History of Snake~Nation~Press
By Roberta George, Founder
Snake Nation Press began as a half-baked idea in 1987 at Breadloaf, the granddaddy of all writers' conferences, in Middlebury, Vermont. A group of Georgia, Alabama, and Florida writers, myself included, found ourselves relegated to The Barn, the hang-out for the unpublished (might as well say un-washed) writers, who were attending the conference. We were the ones not invited to Treman House, which was the hangout for published writers only. But we laughed at our banishment, for The Barn was good enough, a big fireplace, junk food, and excellent company. We read each others' work, found some of it wonderful, some passable, some downright god-awful, and decided that since we couldn't be part of the exalted readings of Treman House, we'd schedule our own. Five afternoons were left of the two-weeks Conference, so we decided on three readings and designated them: Southern, General, and Erotic--all from volunteer readers. We ran off flyers, passed them around (even to Treman House), bought food and drink, and set about to have a good time.
The first reading started calmly enough but then took on a rowdy aspect, probably because of the drink. When a rather pompous author delivered a particularly unfortunate line: "The Southern idiom gives me pause", a loud groan went up from the back of the audience with the question: "Are they puppy dog's or hound dog's paws?". Everyone laughed at the play on the words "pause" and "paws". The man, a self-important type, looked up from his papers in dismay. Readings at Breadloaf were usually decorous affairs; mild sighs could be expected after a dramatic line of poetry and polite applause at the end of each piece. The readings at The Barn turned into audience participation events. The Erotic Reading drew the most raucous comments. One writer described a woman's breasts as insignificant. A howl went up from the back of the audience. "No breasts are insignificant," yelled a very young man, bravely standing and turning beet-red in the process. By the time the last reading rolled around, the published authors were part of the audience. One particularly venerated writer was heard to comment: "They've had more fun at The Barn than we did at Treman." Which goes to show there's not much pleasure in excluding people if they manage to have a good time without you.
On the last day of the conference, the Barn people were inconsolable. We'd had a great experience, won some recognition for ourselves, and now it was time to leave. "I wish I had a literary magazine and could publish all of you," I said, trying, in some way, to hold on to what we'd accomplished. "A splendid idea," another person volunteered. "What would you call it?" someone else asked. “The Barn," another suggested.
I'd spent the previous year working with underprivileged children in South Georgia on a stretch of paved and unpaved highway called Snake Nation Road. I loved the name, the hissing sound, and had done a bit of research trying to find out its origins. Valdosta's local historian said the appellation had several sources. He said that the area had once been an Indian encampment. Since my son was always finding arrowheads near our home, and I'd heard of others being plowed up in fields, that seemed a good explanation. Another take on the name was that the area had, at one time, contained several snake-handling churches. Still another reason was the swampy ground, so full of snakes that escaped prisoners from Troupeville (later to become Valdosta) were not pursued. "The moccasins will take care of 'um," was the Warden's verdict. And one last interpretation--the one I loved best--was that a poor, rowdy section part of Valdosta had once been called Snake Nation.
According to legend, after a particularly boisterous night, the sheriff raided a local club and took everyone back to the hoosegow. As with many buildings in those days, the jail was just a wooden frame set on top of a dirt floor. When the sheriff departed, the Snake Nation bunch lifted the entire structure off its foundations and walked away. I'll call it Snake Nation Review," I said, explaining my reasons for wanting the name. "Aren't writers the lowest of all artists, especially unpublished writers, thousand of hours on work that no one ever sees, never gets paid for, the underbelly of the artistic world."
Well, there's a great deal of difference between saying what you'll do and the doing.
I went back to school at Florida State University and talked about starting a literary magazine in my hometown of Valdosta, Georgia. Jerome Stern, Head of the Creative Writing Department, now deceased, encouraged this insanity. "Why not?" he said. "Tallahassee has four." My friends Sandra Saunders, Cynthia Everett, and Heather Sellers acted as if the first issues were already in the racks. They volunteered to serve as editors. After that, many editors and readers came and went: Janice Daughtery, now a well-known Southern writer, along with Professor Pat Miller of Valdosta State, served long, hard hours. During that time, Snake Nation published many famous and many more unknown writers.
Later my father, Robert Haas, and a sister, Nancy Phillips, were the main stays of what had became Snake Nation Press. In 1994 and 1998, Snake Nation Review was named one of the Fifty Best Small Lit Magazines in the nation by Writers' Digest. Now, some fifteen years later, it's hard to see what kept the magazine going. There was never enough time or money. In '98, Nancy moved to California. In '99, my father died, and with that blow I felt the Snake was breathing its last too. The work at the Lowndes/Valdosta Arts Center was growing exponentially, and the Press was again nominated for the Fifty Best, but I didn't send in the paper work. I was out of time and energy.
Then in May, Jean Arambula, after a long pilgrimage to Colorado Springs, came back to Valdosta. She had worked on the '95 award winning Snake issue and now wanted to start up a publication, The Valdosta Voice, a newspaper to cover cultural events in Lowndes County. When she found that no Review had been published in ‘99, she was outraged, declared: "The Snake cannot die". I told her I felt like the Fat Broad of the B.C. comic strip beating the Snake with a club yet never quite able to kill it off.
Truly, Jean, with her invincible heart, coming back was a sign, an omen; what I wanted and needed to hear. Since then, the Snake has gone through many reincarnations, shedding its skin and reinventing itself. This past year, we published John Sinnott and Buz Brumbaugh’s book, To Paris, a pictorial on WWI; Dean Poling’s essays from the Valdosta Daily Times, Lana Ayers’ poetry book, Dance from Inside My Bones, and Brian Bedard's short story collection, Grieving on the Run.
This spring the Snake, in addition to its two contests, will start a new series called Georgia Artists, starting with Janice Daugharty’s short story collection.
Updates needed.
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