Anene is an award-winning fiction and poetry writer whose work has appeared in Best of Writers at Work anthology, The Distillery, Treasure House, Currents, River Blossoms Lit Mag and Word Wright’s. While at UMSL, she won the English Department’s annual prizes for fiction and for poetry and she has studied with Richard Bausch at Johns Hopkins, Nicholas Delbanco at Breadloaf, Claire Messud at Sewanee, Lorrie Moore at Vermont Studio Center, and Robert Olmstead at Rappahannnock. She also attended two workshops at the University of Iowa's summer program and spent a month at Wellspring House in Massachusetts. Most recently, she has taken two semester-long poetry classes with David Clewell, poet laureate of Missouri. She holds undergraduate degrees in Communications and Nursing from Saint Louis University, Masters Degrees from Washington University and the University of Missouri, St. Louis, and she teaches scriptwriting and media writing as an adjunct professor in the School of Communications at Webster University. After making a change in focus from fiction and poetry to running a successful company specializing in corporate communications, print and film/video production and meetings, she is back hard at work in the world of literature.
What Anene’s writing now:
Circus of the Little Flower
Father Whiting is a mess. As a St. Louis priest and the head of Pastoral Care at a local teaching hospital, he’s already on edge wondering if he’s up to the job and wondering how far his predecessor’s—and now his— secretary will go to sabotage him. He fears he is incapable of ministering to an old friend and fellow priest stricken with cancer, and he secretly longs to share everything about his confused, mixed up life with Sarah James, the hospital’s head of public relations. When he overhears a heated argument between the Chairman of the Board and the Abbess who runs the hospital, he fears his job will soon be history. Instead, he finds himself tapped to minister to a small South American circus bequeathed to an order of aging nuns in St. Louis. And that’s when his already beleaguered life begins to unravel.
An excerpt from Circus of the Little Flower:
During the ride back to St. Benedict House, Stemple looked out the passenger’s window in silence. Whiting glanced frequently toward him, but said nothing. He kept extra space between his car and the vehicle in front of him so that he could pull over quickly, if Stemple should suddenly become ill. This plan, which he had just devised, was a great preoccupation to him. He was pleased he had thought of it. Casting himself in the role of caretaker—however secret his self-appointed designation—made Whiting feel both protective, and more connected to his friend.
He wished Jerry could know he had a plan. Although he didn’t want him to suffer, he almost hoped that he would become ill, so that he could come to his aid. He stole another glance and saw, to his slight disappointment, that Stemple appeared to be enjoying the ride. He realized—with some shame—that he wanted Stemple to admit he was necessary.
He wondered again why Jerry had withheld the information about his illness. Surely he must have had symptoms—gone to the doctor. The treatment at St. Teresa’s hadn’t been decided in a day. Whiting straightened in his seat. He was suddenly offended. What had their friendship been based on, if such an important development could be kept secret? It was clear to him that Stemple had made a conscious decision to exclude him—to treat him as a stranger. He ran through a catalogue of their correspondence. What were their letters about—really? What did they disclose? True, the communication between the two of them gave him pleasure. But why?
He wondered how well he knew Stemple after all. He thought back to his friend’s observations and references to religion. When Whiting had read the letters, Stemple’s comments seemed to offer such important disclosures. On more than one occasion, Whiting had even carried a letter in his breast pocket. It was like a secret there. Sometimes, over lunch, or when alone in his office, he would open and re-read it—marveling at Stemple’s insights and eager to compose his response. If these were not the private confidences of two close friends, then what were they? He wondered whom else Stemple might have corresponded with. Perhaps the letters he received were no different than those that he wrote to anyone else?
Whiting had managed to upset himself considerably. He glanced again at his passenger. The reality of the person beside him only confused him further. Stemple had lost weight and was easily winded, that was true. But how sick was he? Whiting remembered how vulnerable Stemple had seemed in the parking garage. He was sure that Jerry wouldn’t have been able to navigate through the hospital if he had not been with him. He fought back tears as he considered the image. Yet, Stemple looked happy now—even planned to return to teaching. Maybe he was right. Maybe Whiting had assumed the worst. He tried to think objectively. Why was he so sure that Jerry was gravely ill? He thought about Stemple’s remarks regarding the hieroglyphics. His own stomach tightened.
He thought, then, of how Jerry had finally asked him about himself. Whiting hadn’t had a chance to tell him anything before they had been interrupted. And yet, they had not resumed their conversation. He considered broaching the topic now, but he wasn’t sure how to start. He resented the fact that Jerry had not recommenced his questions. Didn’t he remember that Whiting hadn’t answered? If it had mattered to Stemple at all, he would have asked again. Whiting sank into confusion and ill humor.
When they pulled up in front of St. Benedict House, Whiting came around the car and extended his arm toward the priest.
“I don’t need any help.”
“That’s not the issue. I just thought we could spend a few minutes together inside. We hardly had any chance to talk.” He colored at this sentence, feeling himself too obvious in reminding Stemple of their aborted conversation.
“Oh, Sam, not today, please.” He addressed Whiting over his shoulder as he started up the steps. Whiting’s face grew hot with embarrassment. “If I lie down right after my treatment, then I don’t get quite as nauseous.” Whiting was chagrined at his own selfishness. He watched Stemple pull himself forward with the handrail as he slowly ascended the stairs. Tears welled in his eyes. Stemple waved good-bye over his shoulder as he went inside. Whiting considered following him, but he remained at the foot of the stairs.
What Anene's been reading lately:
