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Jasmine Rizer is a writer and illustrator.

Recently a friend of mine had spoke of her current writers block, asking if I had any advice that may help overcome a creative drought. Racking my brain for an answer, nothing immediately surfaced. For all my experience writing, I realized that in matters concerning writers block, I have no particular technique to overcome it. In fact, writers block had never struck me as much of an issue. When inspired, I write, otherwise I am perfectly content waiting on that one perfect sight, or flash of brilliance which might ignite my mind.

After a few moments of thought, I gave her the only insight I could muster, which I would like to share with the reader now.

Creativity is not married to the artist, she is but the mistress, involved in a drawn out affair. She comes from time to time and dances the night away, but when the sun rises and sweet Creativity disappears, there is no obligation that she ever return. All the artist can do is sit back and hold tight to the hope that one day she will indeed come back for more.

Thats it! The perfect answer, the only advice I have to give any artist. The greatest art is never forced, it's not an equation one may solve at a moments whim. So don't let those weeks without inspiration gnarl your soul or affect your mood. It's best to simply roll with the punches, eyes open, and ear to the ground, because you never know when that sweet mistress or yours will walk in through the door.

I purchased The Spirit of Sailing as a Christmas present for myself in 2006. It was just a year after my wife and I moved from the coast of North Carolina to the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Sitting in my rocking chair that winter, in front of the woodstove, with hemlock and red oak burning brightly, I turned the pages, slowly, tenderly, as if it were an ancient text. On each page there was a photo of a classic wooden sailboat and a beckoning quote. I’ve included some of the quotes that drew me back to the water in the middle of winter, with the west wind blasting through the pines.

I threw a couple of more logs into the wood stove, sat back down in my rocker and turned another page. Small boats, fast sleek sloops, lines and sails, all in black and white. I could feel the pull of the tides and the visual images of wooden boats I had owned, especially the old 20’ racing Flying Dutchman sailboat that just strained at the mainsail when a gust would sweep by.

A sailor is an artist whose medium is the wind. Webb Chile

I’m a lucky guy. I still have passion in my life. One is going into my studio/gallery and throwing pots, trimming them, then wood firing them in my little kiln next to our cabin. Another is writing about pottery, water and boats. Maybe my passion for sailing could be the metaphor of my life.

There are no lakes in my county and the coast is a six hour drive away. When I’m iced in or snowed in, I go the bookcase and pull out The Spirit of Sailing, ready for a photo of a classic wooden boat or a quote that transports me back to the sea.

Ships are the nearest things to dreams that hands have made. Robert N. Rose

Twenty-five years ago, I went on a sabbatical to the North Carolina Mariners’ Museum in Beaufort. I needed a change of pace and I wanted to learn how to repair my old wooden sailboat, a 19’ Lightning. Jeffrey, the master boat builder looked her over and said, “Mate, she’s too far gone to repair. Stay here for the summer and I’ll teach you how to build a real sailing vessel.” Jeffrey, a Brit, had apprenticed himself in England for seven years before he took the job in Beaufort.

Four of us showed up as students that summer at a converted aluminum airplane hanger across the street from Turner Creek where a number of old hand built Harkers Island skiffs bobbed at anchor.

Hot! Oh boy was it was hot that summer! Jeffrey taught us to build two small sailing dinghies with hand tools. I remember the sweat, the scent of sawdust, learning and relearning how to sharpen my chisel and finally at lunchtime walking out the dock to catch a breeze. On Saturdays, I’d take my eight year old daughter out on the creek in a Sunfish and teach her how to sail, figuring out both the winds and tides. On Sunday mornings, I’d get up early and ride my bike with my fishing pole over the bridge to throw a line into the Atlantic. Standing there, with the pole resting on my hip bone, I was one with the swells.

A man must be obsessed by something, I suppose. A boat is as good as anything, perhaps a bit better than most. A small sailing craft is not only beautiful, it is seductive and full of strange promise and the hint of trouble. E.B. White

I grew up in the 1950’s surrounded by wooden boats on Higgins Lake, a deep water lake in northern Michigan. Over the course of fifteen years we owned one Dunphy and two Centurys: one inboard, one outboard. Neighbors owned Chris Crafts, Hackercrafts and Lymans.

Every Memorial Day, in went the docks, the boat lifts and then the boats. The engines were choked followed by several pulls on the rope and wham!, those Johnsons, Everudes and Mercurys started up and streaked down the lake. In the midst of all this activity, a lone man stood along the shore, a pipe in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, his boat turned upside down at the edge of the lake. It was a Lightning and the man’s name was Alex Carlin. He had three sons. They did not own a motorboat. He taught his kids, one by one how to sail that Lightning. On Sundays, one of the boys would be at the tiller while Alex took care of the main and the jib and sailed across the lake to Higgins Lake Regatta and won every race.

As an eight year old, I’d walk down and watch him. He scraped, he sanded, he painted, then sanding lightly and then carefully laid on another coat. He didn’t seem to notice me. The pipe in his mouth, his hands working stern to bow along the wonderful lines of that boat. I stared, in a trance. Later I learned that during the winter season he was a hired captain in sailboat races around Antigua, Cuba, and Key West.

Michael Kahn, the author and photographer of The Spirit of Sailing grew up along the coast of North Carolina at Topsail Beach. When he was a kid, his first boat was a yellow Sunfish, named Lemon Drop. He was brave enough to sail out Topsail Inlet into the Atlantic. The next year he was given a camera for a trip to a northern Ontario lake where he spotted his first wooden sailboat. And he was hooked!

My dad took his vacation the first two weeks of August. When I was twelve, he said,

“Son, let’s go over to the marina, there is something I want to show you.”

We jumped into his Mercury station wagon, our English Setter in the far back and set off. We wound down a dirt road past a number of tin roofed buildings and stopped in front of what appeared to be someone’s large white garage. We parked the car and walked up to the garage while the dog headed into the woods, hot on the trail of something, probably a chipmunk. My dad pushed the sliding door, on trolleys, sideways, which allowed the sunlight to glance in.

“I want you to look at this,” he motioned to me, pointing at a flat red and white small sailboat, “This is a sailfish, do you like it?”

I nodded slightly, wondering what he was getting at.

“Look, he pointed over in the corner, “There’s the mast, and the sail. Just right for a boy, don’t you think?”

I nod again.

“I’ve watched you go down to Alex Carlin’s. Maybe this boat would be a good way for you to begin sailing.” He stepped back.

I knelt down, felt the flat plywood, gazed at the varnished centerboard and tiller.

“You mean, this is mine? You’re buying it for me?”

“You bet, let’s see if we can push it into the back of the station wagon. Give me a hand.”

Like Michael Kahn, I was hooked. I taught myself how to sail. And over the years, I fiberglassed the bottom of that Sailfish just to have one more summer to sail her. My dad gave her away the year I graduated from college.

Those who live by the sea can hardly form a single thought of which the sea would not be part. Herman Broch.

In the Spring of 2007, I did what I had vowed never to do again. I bought another wooden sailboat. I blame this on Michael Kahn and The Spirit of Sailing. This time it was a 13’ Herreschoff/White Catspaw Dinghy. Built by a master boat builder living near Topsail Beach. This classic sailboat was even in the movie, The Road to Wellville! I love this oak on white cedar skiff. When the wind is right, I’ll sniff the breeze, jump in my truck and drive the six hours to the ocean, launch her, then row her out into the sound and put up the spritsail and take off. Ah, a southwesterly off the ocean, saltwater, sprightly filled white sail and the Catspaw heading off for Sugarloaf Island.

Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover. Mark Twain

While living on a sailboat in San Francisco Bay, on a lark, I signed up for two weeks of ocean sailing certification around the islands of Tahiti. Although the sailing was challenging in San Francisco Bay and out past the Golden Gate, I was always cold. Tahiti! I thought of snorkeling, beaches, south sea islands and warm trade winds. I had also marveled at some of Van Gogh’s painting. I was ready! Winter and early spring on San Francisco Bay is no fun.

Oh the wind, oh those deep, deep blue blue waters, oh the snorkeling and those dark green sentinels of islands. Those protected anchorages inside the coral reefs. The spearing of fish, eating on the deck, gazing at the Tahitians. But too soon, we flew back to San Francisco and too soon my wife and I moved ‘back east.’

For all at last return to the sea- to ocean, the river, the lake… the beginning and the end. Rachel Carson

It’s mid-April, 2008 now and we have taken the plastic off the windows, opened the doors and done some spring cleaning. I’ve recently discovered Claytor Lake, two counties over, a dammed up thirteen mile portion of the New River, a river so old that it twists and turns north and then west cutting through the Appalachians and the Alleghenies all the way to the Mississippi.

I’m picturing me on Claytor Lake, sailing my glossy white Catspaw, the varnish on the inside shining with the sun. Soon I’ll be breaking the binds of a cold, wet spring. I don’t care if the water temperature is 50 degrees. All those Memorial Days on that deep northern Michigan lake when the ice had been off less than a month and I went in the water to sail that Sailfish. With a life preserver on, if my dad was around.

So if I take off now, my wife Karen won’t miss me for an hour or two. By then I’d be there, rowing out the cove into the main body of the lake, setting the oars aside, putting up the boom on the bow and then rigging the spiritsail!

Alex Kahn would say “Yes!” Alex Carlin would nod his head, take the pipe out of his mouth and watch me, that slight grin on his face. I’d be home before dark. It’s only an hour’s drive.

To me, nothing is more beautiful than a sailboat underway in fine weather and to be on that sailboat is to be as close to heaven as I expect to get. It is unalloyed happiness. Robert Rose.

I’ve just turned sixty-five. The fever of sailing has not subsided. What theology I have about eternity can be summed up in a few phrases, a few images. A wooden boat slicing through the waves, me leaning out, tacking into the wind, maybe toward the further shore but maybe the water is the ocean, the horizon limitless.

-Dorothy Birch is a tree-hugging, bunny-loving, dirt-worshipping photographer who knows for sure that the most beautiful trees, the softest bunnies, and the reddest dirt all live in the South! Her website is www.reddirtroad.net

-Donna aka the Barefoot Photographer, teaches photography classes at her studio and is the founder of the Fayette Photo Club. She enjoys the outdoors, photography, and inspiring others to take better photos; her website is the thebarefootphotographer.com

Have we magically awaken from our collective sleep and become one America? Did Tuesday’s attack sober alcoholics and drug addicts? Have waning family bonds suddenly become tighter? Has Generation-X been introduced to ‘real evil’, or are we all so shocked, grief-stricken, and pissed off that we think we’re all on the same page?

It all still seems pretty unreal. I’m 26 and I know better than to think it fantasy, but I can’t help but ask myself “Did I just see what I thought I saw?” and “Is this really happening?” With the answer being ‘yes’, the next logical question is “Well, what next?”.

People to my left and people to my right are screaming retaliation. And as the evidence mounts, and the fingers point it seems inevitable. Otherwise non-aggressive folks now want blood and hate blinded masses vengeance.

With the arrest of purported assistants to the terrorists and the subsequent death of said terrorists, what will waging a war prove? What will it solve? Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about self-defense and preservation, but war? War with an enemy that’s akin to a ghost and moves like a thief in the night? War with an enemy that plays in a region described by many as impossible to navigate and twice as impossible find people in? War with a man that we helped to create? God knows that the innocent needs justice and the dead needs mourning, but how does waging war on an already war-ravaged country and a pitifully oppressed people compensate the dead? How does it compensate the family and friends of the dead? How does war rid the world of terrorism?

Sure, we get to beat our collective chest with Neanderthal-ish satisfaction after the deed is done, but what would we have accomplished? Expert after expert, and every rational person, says that there is no way to eradicate terrorism, just the terrorists. So what will we gain? What, indeed.

Battlefields will be strewn with more dead: countrymen, allies, and those in the way. But this has to be the right thing to do, because the people want it. Hell, the world wants it. Within 24 hours, America switched from a country at dire odds with itself to a country with one common goal: the death of one man and his compatriots. This man -this ghost-that is so intangible, much like the tenants that he espouses, supposedly has an entire world both mad and afraid.

One day we’ll wake, and we’ll walk past the place where many died. And we’ll surely be different, as many noted on 09/11/01. And at least one of us will have to ask “What does it all mean?” “What’s it all for?” Or maybe we’ll all ask those questions before it’s too late.

God bless the dead and those that mourn them

Louisa May Alcott, known as “the children’s friend,” and beloved author of Little Women, was also the author of much more lurid and gothic fiction. Written anonymously or pseudonymously, these tales contained femme fatales, prophetic ghosts, vengeful women, and unlikely heroines.

The unearthing of these tales is its own inspiring story, which Madeleine Stern discusses in her introduction. The challenge was to find a correlation between the “blood-and-thunder” tales the character of Jo in Little Women wrote to support her family and the “necessity” stories Alcott wrote for the same purpose.

Stern uncovered a plethora of previously unknown works of the famed children’s author, which for all of their gothic intent and background still show the style, and depth of characterization that one would expect from such a prolific and intelligent author.

Behind A Mask brings together four such tales of Alcott’s carefully hidden lurid and grandiose style. While Stern and others have released several compilations of Alcott’s thrillers, Behind A Mask serves as the most representative of her gothic works.

The titular story, Behind A Mask Or a Woman’s Power, is for me, the most striking and memorable, as well as the most modern. It about Jean Muir, a newly hired governess with a dark and lurid past and the havoc she wreaks upon the unsuspecting Coventry family.

Appearing as a young and lonely governess (she claims to be 19 when she is at the very least 30), she immediately wins the sympathy of the younger Coventry siblings. She is distrusted at first by the eldest Coventry brother Gerald and his cousin/fiancé Lucia. But, Muir is not dissuaded by these obstacles and merely sees them as a challenge to her final plan, which is to marry into the family and become part owner of its estate.

As the youngest brother begins to unravel Jean’s past and along with it her plan, Jean works to win her prize before she is completely found out. That she emerges victorious is a testament to the type of unlikely heroine that Alcott favored. Jean Muir for all of her villainous intent and actions is the one that the readers root for.

In Pauline’s Passion and Punishment, we meet another strong female character. Gilbert has jilted Pauline, for a younger, richer woman. Rather than whither under sadness or depression, Pauline is possessed by the need for revenge.

She does not want Gilbert’s death, as that would be too quick. She wants him to suffer the regret of having lost her forever to a man who is everything Gilbert is not. She wants Gilbert to feel trapped when he looks at his young wife and the life he has purchased for himself. So, she convinces the young and rich Manuel to help with her revenge.

Manuel, having loved Pauline for years, is willing to go along with this plan. So they marry and search for Gilbert and his wife while on their honeymoon.

In a carefully calculated meeting, Pauline throws down the gauntlet and Gilbert accepts the challenge “to the tournament so often held between a man and a woman – a tournament where the keen tongue is the lance, pride the shield, passion the fiery steed, and the hardest heart the winner of the prize.”

Even when Pauline begins to see and regret what her thirst for vengeance is doing to those around her, she is unable to let go of her obsession until the surprising climax leaves her to suffer the punishment of all her deeds.

For the critical reader, the most interesting thing about this particular story is that revenge isn’t simply an emotion for Pauline. It is a supernatural presence that possesses her and leaves her unable to stop until the final card is played even if it is to the destruction of those she cares most about.

The third story, The Mysterious Key and What it Opened, is different from the previous two in that it has a male hero. The story begins with Richard Trevlyn reading an ancient family prophecy to his young, pregnant wife. He is called away to meet with a stranger who has shown up at their door. His wife listens in on the conversation and hears something that nearly destroys her.

That same evening, Richard dies mysteriously, and Lady Tervelyn gives birth. For 12 years, their daughter Lillian grows up in a house secrets. Quite unexpectedly, a young teenaged boy named Paul appears with a letter recommending him to work for the family.

Paul, the young servant, ingratiates himself into the family and – much like Jean Muir of the fist story – hides a secret agenda. While searching for the proof he needs to fulfill his plan, Paul falls in love with Lillian. He disappears one night with no warning.

He returns four years later as a rich war hero, bringing with him a mysterious and beautiful woman named Helen who seems to hold a power over him and will not let him forget his original plan.

As the plot unwinds, we learn the truth of Helen’s birth, and the deep regret Paul feels for having to deceive a family that had so loved and cared for him. This story is akin to Anne Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho, or even Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey. It contains the trademarks of the Gothic novel with its ancient estate, seemingly supernatural events, and a scheming yet brooding hero.

The final story, The Abbot’s Ghost or Maurice Treherne’s Tempation: A Christmas Story, while containing the constant elements of Gothic fiction, is lighter than the three before it. It much more reminiscent of the Louisa May Alcott, readers are more familiar with.

The story centers around three cousins Jasper, Octavia, and Maurice as well as a mysterious femme fatale known as Mrs. Snowdon.

The events take place during a Christmas holiday at the family estate amidst many guests and great revelry. Maurice, who has been confined to a wheelchair due to an accident is in love with his cousin Octavia and was, before his accident, the pride and joy of their rich uncle. There is a mysterious scandal that took place shortly before the accident – the details of which are known only to Maurice, Jasper, and Mrs. Snowdon – which caused the rich uncle to completely disinherit Maurice and leave everything to Jasper.

During the course of the celebration, the mystery is unraveled, Maurice’s condition takes a turn for the better, we discover that Mrs. Snowdon has a heart after all, and there is a death predicted by a ghostly Abbot.

Of all the stories in this collection, The Abbot’s Ghost or Maurice Treherne’s Temptation, is the only one to contain an actual ghost. It is also the only one that can be described as a “parlor romance” in the vein of Austen.

Fans of Louisa May Alcott will whet their appetites on this book. They will want to discover more of her anonymously published works. Fans of richly characterized, plot driven literature will love it almost as much.

Available via libraries and bookstores

Art history students and others who have read Giorgio Vasari’s classic 16th century Lives of the Artists will be amused by this modern version which delves into the wide-ranging personalities of ten contemporary artists.

The list includes some of the brightest luminaries in the field: Damien Hirst; Cindy Sherman; Julian Schnabel; Richard Serra; James Turrell; Matthew Barney; Maurizio Cattelan; Jasper Johns; Jeff Koons; and John Currin. They run the gamut from installation artists to painters and everything in between. Within this eclectic group it is apparent just how many styles and personalities can be encompassed within the title of “artist.”

Tomkins has been writing in-depth articles on art and artists since 1961. He’s a frequent contributor to The New Yorker and has written a number of highly-acclaimed books on individual artists. What comes across most clearly in his essays is how deeply he has delved into these lives. He is not just a biographer or a journalist spending a few hours with each artist. In many cases these relationships have developed over a course of many years (John Currin’s parents even invited Tomkins and his wife over for Thanksgiving dinner).

Each chapter describes the author’s impression of meeting and spending time with these artists on their own turf and among family and entourage. He then goes into background information about childhood, influences, and education, as well as compelling stories about the artists’ home lives and personality quirks. The chapters are peppered with interesting personal details, and Tomkins’ interviewing style obviously allows his subjects to open up to an unusual degree. He got a close friend of Cindy Sherman to divulge that “Cindy is such a girl. When we talk, it’s usually about something like finding the right lipstick at Kmart.” Such tidbits give this book a sparkle not often present in biographies.

Such personal involvement also leads to a certain amount of inherent subjectivity. Tomkins does not conceal his disdain for the cults of personality surrounding megalomaniac artists such as Damien Hirst (“He wasn’t being coherent, but this didn’t interfere with the carnival of affection that surrounded him the minute he arrived”) and Jeff Koons (described as either “amazingly naϊve or slyly performative”). This adds a dimension of compelling description to the book that draws the reader in, but it also calls into question how much of his view is shaped by relationships rather than observation.

Available via libraries and bookstores

Your browser may not support display of this image. Last night I watched a documentary about Charles Wadsworth, the amazing man behind the huge popularity of The Chamber Music Series at The Spoleto Festival in Charleston, South Carolina. There was much that I found pleasing about this man, and there were surprises, but the biggest surprise was that this impressive man and talented pianist was born and grew up in Newnan, Georgia. That’s “NOO-nan”, for those who are not proficient in the dialect of this part of Georgia.

Just as Newnan, Georgia, nurtured and supported a budding talent and germinating genius, so has the small town of Greenwood, South Carolina, provided just the right mix of timing, support, opportunity and numerous stages upon which the previously put-aside musical genius of Bob Kilgore could once again play his guitar and experiment with new compositions.

For readers who are YouTube fans, you may already know Bob Kilgore, “the guitar guy”, who (to date) has had over a million views, a whopping 1,289,151, to be accurate. For others who are MySpace members, you may have a friend called Bob Kilgore who is a guitar-playing inventor, and for the few musically gifted of you who are guitar-players, you surely know about Bob Kilgore, the inventor of the harmonic capo. You know about him and his capo, because you’ve seen tremendous reviews in many major guitar magazines nationally and internationally!

A Yankee transplant, Bob Kilgore is the genius behind some amazing guitar compositions, unbelievable guitar work (which you can view on YouTube and MySpace) and the greatest thing in the guitar-playing world since, well, since the capo. Bob had an idea for the harmonic capo, worked up a prototype and sent it out to a number of professional guitar greats for feedback. A few years later, Kilgore is the new best friend of guitarists around the globe.

You don’t believe me? This is what the April 2008 issue of Vintage Guitar Magazine said:

Why, they even called it “Accessory of the year!” And if that’s not proof enough for you, how about Guitar Player Magazine, who said:

But don’t worry, none of these accolades have gone to the head of our small-town genius, quite the opposite, actually. While he will now accept compliments, he is still a humble and rather down-to-earth person, who is interested in finishing the newest guitar composition, working on the new classical guitar version of his capo and in improving his guitar playing skills.

The good news for those of us who cannot use the harmonic capo is that Bob is soon to release a new CD, “Back in the Day”, a joint effort by Weaseltrap Records and Homemade Genius Productions. You can hear some of the music now, by visiting Bob’s MySpace page.

Bob’s musical influences are quite varied. Having grown up in a house filled with musicians and music of all kinds, it’s no wonder that he shows signs of Steve Reich and John Adams in his compositions, as well as the influence of a personal connection to Michael Hedges.

Kilgore says that he has had more than one musical epiphany on his musical journey. “My first was in 1974, when I saw the Mahavishnu Orchestra.” He adds that, “they had to peel me off the wall after that show. It changed my life.”

Bob’s second epiphany came with the music and guitar playing of Michael Hedges. “Michael opened the door to the whole Windham Hill catalog,” Kilgore says, and then came his exposure to Steve Reich. “Here was intense, pulsating counterpoint like I had never heard before,” he tells us, and adds, “People don’t have much trouble hearing Steve Reich and Michael Hedges in my music, but all the others are there…”

With the making of the new CD, came a family reunion of sorts when Bob’s brother, Tim, joined him on the keyboard for the recording of 10 of the 16 tracks on “Back in the Day”. They had not worked together for 18 years. Joining them on some of these is Sarah Morris, co-founder of Greenwood’s Homemade Genius. (Look for more about Homemade Genius in a future edition.) Sarah plays the cello and violin on the recording. Tim Kilgore played keyboards and percussion on Bob’s first two CDs, “Phoenix Song” and “Epicycles”, which are also being re-released this July, along with the newest CD, “Back in the Day”. Each of the first two CDs will include three bonus tracks for the original 1988-90 recording session, but which were never released.

For those who can make the trip to Greenwood, South Carolina, there is a CD release party on Thursday, July 2, which is free and open to the public (details on Bob’s MySpace site). Do it—you won’t regret it, and you won’t believe your ears. Such genius, and so close to home. Why don’t you make this your first live Bob Kilgore performance, then when you are 90, you can tell your great-grandchildren, “Back in the day….”

> You can find out all about the Harmonic Capo, including how to get your own, at www.weaseltrap.com, and you can view videos of Bob’s guitar work by going to www.youtube.com/bobkilgorevideos. Or you can visit Bob Kilgore at his MySpace page and chill out by listening to some of the loveliest guitar playing anywhere today. Try it out, www.myspace.com/bobkilgore