her sweater before climbing the steps to her front door.

Kathleen felt a tug on her dress and looked down to see her mother’s bony fingers straightening the hem over her knees. Her mother’s gaze never left the preacher’s face as her right hand did the Lord’s bidding. Kathleen turned her eyes back to the pulpit, hoping her mother would leave her be. She had loved this dress last summer. It was a hand-me-down from an older cousin who quickly grew out of it leaving it barely worn. The first time Kathleen had put it on, her sister and mother had raved while she did a twirl for them in the kitchen. Blue and white gingham checks with a large white collar, no sleeves, and a hem that hit well above the knee made her feel like a true 1960s woman. For the month of June she had worn the dress to family picnics, her father’s softball games, and Friday night dinner dates with Joe. She almost took it to summer camp with her, but her mother convinced her of the dangers of grass stain and bonfire smoke. So, she had lovingly hung it in her closet as she packed for her last summer camp before her senior year of high school.

This dress was to be her gateway to womanhood but now here she sat, white cotton sleeves sewn on, ruffles added to the hem, and an extra button at the base of her neck. She felt like a blue gingham nun. The shock from her first seeing the alterations to the beloved dress washed over her again. Joe had dropped her off in front of the familiar farmhouse with her knapsack full of dirty camp clothes and her pillow tucked under one arm. Glad to be home she’d run inside only to find a mother whose short hair had been bobby pinned into a bun at the base of her neck, a father wearing a button up shirt on a Saturday, a younger brother who’d been pulled from the wrestling team, and worst of all, a jeans-loving sister wearing a long skirt, a braid, and pantyhose. Kathleen’s room had been ransacked. Every pair of pants or shorts thrown out. The hems taken out of every dress and several awful long skirts added to her wardrobe. Not even her underwear drawer was safe, seven pairs of nude colored pantyhose sat folded in a neat pile next to her bras.

She had taken the blue gingham atrocity from the closet and sat heavily on the bed. “Listen, Kathy,” came her mother’s voice form the doorway. “What’s done is done.” Her mother explained the family’s recent salvation, baptism, sanctification. Kathleen had stared as these unfamiliar words circled around her. “Likewise,”her mother quoted from 1 Timothy “the women are to dress in suitable apparel with modesty and self-control. Their adornment must not be with gold or pearls or expensive clothing” Kathleen had listened remembering that only a few months before she had focused the family’s new camera on this same woman wearing high-waisted short shorts and a polka dot midriff baring top, smoking a cigarette and leaning against a beautiful Ford Mustang at the county car show. This woman who swore, fought fiercely with her father, and cheated at card games.

“She still cheats at card games.” Kathleen thought glancing at her mother who was nodding her head at whatever Reverend Davis had just said. This morning her mother wore a navy blue skirt that reached almost to her ankles. a white blouse with a high collar and a pale yellow

cardigan with the sleeves pushed up just below her elbows. Somehow, despite the hot June sun, her mother had willed her body not to sweat. Her hair as always was in a tight bun. The other women in the church used bobby pins and hair spray to create waves and volume. Anything that could make a bun more interesting without crossing the line into vanity. Even Mrs. Davis, the preacher’s wife styled her hair with a large poof at her forehead that gave her a good three inches of height. Just past her mother’s profile Kathleen could see her father’s large red nose and thinning hair line. His face gleamed and he used his blue handkerchief to wipe his forehead.

That large forehead and soft blue eyes gave away every emotion. Last night as Kathleen had entered the kitchen her father had been sitting at the kitchen table, his Bible open, wrinkles of concern waving across that forehead. Her mother cleaning as she cooked gave a sharp hello and asked her to set the table. Kathleen timidly took down a stack of plates and as calmly as possible shared her good news without mentioning the diamond ring tucked in her pocket. Her father had let out a whistle and said “Is that right?.” Kathleen knew he was only pretending to be surprised as he wrapped her in a sweaty hug. Her mother slowly took Kathleen’s face in her hands and kissed her on the cheek. “He’ll be a godly husband.” She’d said. Kathleen had basked in this moment of joy knowing the atmosphere of the small kitchen would darken in a moment. She took the ring out and said softly, “I think I’m going to wear this.” She’d had no time to prepare a speech and her words faded out leaving nothing but the sound of summer frogs through the open window. Her father with raised eyebrows had looked quickly at her mother. Kathleen cringed waiting for the explosion of her mother’s raised voice. Waiting for her mother to blame her father who would be left in tears, worried for the salvation of his oldest daughter.

Instead her mother said softly, “Well, you know how we feel about earthly adornment. But you’re old enough to decide and no one else can walk the narrow path for you. It’s between you and God now.”

Kathleen’s memory faded as a soft hymn began to play from the piano. Preacher Davis was calling for those who felt convicted to come forward and kneel at the altar. His voice trembled as he pleaded for the lost sinners. Kathleen felt her mother’s eyes on her and her cheeks went hot. For a moment she felt her back stiffen and meld with the wooden pew, determined to stay in her seat. Her father leaned forward and gave her a reassuring smile. Those blue eyes loving but holding the weight of worry for a lost daughter. As Kathleen stared at her father she felt her body move. She rose and with halting steps made her way down the red carpeted aisle of the small sanctuary.

Kathleen knelt to the ground in front of the alter; her knees resting on the wooden step and grasped the railing that separated herself from the stage. Eyes closed, she held her breath ready for the oppressive weight of guilt. For God’s voice to thunder. For her mother’s bony fingers to pry the gold band from her hand. In the swirl of darkness at the backs of her eyelids

Kathleen began to see a face.Her mother’s sharp featured, but faintly smiling face. “It’s between you and God.” The face said. Kathleen’s shoulders relaxed.

A shadow fell across her closed eyes and she felt the weight of two cold hands on her shoulders. Mrs. Davis, the pastor’s wife, whispered in her soft girlish way, “Kathy, until you take that ring off of your finger, God will never hear your prayers.” Kathleen’s body jerked and her eyes flew open. The smell of hairspray and baby powder wafting in swirl around her. Kathleen looked at this woman wearing a pink and white dress, red hair piled high on her head and a gold watch on her wrist. “Watches tell us the time” her mother had said last year, “they serve a purpose.”

Suddenly unable to focus, Kathleen stood. On both sides of her other sinners were kneeling. An elder of the church had laid his hands on her parents heads and were praying, no doubt, for her own salvation. She turned and looked for Joe. Aunt Bonnie whose eyes were supposed to be closed sat head bowed, staring toward the front. Mr. and Mrs. Letonek were nodding and Amening while giving off the slightest sound of crinkling candy wrappers.

Right then she remembered her white graduation dress hanging in her closet at home.

Author: Heather McEuen
Heather lives and works in Vienna with her husband and dog, Polly Esther.  She hopes you enjoy her writing, but it’s okay if you don’t.  You’ll come around.

Heather was a participant in Paul Malone’s Creative Writing on the Go Creative Writing Workshop in November.

Monday 23rd October – Open Mic and Social Meeting

Please join us for a fun filled evening of readings and socializing. Meet friends, or make new ones! This season we are very excited to expand our open mic to include stand up comedians and songwriters so if you have some material you want to test out on a fantastic crowd, don’t hesitate!

Come along and meet other creative people, take the stage, or simply sit back and enjoy the performances.

The open mic will be open for the following performances:

· poetry (max 5 minutes reading time)

· short story (max 2000 words)

· novel excerpt (max 1500 words)

· song (max 5 minutes)

· stand-up comedy (max 5 minutes)

Location: Café Korb, Brandstätte 9, 1010 Vienna ( 2 minute walk from Stephansplatz)

Date: Monday 23rd October

Time: 7.00pm to around 9.30pm

Cost: We kindly ask for between €5 and €10 contribution to cover the venue hire

For performers:

If you would like to perform on the night, please arrive at 6.45pm to put your name on the list. Please keep in mind the time / word count for performances.

We look forward to seeing you!

Writing from Life

Award winning novelist and creative writing lecturer at Goldsmiths, Ardu Vakil, based in Mumbai and London, is coming to do a workshop for us this May!

The workshop will be looking in particular at how to successfully draw from your personal life story and incorporate it into your writing. This may be in the form of memoir, using your life as inspiration, writing what you know, or simply boring details from life. 

As an introduction to Ardu Vakil and his thoughts on writing, here’s an interview I did with him over the phone earlier this week.

How old were you when you first started to write?

Twelve. In the school magazine. ‘One Night in the Life of Ardu Vakilovich’. I still have a copy somewhere.

Describe for us an early experience that taught you language had power.

My friend at school, Dilip used to ask me for help with writing love letters to a girl he had a crush on. It worked. She became his girlfriend on the strength of my flowery, purple prose.

When did you realise you could actually make a living as a writer?

In London, in 1994, after the publication of my first novel ‘Beach Boy’. It won a Betty Trask Award before it was even published. And I was contacted by the Wylie Agency to come and meet them with a view to representing me. The reality, of course, is that it is only a handful of published writers who can actually make a living solely from the income generated by sales of books.

If you could tell your younger writing self anything, what would it be?

Write as much as you can, be disciplined, force yourself to write sometimes even when you don’t want to, but don’t be judgemental and self-stricturing. Don’t keep worrying about whether something is brilliant or not.

How important is personal life experience for you? Is it the most potent tool aspiring writers have to work with?

Yes. In the beginning. You have to start, in my opinion, by making yourself and any of your experiences the stories you write. If you can’t bring your own stories alive, if you can’t make yourself an interesting character to readers, you are unlikely to be able to make up convincing, engaging situations and characters.

What’s the most challenging part of the writing process for you?

Returning every day to the work, despite being beset by anxieties and uncertainties.

Does writing energise or exhaust you, and how has it changed you over the years?

When something I have written, after months of the hard work of searching, composing and editing is finished, I read over a decent paragraph and feel a sense of wonder. It’s certainly a rare feeling.

What other authors are you friends with, and how do they help you become a better writer?

My friends and sometimes members of my family have read over my work and made helpful suggestions. Working with Creative Writing students at Goldsmiths has also been instructive and inspiring for me as a writer. Watching the growth of other people’s work and seeing what dedication to determination can achieve. Those last two are probably the most crucial aspects of writing, though they don’t guarantee success, they guarantee that you will finish the work you started.

Do you want each of your books to stand on its own, or are you trying to build a body of work with connections between each book?

I’d like my stories and books to stand on their own. Each one is a separate entity. I do intend to write a sequel to Beach Boy, but in many ways, it will be a very different kind of book.

Who is your favourite author, and why?

I think Chekhov’s stories are always improvisatory, moving and alive.

I think all writers who have any ambition should read and reread ‘Anna Karenina’.

Recently, my favourite author has been Sadat Hasan Manto.

One of your most critically-acclaimed books has been Beach Boy, dealing with your youth in what was then Bombay. What did you edit out of this book?

A scene where I went for a swim in the sea outside my childhood home and I cried a lot; my salty tears mixing with the waves. It was untrue, lachrymose, and didn’t fit with the character in the book.

What has been the hardest scene you’ve ever had to write, and why so?

Writing is most hard when you feel you have to do it and you don’t want to. For example, I know what a train station in Bombay looks like, but to have to put it into words is a struggle. How to avoid clichés? What to leave in what to leave out? Who am I writing it for? Ultimately, I go back to the characters and the story. I’m not that interested in description for its own sake, a few lines maybe, if they are really beautiful.

What was the best money you ever spent as a writer?

The most important thing money buys for a writer is time, apart from laptops!

How do you balance making demands on the reader with taking care of the reader?

I am the first and foremost reader of my work. I am an exacting reader. I don’t like being experimented on by the writer, especially if that writer is me! Much of what I have written has been pushed to one side; my own slush pile if you like. I want to be moved and I want the character and situation to be alive on the page. If that happens, I’m satisfied, if not I start anew.


How long on average does it take for you to write a book?

How long is a piece of string question?

‘Beach Boy’ took two years, start to finish, but it depends on what you mean by the ‘start’.

Faulkner wrote ‘As I Lay Dying’ in 8 weeks. Harper Lee’s second novel took 30 years, but not sure this kind of info is helpful to any writer. A writer acquaintance said to me, she always knows how many hours a novel is going to take her start to finish. That’s a little weird. She’s written three or four short novels. (100 pages each)

What’s more important for you: characters or plot?

Definitely characters. Plot is empty without character who the reader cares about.

Early bird registration for this workshop will open on Wednesday March 1, 2017. Early bird tickets for the two-day workshop, running Saturday May 6 and Sunday May 7, will be €175. Registration after April 1st will be €195. Workshop details will be posted on the site on March 1st. This workshop is limited to 12 participants and tickets are expected to sell out fast, so please contact us at to reserve a seat, or check back next week for more info!


Poetry and Story Workshop

Award winning poet Alice Miller is back for yet another workshop with Write Now! Why do we keep bringing her back? Because she is an amazing teacher, poet and all round nice person. As we are exploring storytelling through our workshops and events this year, Alice has delightfully created a workshop that does just that, and much more. Don’t miss the opportunity to work with Alice and come out with some polished poems that tell a story…

Stay tuned for an exclusive interview with Alice…

Poetry and Story

This is the bridge where at dusk they hear voices

In this class we’ll look at how different poets touch, brush against, and embrace story, through narrative devices, line, voice, or music — not only in a single poem, but also in a poetic series, or over the course of an entire book. The classes will be divided into two — the first part being an informal lecture and discussion, and the second part being a workshop of your own work. Limited to 10 participants.

Instructor: Alice Miller

Location: vienna poetry school

Every Friday for four weeks, 10 February, 2017 to 3 March

18:30pm – 20:30pm

Fee: €185

Workshop Registration Form

2016—a pivotal year for some very savvy Vienna writers

images-1This year will be unlike any other for those savvy writers who participated in Write Now’s exciting January meeting: 2016—Your Year of Amazing Writing Achievements. Facilitated by Kirsten Donaghey and myself, the meeting stepped writers through the process of creating meaningful writing goals and a realistic plan for achieving them.

Among various discussions, writers were encouraged to explore where their writer’s journey might lead them—whether they sought a lofty career as a literary novelist, or they were happier to traverse the more earthly path of the writer who simply loves to explore. Either way, a journey is best enjoyed one step at a time—mindful of the daily writing activities that gradually lead the writer to their destination. Along the way there are milestones—those sacred markers that affirm the writer’s compass is true. We explored those too. What milestones could be reached by the end of 2016? These would become each writer’s goal.

But what worthy adventure is not fraught with danger? Every writer is at least peripherally aware of the obstacles, like loose rocks on a steep mountain pass: they might cause a mighty tumble. The summit is no place for the unprepared or the foolhardy. So we discussed the obstacles (see the list below), and we listed ways of avoiding or overcoming these. Each writer weighed up the risks—were they prepared to set forth all the same?


I think everyone on the evening realised it takes a great deal of courage and perseverance to become a successful writer. And when each writer read out their plan for 2016, Kirsten and I saw the determination: they were bravely setting out on an amazing journey. To keep them in good company, we encouraged each writer to choose a buddy—another writer who would check on their progress along the way. Both writers are aiming for their respective summits. We wish them every success.

Do you have a writer’s plan for 2016? Here is the writing plan each writer developed on our planning evening:

  1. My writing goal for 2016 is…
  1. I will achieve my goal by writing…hours / week .
  1. I will write at the following times:
  1. I will monitor my writing progress by…

5,   The biggest threats to me achieving my goal are…

  1. I will avoid / overcome these by…

You should print out your plan and display it where you can see it every day. Adhered to, your plan will lead you on to amazing writing achievements.



An Evening of Critiquing

An Evening of Critiquing!

Join our May 21st Creative Meeting

19:00 at Café Kotor, Schubertring 4, 1010

Come out and practice the art of critiquing the written word! Get feedback and give feedback. We promise you will leave the meeting with refreshing insight on your work.

Don’t be shy about sharing your work. The room will be full of other writers just like you. We promote a creative environment and constructive criticism.

Participants will be divided into groups of 4 (each led by a Write Now committee member) and will critique each other’s work.

Pre-submit to ( up to a 1000 words of prose by May 14th , or bring 4 copies with you on May 21st. Pre-submitting allows your group to read your work before the meeting and perhaps offer more insightful comments.

This evening is FREE for MEMBERS and €7 at the door for NON MEMBERS.

We ask that you do inform us if you will attend as the meeting will be capped at 20 Participants. Critiquing Guidelines will be sent out to participants (and anyone else who requests them!).



“The Creative Envelope”

Invitation to our March creative writing meeting

 Write Now’s March creative writing meeting: Thursday 12th March, 7.00pm, Cafe Korb*,Vienna.

Whether you’re just starting out or an experienced writer, we hope you join us for an inspirational evening of creative writing. (Members free, €7 Non-members)

Although you need bring nothing more than something to write with and your imagination, we suggest you prepare a Creative Envelope!


 The Creative Envelope

Quite simply, the creative envelope contains daily inspirational snippets—things that catch your astute writer’s attention. Here’s how to prepare your creative envelope:

  1. Aim to insert an inspirational snippet into your creative envelope every day.
  2. Keep the snippets brief: a word, a phrase, etc.


The snippets might include: objects, feelings, expressions, names, phrases, images–whatever captures your imagination!

Paul’s example: listening to Scott Matthew’s insanely slow cover of “No Surprises”, the expression “Carbon dioxide handshake” captured my imagination. Daily snippet: Carbon dioxide handshake.

If you’re feeling particularly adventurous you might ask someone you know to add a few surprise snippets!

Note: keep the snippets small: a small strip of paper (roughly 5cm x 2cm.)

On the evening

Using their creative envelopes, writers will tap their creativity to reveal and explore text, whether poetry or prose. The evening is as much about developing insight (transcribing creative thoughts or feelings) as it is about exploring ideas and making connections to reveal form and meaning.

We’d like you to come away feeling inspired, sensing your writing has just taken another leap forward!

Don’t want to use a creative envelope?

No problems. We’ll get you writing all the same.

We look forward to seeing you on the evening!

We’d also appreciate you dropping us a line ( )to let us know you’re coming.

 * Cafe Korb: Brandstätte 9 , 1010 Vienna, downstairs

When Word Becomes Flesh

This week, some words from our very own Tamara Radak!

Five years ago, I co-wrote a play with 19 other authors, each of us between 13 and 27 years old at that time. Apart from the requirement that there should be a baby who turns up at school unexpectedly and causes considerable uproar and confusion among the teenage characters, there were no limitations as to what the text should be about. At the week-long workshop, we wrote short pieces based on automatic writing: specific or abstract images served as stimuli and we soon started creating short prose about depressed pillows, dialogues between two socks in a drawer or metaphysical explorations of the philosophical value of salt shakers. Occasionally, we would read out particularly interesting, but also hilariously silly bits and pieces from our collections. In this process of reading out not only polished and perfect set pieces, but also very immediate and honest drafts, we not only ended up bonding over the powerful language of literature, but also creating characters and story lines for what was later to become the Schrilles Herz, without having to sit through endless weeks and months of solitary drafting and editing. At the premiere, we were still somewhat dumbfounded that we had actually succeeded in creating a more or less coherent play. The feeling of hearing my own words on stage, intertwined with and in dialogue with those of others and even eliciting emotional responses from the audience is something I will never forget.