Kyle Munson's Main Street

From left: Jen Morrow, Kyle Munson, and Saeed Tokhi.

My wide-ranging chat with Saeed and Jen touched on topics both familiar and unexpected, including:

My changing definition of punk rock through the years
Why Bob Dylan has done some of his best work in the 21st century
The evolution of the American news media
Why I once publicly challenged Randy Owen — the lead singer of country band Alabama — to a fight
My newspaper story most likely to be remembered long after I’m gone
Recent music recommendations, including a band called Damaged Bug

“Punk Nite” is also more than a podcast; it’s a monthly gathering, held the second Monday of the month at Maggie’s Rumble Room, 1430 Second Ave. in Des Moines. (This dsm magazine feature story explains its origins.)

Put it on your calendar if you’re in the capital city: The next Punk Nite on June 8 features a performance by Saeed’s new Devo cover band, the New Traditionalists.

Hey! Ho! Let’s go!

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

I’m proud to be a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative. Meet our writers here, or subscribe to our free weekly roundup and our Wednesday “Flipside” edition featuring sports, music, culture, and other topics.

Grammar (yes, grammar) has the power to make us howl with laughter — or rage

Kyle Munson — Mon, 25 May 2026 16:47:37 GMT

Y’all reading this probably qualify as grammar nerds just by spending time here on Substack rather than, say, swiping through endless TikTok videos.

And if you stopped and pondered my use of “y’all” to open the last sentence, you’re definitely a grammar nerd. I can imagine your inner dialogue:

I don’t think he’s used “y’all” before — why now?
He’s no Southerner — is he appropriating a regional voice, or mocking it?

I’m trying to make a point: few things are as universal as grammar when you really stop to think about it. As a species, we’re driven to communicate, and we’ve developed written language to do so across time and distance. In today’s digital world, grammar is splattered everywhere on our screens, instantaneously, across every platform. Text messages and IMs are sprayed with random capitalization and punctuation. Some of today’s social media gibberish makes U.S. Sen. Chuck Grassley’s idiosyncratic Twitter abbreviations of the 2010s look eloquent. Auto captions on videos regularly mangle words.

One couple is doing more than their fair share to clean up our modern grammar mess by clarifying the rules — and doling out a little therapy in the process.

Lifelong writer, teacher, and linguist Ellen Jovin began her grammar crusade on Sept. 21, 2018, near her apartment in New York. She set up a small folding table piled with reference books, hung a sign that said “Grammar Table,” and offered to answer questions from any passersby. Her husband, Brandt Johnson, began filming the encounters.

Fifty states and nearly eight years later, Jovin sat behind her very same Grammar Table in the lobby of Varsity Cinema in Des Moines to answer yet more questions — this time just before a capital-city premiere screening of the couple’s documentary, “Rebel With a Clause.” Jovin also wrote a book by the same name, “an unconventional guide to the English language, drawn from the cross-country adventures of an itinerant grammarian.”

Available for iOS and Android

Ellen Jovin answers grammar questions and signs books during the May 21, 2026 premiere of “Rebel With a Clause” at Varsity Cinema in Des Moines.

“Y’all” figures prominently in the film thanks to a gregarious pair of young construction workers on the streets of Decatur, Georgia, loudly debating the use of an apostrophe in the “you all” contraction.

“But a lot of people do put the apostrophe after the a, right?” Jovin says, sympathizing with one of the young men, Jason.

“They do, and I cannot stand it,” he says.

“Does this give me any Southern cred?” Jovin asks him.

“I think it does,” Jason says. “I have to say it does.”

It’s probably no surprise that the theater felt a little like a library before the show started, with many in their seats quietly reading books after visiting Jovin’s table. I went up too, but didn’t really ask her a question; instead I commiserated about how I’m annoyed at putting spaces around my em dashes to stay consistent with the AP Style I’ve followed throughout my journalism and writing life. Jovin admitted she was happier with the thin spaces her publisher used to buffer the em dashes in her book.

If you’re still reading after that last paragraph, you’re a hardcore grammar junkie, not merely a nerd.

Watching “Rebel With a Clause” with a live audience wasn’t what I expected: Gone was the library hush, replaced by uproarious comedy and regular outbursts of laughter.

On one hand, the film — and Jovin’s entire project — is steeped in technical rules. When and why should we use an Oxford comma in a list of items so the sentence remains fluid, precise, and clear? Are you confident about when to use lay vs. lie?

But on the other hand, the film is ultimately about how we relate to each other through grammar and what our words and punctuation say about the sort of better world we hope to build. In some ways I was reminded of last year’s “Pieowa” premiere at the Varsity — another film where a universal table topic triggered deeper humanitarian themes.

At one point in the film, Jovin recommends punctuation that’s “more musically appropriate.” That was music to my ears, because I think too few writers and readers pay respect to the sheer musicality of language. Prose deserves that musicality as much as poetry does. As Miles Davis and other musicians have observed in various ways, the silence or space between the notes (or words) matters as much as the notes (or words) themselves.

So when we talk about grammar, we’re really talking about the context of being human — and how we set up our relationships with each other for success rather than failure. Sometimes, everything can hinge on a single comma.

Ellen Jovin and Brandt Johnson participate in a Q&A after their film screening at Varsity Cinema.

The Q&A after the film ranged widely. I learned that “champing” at the bit is the correct term for the idiom based on horses, but “chomping” has become so standard it’s probably what you hear and use anyway.

Inspired by a scene from the film, there was plenty more laughter over the two pronunciations of pasties: “pass-tees” as in the savory sandwich, and “pace-tees,” as in the nipple covers.

But somebody also asked the couple what they really took away from their ongoing project.

“What I came away with is people are funny and smart all over the place,” Jovin said.

That’s something worth remembering for y’all in today’s world. And maybe it’s no surprise that grammar, of all things, is the subject to unlock these deeper connections.

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

The 2020s: The most historic decade of our lives? Too early to tell?

Kyle Munson — Thu, 21 May 2026 02:51:33 GMT

I’m sure you recognize we’re in the throes of a midterm election year. You’re inundated by a flood of partisan advocacy and political brand marketing insisting that your well-being — if not your very existence — hinges on the next vote.

I love voting. I love democracy. They’re essential.

But I also like to offer variety in your media diet, and a little counterprogramming in the form of broader historical perspective.

What if all the partisans — shuffling around PAC money and jockeying for proximity to power — are directionally correct but missing the bigger picture? 2026 isn’t a monumental year on its own terms. What we should really consider is how the 2020s may qualify as the most significant decade of our lives for lasting historical impact.

I know, I know: this is a foolish exercise before at least a generation has passed to give us perspective — let alone to lob it out in the middle of the decade. In the words of a PBS icon I deeply admire, Ken Burns, we should “get a little bit nervous when you get within 25 years” of judging someone or something’s historical merits.

So, apologies to all my historian friends. Consider this a writerly and journalistic thought experiment — albeit an earnest one. I’m writing it because I deeply feel it. Once I started piercing it together, I couldn’t stop. The 2020s as our pivotal era took shape in my head, then spilled out into emails to a handful of experts and, finally, onto the page.

Photo by Jiri Plistil on Unsplash

First, let me preempt a few objections:

For those alive in the 1940s, the defeat of Nazi Germany and the development of nuclear weapons rival anything since.
I also don’t want to discount the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s and ’60s in the United States, or the emergence of the post-rock ’n’ roll youth counterculture still driving our commerce.

I grant those massive milestones (and no doubt others you’ll list in the comments).

One of the historians I reached out to was Tyler Priest, associate professor of history at the University of Iowa.

“It might be premature to say that the 2020s might be the ‘most significant decade’ of our lifetimes,” he wrote, “but there is no denying the momentous societal ruptures we have experienced in recent years.”

Another was Nicholas Proctor, professor of history at Simpson College in Indianola, who weighed in, he said, more as an educator than as a historian.

With inspiration from them and other sources, and as a Gen Xer born in the ‘70s, here’s my case for the ruptures that add up to what I’ll call the “~~Roaring~~ Radical Twenties”:

COVID-19: It helps the hypothesis that we began the decade with a global pandemic whose effects still linger: loss of trust in public health institutions, pivots to hybrid and remote work, supply chain disruptions and economic inflation, setbacks in education and mental health — and on and on. I could devote an entire newsletter to mining this deep and seemingly inexhaustible vein.
AI: You’re probably surprised I didn’t list this first. The rise of the robots is (over)inflating our economy, reshaping workplaces, guzzling water and other natural resources, and rewiring our brains — arguably at a scale beyond the original development of the internet. I’m neither an AI doomer nor zoomer. I simply tend to remain slightly optimistic about this innovative tool — and it is merely a tool, not our savior, not our downfall. With any technology this powerful on the business frontier, I always expect the need to battle the timeless stampede of human greed. We must properly harness AI; suppressing technology has never been much of a feature of the U.S. specifically or humanity generally. (I guess that takes us back to the existential threat of nukes, but I digress.)
Space exploration: More frontier technology: This year’s Artemis II moon mission offered welcome inspiration — and distraction from our earthly conflicts. It also reminded us of our current roadmap to Mars. You don’t need to buy into everything on the SpaceX agenda about “making life interplanetary” to retain some vestige of Apollo-era optimism in the intrinsic good of yearning to explore, slip the surly bonds of earth, and maybe learn more than we ever imagined in the process. Will the 2020s represent a shift from visiting space to inhabiting it?
Executive power: We’ve been sorely testing the limits of executive power in the U.S. for at least a century, depending on how you construct the timeline. It may be fair to say the 2020s stand a chance to complete an arc from Franklin D. Roosevelt and his fireside chats over radio to Donald Trump and his Truth Social smartphone barrage. Will Congress wake up, reassert its authority on behalf of the people, and restore a clearer separation of powers? When the partisans start crowing about 2028 as the inflection point of our lifetimes, remember: the case for the 2020s will only be more powerful. Another way to frame our executive-power test is as a global resurgence of right-wing nationalism and populism — a fair point made by Priest. Proctor touched on it, too, from the angle of political polarization, with today’s students feeling like they’re watching a government rendered incapable of much of anything by an inept political class.
Drone warfare: After more than four years of the Russia-Ukraine war, we’re realizing how drone technology is permanently changing the modern battlefield. No version of war, no matter how mechanized and bloodless, is anything less than horrific; I’m certainly not celebrating this as a positive trend. I’m sure many of you just had a scene from the “Terminator” franchise flash through your mind. Even a little past the midpoint of the decade, it’s easy to imagine ending the 2020s with an entirely transformed concept of military might. (Well, once again, except for nukes.)
Energy sources: As the driver of a hybrid vehicle, I’m still waiting impatiently for the invention of a perpetual battery to solve all our energy needs. In the meantime, the 2020s could prove pivotal. We’re currently witnessing the energy implications of our war with Iran and the bottleneck in the Strait of Hormuz. Priest’s specialty happens to be energy and oil. On one hand, we’ve seen a surge in renewables in the form of, say, electric vehicles — 25% of new cars globally, Priest said, and a whopping 95% in Europe. But that doesn’t change our underlying reliance on fossil fuels in some form. “We are experiencing the worst energy crisis since the 1970s and likely the worst ever,” he wrote. “Americans have yet to feel the full brunt of it. The coming shock will reconfigure the global market for hydrocarbons and energy and reshape the Persian Gulf/Middle East in ways not seen since the 1970s.” What’s more, the rise of AI and data centers, he added, is premised on an expansion of natural gas power plants. “Natural gas will become the fuel of the 21st century,” he wrote, adding that “the United States is well-positioned as the world’s largest natural gas producer.” Proctor, meanwhile, touched on the energy crisis through his love of trains. “Our addiction to petrochemicals, nonsensical opposition to renewables, and incomprehensible inability to build infrastructure other than pipelines and highways make me realize that I will always need to go out of my way to ride a train just about anywhere in the U.S.,” he wrote.

At this point, I’m only more convinced the “Radical Twenties” fits like a glove. I’ve blown past 1,000 words and feel as if I’ve only scraped the surface.

Priest also cited the acceleration of global warming, with 2023 through 2025 ranking as the warmest years on record by far.

Or what about the potential for a new era of U.S.-China relations, good or bad?

Both professors referred to the influence of smartphones and social media in contributing to declines in everything from literacy to … fertility.

Ken Burns would tell me to wait 25 years before calling any of this, and he’d be right. At least some of this will seem quaint by 2050, and the real story may be something I didn’t think to mention.

Vote in the midterms. Pay attention to horserace politics and 2028. But save a little brainpower for the longer frame — the megatrends that may add up to this historic decade.

Check back with me in 2051 on whether the Radical Twenties really rings true.

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

After 50 years of her daily diary, this journalist discovered a vast diary world she never knew

Kyle Munson — Sun, 26 Apr 2026 19:22:55 GMT

In the autumn of 1992, I stood inside Prinsengracht 263-267 in the center of Amsterdam, the address you probably know as the secret annex where Anne Frank and her family hid from the Nazis during World War II.

The power of a diary drew me there.

Frank, a 15-year-old victim of the Holocaust who died in 1945 in the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, wrote what arguably became the most famous diary in the Western world.

In the summer of 2018, my family and I walked the 1.7-mile loop around Walden Pond near Concord, Massachusetts.

The power of a diary drew me there.

The setting was made famous by Henry David Thoreau and his 1854 book, “Walden,” a classic of transcendentalist literature that chronicled his time “living deliberately” in a cabin near the lakeshore.

This spring, I sat at home in Des Moines in my sunporch office, a living room chair, the sofa in the TV room, or bed with the new book “Our Diaries, Ourselves.”

The power of not just one diary but the vast historical sweep of diarists rooted me there.

This has never happened to me before as a reader: I first experienced this book in the very same space where it was born.

Its author, Betsy Rubiner, is a journalist now based in Chicago. But for 26 years she and her family lived at what is now my address in Des Moines. We also worked together at The Des Moines Register.

She’s a lifelong diarist — 82 volumes and still going strong. The project that began in Des Moines gave her a chance to turn private journaling into a public, reported exploration of diaries, traveling the globe and discovering “a whole world I didn’t know about.”

The title echoes ‘Our Bodies, Ourselves,” an influential women’s health and sexuality book first published in 1970 that grew into a nonprofit now housed within Suffolk University in Massachusetts, distributing information worldwide in 34 languages.

Early in the book, Betsy chronicles how diary culture in the 19th and 20th centuries became increasingly defined by women, offering “a space to rebel against negative or limiting stereotypes.”

“The book itself didn’t feature my diary writing as much as I thought it might,” she told me.

Betsy Rubiner (Photo by Jessica Tampas)

Instead, Betsy strikes an elegant balance between her own entries — divulging childhood thoughts or offering a glimpse of her late mother’s dementia — and reported work: interviews with dozens of people, plus far-flung travels to archives and diary events, all documented by 40 pages of notes in the back of the book.

‘The freedom to write whatever the hell I want’

I’ve never kept a diary, except for a brief travel journal years ago when I lived in London and roamed Europe. Reading Betsy’s work made me wonder what I’m missing by not writing it down in my own daily ritual of self-reflection.

She writes at night as a “kind of release,” she said. Although she’s a journalist by training, she’s careful not to let her diary stray into journalism. She doesn’t want it to be that intentional.

Her diaries are personal, fleeting impressions. Her book on diaries is the carefully edited journalism.

About halfway through the book she explains what has fueled her lifetime practice: “In my diary, I can be uncertain, unclear, sloppy, foul-mouthed, inaccurate, and, yes, biased. Diary writing offers a mental break from my day job and the freedom to write whatever the hell I want and to not care if my diary is successful. Diary writing is a creative act and and an art, letting me explore ways of writing, thinking, and being. It feeds my soul.”

Not that a definitive definition for the diary really exists.

“It’s hard to make broad generalizations about diaries,” Betsy said, especially today, when “the analog world and digital world are kind of informing each other.”

After all, every iPhone now comes with its own Journal app installed. A diary can be online. It doesn’t have to be a book of handwritten scribbles tucked away in a drawer, seen by only one pair of eyes.

But at its core it’s still focused on the writer as the audience. There’s no algorithm to game.

Betsy pins her diary definition on two words: dailiness and self. In other words, this is writing with rigor and ritual — a “conversation with the self” that lives in the moment.

A diary’s blurry line between private and public

And yet — as the book makes plain — diaries don’t stay in the moment forever. A notebook can feel private while you’re writing it, then evolve into something else: evidence, literature, family history, archive. Living inside that tension between self-talk and possible future readers is something Betsy is still working out in real time.

Anne Frank’s diary is a great example of how complicated that line can be. Although initially published in 1947 in the Netherlands and then France, the book didn’t appear in the United States until 1950. A young editorial assistant, Judith Jones, rescued it from a slush pile and championed its publication.

The diary continued to unfold through the decades with expanded versions, because Anne herself self-consciously revised portions of her diary, and her father made his own edits.

That diarist line — between private and public, between self-dialogue and performance — is blurry at best.

This is true for Betsy, too. Her daily routine is more complicated now that she knows she’s donating her 82+ volumes to the Iowa Women’s Archives at the University of Iowa.

Should she mention somebody by name? Use initials only? Avoid a certain scene or topic altogether?

“Ultimately, I do, to some extent, feel someone looking over my shoulder,” she said.

Maybe that’s the real power of diaries that pulled me to Amsterdam and Walden, and kept me turning the pages of “Our Diaries, Ourselves” in my own home. A diary begins as a place to tell the truth to yourself, in whatever voice you can manage that day. But there’s the chance it outlives you, with or without edits, and becomes a way for strangers to meet you across time and say: I was here, too.

May 2026 ‘Our Diaries, Ourselves’ book tour through Iowa

The book: “Our Diaries, Ourselves: How Diarists Chronicle Their Lives and Document Our World” was published in February by Beacon Press and is distributed by Penguin Random House.
Betsy’s book tour stops in Iowa City: 7 p.m. Friday, May 1 at Prairie Lights Books.
She also appears at the Des Moines Book Festival: 12:30 p.m. Saturday, May 2 in Room 148 at the Franklin Event Center.
Also at the Book Fest: Many of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative creators are involved in the festival, including a panel discussion featuring the collaborative at 3 p.m. Saturday, May 2 in Room 148.

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

Thanks, Artemis II, for reminding us what a ‘whole civilization’ really looks like

Kyle Munson — Fri, 10 Apr 2026 02:21:21 GMT

I can understand the inclination to stray 252,756 miles into space, given all the conflict and turmoil currently raging here on the surface of the earth. Time for a vacation and some peace and quiet—with no destination quieter than the cold vacuum of space.

Earlier this week, President Donald Trump vaguely threatened, “A whole civilization will die tonight, never to be brought back again. I don’t want that ‌to ⁠happen, but it probably will.”

Meanwhile, the NASA crew of Artemis II—Reid Wiseman (commander), Victor Glover (pilot), and mission specialists Christina Koch and Jeremy Hansen—meticulously traced the precise path of their lunar flyby to the farthest point reached by any human (252,756 miles). Along the way they wielded a trusty old Nikon camera to snap gorgeous photos of our fragile blue orb—reminding us that what qualifies as a “whole civilization” depends on your perspective.

Photo (April 4, 2026) by Reid Wiseman, Artemis II, NASA

When we’re fixated on the fossil-fuel artery of the Strait of Hormuz—no more than 24 miles wide at its narrowest point—it’s easier to imagine we’re entirely different civilizations sprinkled across the continents, strangers to each other.

From the billions of light years of the vastness of space, however, we see how insignificant and vulnerable we really are as a species—a single speck of a civilization floating among infinity. And mere oil won’t get us where we need to go in the next century to ensure our survival.

Wiseman’s recent image of the whole earth was the first time a human has captured that humbling view since December 1972 when Apollo 17 snapped the classic “Blue Marble” photo.

I was reminded of this by Emilee Richardson, who’s not only an Iowa native (from Clarinda, educated at Drake University) but also head of digital content and social media for NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) in Los Angeles. I reached out to her for input on this historic Artemis mission that has galvanized the world’s attention because I’ve long admired her dedication to public science education—her 4+ years at NASA and, before that, 14+ years at the Science Center of Iowa. She and her team coordinate across NASA to help keep us informed of ongoing exploration. But Artemis II—with humans at the wheel for a moon sequel everybody can quickly understand—has kicked things into higher gear.

“This moment is feeding all of us,” Emilee said of the Artemis frenzy. “It’s definitely needed right now.”

Emilee Richardson, head of digital content and social media for NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory (Photo courtesy of Emilee)

Keep in mind that Richardson and her colleagues deserve to relish this moment. They’ve endured more than their share of recent earthbound stress, from waves of federal workforce layoffs to the L.A. wildfires that tragically consumed the homes of a staggering 500 JPL employees.

As Richardson heard from one space fan regarding Artemis II: “It’s nice for once as a millennial to experience an unprecedented moment that’s positive.”

Artemis II follows a couple decades of the public feeling more humdrum about space missions that had become almost routine.

The first 1969 Apollo moon landing predates me, but scenes from that historic lunar stroll and the national pride surrounding it (stoked by the Cold War) are seared into nearly all our brains.

There was Voyager 1, the unmanned spacecraft launched in 1977 that has become the most distant earth object. This November, Voyager will reach 1 light day (16 billion miles) from earth. This durable spacecraft is carrying the sounds of Chuck Berry and Blind Willie Johnson beyond the outer reaches of our imagination. (Fun fact: Emilee used to be “the voice of Voyager” on Twitter/X.)

Since 2000, humans have continually lived in earth orbit and bridged national and cultural barriers aboard the International Space Station. How cool is that? We’ve established a permanent outpost beyond our atmosphere for a generation. That should still amaze us, not feel humdrum.

When you stop to consider it, Artemis II setting up NASA for a return to the surface of the moon as well as to Mars no longer seems that far-fetched or distant. Rovers Perseverance and Curiosity are still actively exploring Mars, awaiting their human colleagues.

“We’re not selling anything,” Emilee said of the online work by her and her team. “It’s about showing the world and American public what they’re getting for their investment in NASA.”

For my money, NASA has been a public investment I’ve never questioned. Like any modern media brand, NASA even has its own NASA+ streaming service—completely free!

History teaches us that humans continually disappoint ourselves as we wage wars and invent endless horrors.

But we also simultaneously surprise ourselves with our better angels when we work together and, in this case, reach for the literal stars.

“These astronauts are portraying the best of us—togetherness and humanity,” Emilee said.

Thank you, Artemis crew, for putting things into a broader perspective we’ve too easily forgotten over the last half century.

Emilee Richardson poses with the crew of Artemis II in 2023, immediately after their mission was announced. The crew, from left: Christina Koch, Reid Wiseman, Jeremy Hansen, and Victor Glover. (Photo courtesy of Emilee)

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

One man's quest to gather photos from all 944 (or more) Iowa towns for America 250

Kyle Munson — Sat, 14 Mar 2026 19:58:02 GMT

Mike Rowley set forth along the highways and byways of Iowa in 1980 as a pharmaceutical rep—visiting doctors and drug stores in an era with no smartphones, just a paper road map folded inside his glove box.

“I knew where every drive-up telephone was in every town in the state,” he said.

Rowley peddled medicine such as amoxicillin, which soon became the nation’s No. 1 antibiotic—at a modest 8 cents per dose. TV in the ‘80s wasn’t blanketed with millions of dollars in pharma ads—people dancing in the streets to celebrate GLP-1 drugs while a narrator speed-reads through dense paragraphs of side effects.

Rowley crisscrossed Iowa in his Monte Carlo, racking up about 70,000 miles a year and a couple million over his 36-year career. Now a decade into retirement at 68 and living in Clive, he admits he no longer remembers whether he once knew a Dr. Armstrong in Bode, Iowa, or a Dr. Bode in Armstrong, Iowa.

Mike Rowley

Rowley, who describes himself as “probably one of the only non-politicians who’s been in every Iowa county 100 times or more,” has also gotten involved in this year’s America 250 celebration in Iowa. He’s a genealogy enthusiast and member of the Sons of Union Veterans of the Civil War.

His brainstorm of public patriotism: The “All Iowa Towns Collage.”

It’s exactly what it sounds like: Since the first week of January, Rowley and his fellow volunteers have been crowdsourcing at least one photo from each city in Iowa, to be assembled into a mosaic snapshot of our state in this semiquincentennial year. The team has already gathered more than 600 photos. (Rowley consulted the Iowa League of Cities for the official tally of 944 incorporated cities, but his current spreadsheet lists at least 957. “If they’ve got a town they want to claim,” he said, “we’ll count it.”)

Rowley wanted a project that would “cover every inch of Iowa,” welcome everybody, and cost nothing.

“I guess I’m always looking for ways to get people involved and show people they can do something,” he said.

He’s working with tech-savvy fellow volunteers to piece together the mosaic for online display and print. He envisions a handheld version in which each individual photo is no more than 1 inch in diameter. But he also wants a much larger canvas on display at county fairs and the Iowa State Fair.

Adair County is covered—Fontanelle, Greenfield, Orient. So is Adams—Corning, Nodaway, Prescott. But four cities remain in Allamakee: Harpers Ferry, New Albin, Waterville, and Waukon.

Rowley credits seven couples in their 80s with contributing photos from nearly 250 cities, blanketing much of northwest Iowa.

As you might guess, many of the submissions feature town welcome signs or landmarks such as water towers. The image from Lansing memorializes longtime resident Gene Schultz, who died last month at 79 as the nation’s winningest high school baseball coach. Schultz’s 45-year career at Kee High School produced 1,754 wins—and 11 state championships—before he retired in 2014.

Rowley has been retired for a decade—all the better to nurture his genealogy interests and volunteer with the Union veterans group.

So what does he make of piecing together his homespun patriotic celebration given the constant partisan shouting match of our digital media thunder dome?

“I know people find politics in everything,” Rowley said. “Hopefully, maybe, this is the one thing there’s no politics in.”

America 250, he elaborated, “really isn’t just a celebration of the Founding Fathers, Boston, Philadelphia and all that, it’s really everything that has happened since our first birthday.”

It’s hard not to agree with his project’s ultimate value proposition: “What makes us strong are our communities.”

How we coexist with one another in the real world has become only more important as social media strains neighborhood ties and AI challenges our very humanity.

Rowley is also helping with a national project to encourage everybody to read the Declaration of Independence on July 8, 250 years after its first public reading.

In Iowa, he’s intent on honoring the burial sites of 76 veterans—dating to the Revolutionary War—who still languish in unmarked graves.

“I have four tombstones in my garage right now,” he said.

How to send photos to the All Iowa Towns Collage

If you would like to contribute to the All Iowa Towns Collage, email your photos to Rowley at mjr1825@gmail.com. The deadline is March 31.

Another ‘Ken Burns effect’: The comfort of history’s horrors

Speaking of America 250, my favorite podcast episode of the past month is probably Chuck Todd’s conversation with documentary filmmaker Ken Burns. As a lifelong Burns fan, I’ve heard him give countless interviews, along with a couple of speeches in person.

When current events feel volatile and unprecedented, there’s something oddly reassuring about being reminded of all the horrors, disruption, and eternal human foibles we’ve somehow managed to forget.

Maybe I have a warped sense of what qualifies as comfort. But here are three reasons I appreciated Burns’ latest interview while we monitor multiple wars raging:

1. History gives us perspective by puncturing the myth that our politics are uniquely broken.

“We were way more divided during our Revolution, way more divided obviously during our Civil War, way more divided during the Depression, way more divided during the Vietnam years. … We tend to think, as kind of narcissist Chicken Littles, that our time is the worst.”

2. The most dangerous political trick is the invention of false enemies—“them.”

One of Burns’s clearest moral arguments is that political bad actors gain power by interposing enemies between people and their real interests.

“There’s only us, there’s no them. And whenever anyone tells you there’s them, you’re having the wool pulled over your eyes.”

3. You cannot responsibly record history—a step beyond journalists reporting current events—until time and scholarship have done their work.

Burns says he generally needs 25 to 30 years before he feels a subject can be treated historically, not just journalistically. Distance allows “triangulation.” You are no longer captive to immediate emotion, incomplete evidence, or partisan framing.

For instance, Burns has already interviewed former President Obama in eight two-hour sessions, with two more to go. Don’t expect to see the results anytime soon.

Want to join the IWC hootenanny?

Paid subscribers of any members of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative are invited to attend two nights of music in April as part of our IWC Storm Lake Retreat.

April 23: The Weary Ramblers will perform in the Mermaid Room of the Cobblestone Ballroom in Storm Lake.
April 24: The Inaugural IWC Hootenanny takes place at the legendary Byron’s in Pomeroy.

Please use the links to RSVP to either or both events.

I’m 99% sure I won’t be able to attend, but I know you’d have fun with the musicians and other collaborative members.

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

Which America do we want to be? 3 statistics to help decide: 40% of arrests, 3 million pages, and 1,575 defendants

Kyle Munson — Thu, 19 Feb 2026 03:16:24 GMT

We endure a digital information age in which VERY IMPASSIONED OPINIONS fly at us from all directions. We continuously sift through these opinions, legitimate news, selfies galore, AI slop, dad jokes, political attacks, and so much more. They flash into our brains from the smartphone in the palm of our hand, or maybe through a pair of Meta Glasses.

We’d all feel more confident about the fabric of civil society or the future of our democracy if the sheer quantity of information and opinion itself—ever more, ever louder—were the answer. Empowering more voices to speak up with digital tools doesn’t do much good if we stop listening to each other in the process. The rise of AI only reminds us that too much is never enough for the human marketplace.

From the ancient days of stone tablets to modern memes, the hard work never changes: curating valid news and information and placing it into proper context.

On this theme of less can be more if we channel the information flood through focus and discipline, here are three recent statistics. I think all three show how a few dispassionate facts can flex as much or more power than yet another round of spleen-venting.

These stats also do a good job of prompting an important question: Which America do we want to be, really?

The Alex Pretti memorial in Minneapolis photographed on Feb. 6, 2026

40% of arrests

Aaron Reichlin-Melnick is one of the most effective experts I’ve heard put the modern deportation surge by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) into fuller context. His appearance this month on Bill Kristol’s “Conversations” podcast offers a prime example.

He sketches a detailed picture of the true scale of the current “mass deportation regime.” Last year’s One Big Beautiful Bill lavished ICE with $75 billion—a radical escalation enabling campaign rhetoric to become reality.

The government has been purchasing warehouses—at least seven in January alone—to be converted into detention facilities holding 8,500 or more people apiece. Any one of these facilities, assuming it reaches capacity, Reichlin-Melnick said, would rank as the largest prison in the U.S.

He also tapped into recent reporting from CBS News to show the results of ICE arrests. If the intention of mass deportations is to target violent criminals, the ICE surge misses the mark. Depending on how you specify violence, only 10-20% of those arrested by ICE represent serious offenders. Another 30-40% carry nonviolent charges.

But 40% of ICE arrests? People with no criminal record whatsoever.

Which America do we want to be?

3 million pages

The New York Times has built a brilliant modern business model by recreating the comprehensive content mix once enjoyed by most daily metro newspapers: Through my Times apps I can learn to cook a fluffy breakfast omelet, listen to a books podcast, or exercise my brain with Wordle—all while still enjoying a steady drip of essential news headlines.

Among the hard work currently on the plate of Times journalists is an exhaustive deep dive into 3 million pages of the Jeffrey Epstein files—enough sheets of paper to match the height of the Empire State Building.

In a recent Times story explaining the newspaper’s approach, Dylan Freedman, projects editor of A.I. Initiatives, explained his team’s role: “As reporters come to us with questions following the release, we were a sort of strike team, rapidly prototyping bespoke software applications to help them.”

He also outlined the strengths and weaknesses of AI for journalists: “AI is really bad at news judgement—what information to include, whether it’s important. AI can be sloppy and make mistakes that are inexcusable in journalism. It’s super industrious but not super intelligent. AI outputs can amplify biases in society. And in my experience, AI is not great at producing original ideas (but decent at synthesizing or distilling them).”

In my favorite quote from the article, Freedman summed up the Epstein files as “the most detailed portrait … of an elite class of society operating outside of public scrutiny.”

3 million pages to reveal a horrific global network of perverse privilege.

Which America do we want to be?

1,575 defendants

I also must give my friends at National Public Radio plenty of credit for the ambitious public archive they published last month just ahead of the anniversary of the Jan. 6, 2021, attack on the U.S. Capitol.

Their Jan. 6 Archive tracks all 1,575 prosecutions in a public database, and, thanks to years of reporting, provides a sleek continuous scroll of a timeline with “a front-line account of the riot.”

In the words of investigative correspondent Tom Dreisbach, NPR “focused on the facts—evidence presented and evaluated in court, not just political rhetoric.”

Calling it “probably the most videotaped crime in history,” Dresibach explained how he and his colleagues reviewed thousands of videos, selecting hundreds of the most relevant for the database.

“The idea is that people can see the evidence for themselves, compare it to what the president is saying and then a lot of the other myths that are out there,” he said.

Nearly all 1,575 defendants of the Capitol attack have been pardoned. But the evidence, as NPR puts it, “vividly shows the planning for ‘revolution’ and the brutality of violence on a day that continues to shape American politics.”

Once more: Which America do we want to be, really?

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

Informing, inspiring, and supporting each other, from the streets to the Iowa Storytellers Project

Kyle Munson — Thu, 05 Feb 2026 02:24:53 GMT

In many ways, January 2026 was all about firsthand accounts and stories from friends and neighbors in numerous hotspots around the globe.

Including Minnesota. Events in Minneapolis spiraled out of control due to the violent incursion by ICE (alternate acronym: indiscriminate citizen endangerment). Stories arose from the street to correct false narratives hastily issued by federal officials.

A podcast recommendation: A recent episode of “Question Everything,” titled “A Minnesota Dad Takes on ICE,” features Michael Corey, a friend and former data journalist with whom I worked at the Des Moines Register. More recently he was on staff at the Minnesota Star Tribune. In this pod interview he shares disturbing details he witnessed during an ICE arrest, plus plenty of thoughtful perspective on his city’s overall mood.

Corey—with all his journalism experience—also outlines how Signal chat has become the breaking news platform of choice for local residents in a noisy, complicated media environment. Journalists from newsrooms such as the Star Tribune are churning out rigorous in-depth coverage. Cultural icons like Bruce Springsteen are rising to the occasion with “Streets of Minneapolis” and anthems of many other varieties. But we’re in a climate where, above all, the public seems to be directly informing, inspiring, and supporting each other.

I can’t help but think back to the example of the Arab Spring uprisings enabled by tech in the early 2010s, during the euphoric first wave of social media. Today, during this “Minnesota Winter” of the AI era, are we any wiser about the intersection of the digital economy, government, news, and freedom?

Hard to say. But it seems a safe bet that neither smartphones wielded by the public nor body cameras strapped onto federal agents will themselves preserve the just and civil society all of us deserve.

‘Hearts on Fire’ takes the stage

I don’t have a proven remedy to the broad brushstrokes I just splashed across the page. Instead, I offer what I’m convinced is a therapeutic ritual: live public storytelling.

It’s another example of people directly informing, inspiring, and supporting each other—outside the context of protest or a political crisis. I think of live storytelling as a vitamin B12 shot for local communities.

If you’re craving a bright, warm spark in the dead of winter, may I introduce you to the Iowa Storytellers Project and its latest installment, “Hearts on Fire” on Tuesday, Feb. 10, at Hoyt Sherman Place.

The “Hearts on Fire” storytellers, from left: Patrick Albanese, Ryan Siskow, Rev. Greg Neal, Lani Eclatt, and Kathryn Fox.

Last fall I wrote about how and why I got involved in this revival of the series, after helping to establish the original incarnation a decade ago in Des Moines. It’s almost magical in its simplicity: We spend the night listening to five people take the stage to entertain the audience with nothing more than a microphone and an authentic story drawn from their everyday lives.

The tellers stand up in front of their neighbors to bear witness in deeply personal ways, after having spent hours in coaching and solo practice to reexamine their stories and hone their narrative into a tight 10 minutes.

I had a blast coaching talented Des Moines musician Lani Eclatt in a lineup also including Patrick Albanese (a magician and actor familiar from his stage run in “Triple Espresso”), Ryan Siskow (who teaches at Des Moines Area Community College), Kathryn Fox (one-half of the musical duo Weary Ramblers and a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative), and Rev. Greg Neal (of Grace United Methodist in Des Moines).

I think all the coaches left our rehearsal earlier this week feeling as if this could be the best storytellers night thus far.

As intended, the theme “Hearts on Fire” serves merely as a starting point—not a limitation. Don’t worry, lovebirds: Some romance is woven throughout these stories, considering the proximity to Valentine’s Day.

But the night also will span coast to coast, from Los Angeles to New York.

You’ll visit Miami, Florida. Dallas, Texas. The backroads of Missouri. A legendary dive bar down the street from Hoyt Sherman called Carl’s Place.

In these stories you’ll meet parents, siblings, spouses, an aunt, an uncle—even a collection of pet insects.

In addition to love, these stories are filled with music, faith, grief, comedy, and so much more.

I know it has already been a heavy year in so many ways. All I can offer is this one night where informing, inspiring, and supporting each other may leave you feeling a little lighter, more connected, and hopeful by the time you exit the theater.

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Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

The other 'oil glut': Why physical media refuses to die

Kyle Munson — Thu, 15 Jan 2026 03:52:39 GMT

The current stockpile in the headlines is Venezuela’s 303 billion barrels of heavy crude oil, the world’s largest proven petroleum reserves—about 17% of the global total.

Oil remains our daily lifeblood (around 30% of energy), even with renewables on the rise and oil supply outstripping demand in 2026, the year of the glut.

I assume you’re already consuming a steady diet of stories about Venezuela, a country that has spent years struggling to convert geology into stability, as well as tragic reports out of Iran and—much closer to home—Minnesota. All I can do with this post is offer a fleeting interlude and turn your attention to a different type of oil glut in the form of generations of cultural byproducts stowed in basements, bookshelves, and attics everywhere:

20 billion vinyl LPs
20 billion VHS tapes
30 billion CDs
50 billion DVDs (including Blu-ray and 4K Ultra HD titles)

Long after the great boom years of vinyl, CDs, DVDs, and VHS, the world is still awash in them. This dispersed oil deposit in the form of physical media has grown for nearly a century—from Sinatra serenading “bobby soxers” to modern legions of Swifties.

AI analysis of valid industry sources helped me arrive at the above conservative estimate of overall manufacturing totals of the various formats. I also crunched the numbers on how many of these spinning relics are produced from one barrel of oil—factoring in only the material of the actual discs, without any of the packaging or energy used to transport and market them. By that calculation, one barrel supposedly yields:

600 LPs, or
5,500 DVDs, or
6,000 CDs

The turn of the 21^st century represented peak production of physical media, when Britney and the rest of the teen pop industry could easily move 1 million discs in a week and Tony Soprano became the don of DVDs.

The early 2000s may have been the single most material-intensive media moment in history thanks to this flood of optical discs.

Whatever your generation, this may feel like quaint history considering we’ve long since pivoted hard into the streaming era. Streaming now accounts for more than 80% of global music industry revenue and has taken over TV.

But here’s the thing: Physical media never really died. It refuses to die.

I described these billions of discs and tapes as littering basements, bookshelves, and attics, but it’s more accurate to say they’ve been surging out of dusty corners and back into stores everywhere as the secondhand market gains momentum.

Taking back control of our listening and viewing habits

Enter Chris DeLine, proprietor of Iowa’s newest specialist physical media retailer, Razzle Dazzle Music & Movies in Cedar Rapids, open since December. His address strikes me as completely appropriate to his product: Just like Season 3 of “Stranger Things,” his setting is a shopping mall—Lindale Mall, which debuted as an indoor marketplace in 1980.

“The ability to be around and interact with people who are passionate about the same stuff is pretty awesome,” he said.

Chris DeLine of Razzle Dazzle (Photo courtesy of Chris)

DeLine, qualifying as an elder millennial at age 42, occupies a former Foot Locker—gray wall brackets still faintly visible. Where shoes once hung, rows of CDs and DVDs now stand at attention, most priced low enough to invite curiosity rather than commitment.

His typical used CD costs $2.85 or $3.85, with Gen Z snapping them up as quickly as graying hipsters. It’s a stark bargain compared to new LPs that may go for $30, $40, or more.

“I want to make sure things are affordable,” DeLine said. “Not just because I think stuff has gotten a little bit out of hand, but I want to make sure things are at a price point where you can take a risk, and it’s not going to hurt.”

I’ve been hearing how “affordability” is one of the political watchwords ahead of the 2026 midterm elections. Here’s more evidence.

DeLine did not set out to become a curator of this petroleum afterlife. He’s a native of Calgary (coincidentally the capital of Canada’s oil and gas industry). Raised partly in Minnesota, he was educated at Buena Vista University in Storm Lake (business management with an entrepreneurship track) and marinated for more than a decade in Nashville’s gig-economy swirl. He also earned a master’s in clinical mental health counseling but quickly learned therapy wasn’t his calling. So, he sold his house, packed up several hundred DVDs, and moved to Cedar Rapids in 2022. He sought a mid-life reset in a city closer to friends and family who also relocated to eastern Iowa.

Razzle Dazzle began not as a storefront but as a digital business—launched from an eBay account dating back to 1999, with an Amazon marketplace pipeline added in 2024.

(Photo courtesy of Chris)

DeLine’s brick-and-mortar store came almost accidentally. He went to the mall looking for storage. He nearly rented a basement space once used as a smash room, where people paid to destroy objects not unlike those he now sells. Upstairs, a better spot opened.

His debut month of December exceeded his sales expectations—better than any single month of his online trade. The shelves emptied faster than he could restock them. And it’s not all about affordability.

“Young people are stepping away from the streaming platforms and, just from what I hear, a lot of it’s taking back control of their viewing and listening habits,” he said.

Yes, a thousand times yes.

I’m as much a streaming addict as anybody, but I’ve also remained invested in physical media—thousands of CDs and hundreds of LPs and still counting—for my entire life. I regularly haunt DeLine’s more veteran peers in Des Moines—Zzz Records, Rogue Planet Music, Skylabs, Ratt’s Underground Records, Vinyl Cup, etc.

Unlike streaming, my owned discs don’t vanish quietly from the platform when a license expires. They wait.

When the apocalypse hits and all the networks go dark, join me at my place and we’ll bliss out to LPs and CDs, assuming I can get my 50-year-old vintage hi-fi gear hooked up to solar power.

DeLine is self-aware enough to smile at the thought of him launching a CD and DVD store in a mall in 2026 in some sort of amusingly stubborn counternarrative to the AI boom.

But he also knows that long after platforms pivot, people still like to cling to the tangible artifacts they love.

At Razzle Dazzle, the lights are on, the shelves are refilling, and the glut—cultural, plastic, thrifty—is being gently, joyfully recirculated.

1 first and 2 favorites from Razzle Dazzle’s DeLine

The first piece of physical media he owned: “Piledriver: The Wrestling Album II.”
Favorite album: “Songs for the Deaf,” Queens of the Stone Age
Favorite Canadian band: The Tragically Hip

Razzle Dazzle also sells new LPs. (Photo courtesy of Chris)

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

A few of my favorite things to say thanks for following along in 2025

Kyle Munson — Wed, 24 Dec 2025 20:34:54 GMT

Thanks to all subscribers and others for following along on this wild ride that was 2025 on Substack, whether you’ve known my work for years or only recently discovered me through the Iowa Writers Collaborative.

I couldn’t help but record a short holiday video to convey my gratitude (and a handful of recommendations) more directly:

The best music of 2025

As I mention in the video, Americana duo Weary Ramblers (Iowans Chad Elliott on guitar and Kathryn Severing Fox on fiddle) captivated the audience when they performed earlier this month at our Iowa Writers Collaborative holiday party in Des Moines. Grab a copy of their new LP, “Driftwood.”

When it comes to year-end music list-making and recommendations, old habits die hard: In the late 1990s and early 2000s I was part of the music-critic media establishment, where we shared in rituals such as the annual “Pazz & Jop” poll to foster critical consensus around a small set of albums and perpetuate a gleefully snobbish tastemaker culture.

Today we have more thorough and automated aggregators like Metacritic, but by and large the monoculture (in all things, not only recorded music) has splintered into endless options where everybody can meander down their own digital cul-de-sac of micro-specific interests. I welcome this. More awareness for wildly different kinds of music, while breaking down traditional genres, is a good thing.

Geese, “Getting Killed”

But one of my favorite albums of the year, New York rock band Geese’s “Getting Killed,” feels a little like a throwback to the ‘90s pre-social media era. It has been a long while since I’ve noticed an album attract such universal acclaim and land on so many lists.

I’ll make a small plea for you to also pay attention to the band’s previous album, “3D Country.” It was my favorite of 2023 and one I discovered thanks to my son. It’s a little rowdier but no less catchy and memorable.

Some of my other favorite music of the year, in no particular order (including an unintended double dose of Swedish artists):

Anna von Hausswolff, “Iconoclasts”

This may defy classification (again, a good thing) except to say the Swedish singer-songwriter’s sixth album is majestic, epic, and features a guest turn by none other than punk godfather Iggy Pop.

Destroyer, “Dan’s Boogie”

This may be my favorite album of the year—another high point from the poetic, off-kilter mind of amusingly aloof indie-rock mainstay Dan Bejar.

Deftones, “Private Music”

I didn’t expect to care about this metal band’s 10th album, but their atmospheric squall kept pulling me back in for repeat listens.

Hayes Carll, “We’re Only Human”

This Texas troubadour is one of our finest active songwriters, with this album perhaps the most polished and serene entry in his catalog.

Donny McCaslin, “Lullaby for the Lost”

My introduction to saxophonist McCaslin was his work with David Bowie on the latter’s landmark swan song, “Blackstar.” Don’t get scared away when I describe this album as an “art-jazz-rock” gem.

Molly Nilsson, “Amateur”

What’s not to love about catchy Swedish synth-pop?

Kieran Hebden and William Tyler, “41 Longfield Street Late ‘80s”

This collaboration between an English electronic artist (Hebden) and “cosmic country” guitarist from Nashville (Tyler) was the year’s ambient classic I didn’t realize I was waiting for.

One book recommendation from my 2025 reading

Let’s stick with a music theme for one of my favorite (and most surprising) books of the year.

Journalist Sam Quinones’ usual beat is America’s illegal drug trade and our opioid epidemic. But for his latest book he turned his reporting chops to the world of … America’s tubists.

I would do you a disservice to try and sketch the scope of this lovely book instead of just imploring you to read it. Rest assured you don’t need to be a tubist (I’m not) to enjoy it. You also may not need to care much for marching band, the symphony, or music in general.

“The Perfect Tuba” is one of those rare books capturing the flawed beauty and exuberance of life from a fresh and entirely unexpected angle.

You can also find and follow Sam here on Substack, with his “Dreamland” newsletter.

One 2025 documentary film to watch

I don’t claim the new Netflix documentary “The New Yorker at 100” is the best film or doc of the year or even my favorite. (I may have to choose “Sinners” as my top 2025 movie—and, yes, I prefer “Eddington” over “One Battle After Another,” which makes me some sort of misguided heretic.) I certainly enjoyed it. Earlier this year I wrote about my affection for the New Yorker and decades-long subscriber status.

I’d encourage you to watch the documentary if for no other reason than to appreciate a style of rigorous journalism that’s sadly endangered in our modern media ecosystem. One section of the doc is dedicated to the New Yorker’s fact-checking department, where staffers second-guess every last word and punctuation mark—even every seemingly innocuous cartoon.

As much as I love Substack, our drift from the era of media institutions to that of influencers is sacrificing rigor and place-based coverage in our news diet. I can’t help but mourn—and do what I can to help support the sort of news we Americans deserve.

Share your own 2025 recommendations

What were some of your favorite creative works this year?

Leave a comment below. For this post, comments are open to everybody.

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

This unsolved Iowa murder tale refuses to die—and finally becomes a homegrown film

Kyle Munson — Thu, 11 Dec 2025 04:52:57 GMT

Starting this month, moviegoers can rediscover the work and vision of a groundbreaking Iowa journalist and artist from the turn of the 20^th century—thanks to a modern Iowa filmmaker’s first full-length feature.

It all began Dec. 1, 1900, with what the Des Moines Daily News called a “foul murder” south of Indianola: “A farmer named (John) Hossack was struck over the head and killed by unknown parties.”

The next day’s follow-up deepened the mystery and sketched a scene both intimate and inexplicable:

“There is no evidence of burglary. The murderer came through a porch and front room to the bed room where Mr. and Mrs. Hossack slept. He evidently reached across the bed with an ax and struck two blows. One crushed in the skull and the other made a deep cut, yet Hossack lived from Saturday night until 10 a.m. Sunday, though he did not regain consciousness, and no one has yet been found who can give a clue to the murder. The ax was found under a shed about fifty feet from the house. Mrs. Hossack swore before the jury that she was awakened about midnight by the slamming of a door, saw a flash of light and then all was dark. She called to her husband but as he did not respond, she got up and lighted a lamp. Then she discovered him on the bed, with blood all over the clothing. She said she did not hear the blows nor see any one. The officers are investigating.”

Eventually, the officers focused their suspicions on Hossack’s wife, Margaret.

A talented and ambitious 24-year-old reporter—a Davenport native and Drake University alum named Susan Glaspell—covered the case from the grisly discovery through the initial conviction of Margaret. When the Iowa Supreme Court overturned that verdict and a retrial ended in a hung jury, the murder became one of Iowa’s signature unsolved crimes. Margaret, who always insisted she was innocent, died in Indianola in 1916.

Ever since, the unsolved murder has been creative fuel for generations of storytellers—starting with Glaspell herself.

By 1916, she was living in New York City’s Greenwich Village and spending summers performing with the Provincetown Players in Provincetown, Massachusetts—the country’s first modern American theater company, which she co-founded. (A young Eugene O’Neill got his start there.)

Drawing on the Hossack case—the defining story of her news career—Glaspell wrote “Trifles,” a fictionalized one-act play that premiered in Provincetown in 1916, just days before Margaret Hossack’s death. The play eventually earned a reputation as an influential early feminist drama.

The next year Glaspell published a short story version, “A Jury of Her Peers”—the title a more explicit nod to how women were excluded from local power structures, including in the courtroom.

In other words, in the years before the 19^th Amendment was ratified in 1920, finally recognizing women’s right to vote, Glaspell crafted an intimate story of family and gender dynamics that has remained relevant from the era of the telegraph to the era of the iPhone.

Iconic director Alfred Hitchcock turned to Glaspell’s story for a 1961 episode of his popular TV series.

A 30-minute movie adaptation of “A Jury of Her Peers” in 1980 was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Live Action Short Film.

The original murder was explored in a deeply researched book, “Midnight Assassins: A Murder in America’s Heartland,” published in 2007 by married co-authors Patricia L. Bryan and Thomas Wolf.

Now, 125 years after the killing, an Iowa cast and crew has brought “A Jury of Her Peers” back to life in a film with its world premiere Dec. 12 at Fleur Cinema & Café in Des Moines.

Des Moines actor Stephanie Schneider portrays Dora Hale in the film—a neighbor who helps drive the plot with her own furtive investigations. It’s the same role Glaspell chose for herself when “Trifles” premiered.

“I think it’s important to show how far we’ve come and yet how far we haven’t come in 125 years,” Schneider said of the story’s themes. “There are a lot of the same struggles day to day, and I think this story really speaks to women coming together as friends and building a united front.”

Stephanie Schneider portrays Dora Hale in “A Jury of Her Peers.” (Photo courtesy of Will Do Films)

A storyteller who learned ‘literally everything’ from his first film

Sitting across from filmmaker William Rock, the driving force behind the latest version of “A Jury of Her Peers,” I felt a little ashamed that until now I had never encountered the life and legacy of Glaspell.

She wrote at least 50 short stories, nine novels, and 15 plays—including her 1930 play “Alison’s House” that won a Pulitzer Prize.

Rock, 43, is a seasoned screenwriter who has also built an acting resume in local theater. His partnership with cinematographer John Hansen, forged through the 48 Hour Film Project, became foundational to the new movie.

When I ask whether Rock sees himself primarily as a writer, director, or producer, he shrugs off those labels in favor of the broader “storyteller.”

William Rock pages through the script while on set during the filming of “A Jury of Her Peers.” (Photo courtesy of Will Do Films)

He wore nearly all the storyteller hats on this project—including acting, as “the crazy neighbor.”

But most of his time was spent producing, which meant constant problem-solving.

“Every time I’ve thought we’ve done the hard part,” Rock said, “every time I’ve been wrong.”

What did the experience teach him about filmmaking?

“Literally everything,” he said.

Rock’s journey began in the summer of 2020 when he drove his sons (now 16, 14, and 8) to a camp south of Indianola. Passing through the tiny unincorporated community of Medora—three houses and a church—he felt a tug of history-nerd curiosity. One Google search led to another, and soon he was immersed in the Hossack case and the story of Susan Glaspell.

Rock admits he’s “a sucker for an underdog.” Glaspell fit easily: a young woman covering crime and politics at a time when few women did, a founding voice in American theater, and a writer who climbed from obscurity to national acclaim.

Four years later, Rock shot a proof-of-concept trailer and fully committed to making the film.

Then he shot it on a period-perfect Iowa farmstead in 23 days—weekends spread over four months—with a cast and crew of about 60.

One crew member had a singular job: mixing fake blood for the corpse. When Rock was handed a Mason jar of the unsettlingly realistic mixture, he tasted a tiny dab just to be sure it was safe. He was relieved to detect cocoa powder.

“I still haven’t met him in person,” Rock said of his blood-maker.

Besides Glaspell, Rock drew influence for the film from Rian Johnson’s wonderful and witty “Knives Out” franchise. His advice to viewers: “Pay attention to what people aren’t saying.”

After its Des Moines premiere, “A Jury of Her Peers” travels to Davenport, Albia, Ida Grove, Corning, and beyond.

When I asked whether he intends to make more films, Rock was quick to say he’s already writing his next project—a blend of horror and comedy.

“If you’re thinking R-rated ‘Ghostbusters,’ you’re pretty close,” he said.

As 20th century influences go, that’s quite a departure from Glaspell’s intimate family drama.

Rock’s budget for his second film may need to account for more than one Mason jar of fake blood.

The cast of “A Jury of Her Peers” (Photo courtesy of Will Do Films)

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

How three-legged Lefty became the loudest dog in Des Moines

Kyle Munson — Tue, 25 Nov 2025 02:57:28 GMT

Landmark cultural spaces in our daily lives don’t necessarily begin with a grand vision, meticulous business plan, or massive amounts of venture capital.

Sometimes it comes down to sensing a need, filling a niche, and acting on an inspired whim.

In the words of Erik Brown, if you’re present in life and pay attention when a door opens, that often is the moment when opportunity beckons.

That’s more or less how he and his business partner, Anne Mathey, found themselves launching their venue known as Lefty’s Live Music in 2015 in the heart of Dogtown, the entertainment district on the eastern fringe of Drake University in Des Moines.

A decade later, they’re feeling all the feels as they wind down their run as club owners and sell 2307 University Avenue, with the sounds of hundreds of rock, metal, country, jazz, punk, cowpunk, folk-punk, circus punk, (insert anything) punk, and countless other styles of bands still ringing in their ears.

A final run of shows culminates with a goodbye gig Dec. 20 (with Brother Trucker, Todd Partridge & the Whiskey Gospel and Jacob County & the Damaged Goods) and a “Merry Metal Christmas” Dec. 21 headlined by Absolute Power.

“We didn’t plan this,” Brown said of the Lefty’s decade. “It presented itself.”

Another coincidental (and inspired) choice: The venue was named after Mathey’s beloved dog, Lefty, a mix of beagle and German shorthaired pointer. A cartoon version of Lefty grins and winks on the venue’s sign out front, and he’s depicted alongside Ozzy Osbourne on the giant mural indoors.

Lefty bellies up to the bar at his namesake venue. (Photo courtesy of Anne Mathey)

Lefty already was missing his front left leg when Mathey adopted him from the local shelter in 2008. The poor pooch apparently was rescued from the middle of a frozen river after he broke through the ice and got his leg stuck in a logjam. He became a regular presence at his namesake club, whether he could be seen bellied up to the bar, splayed beneath a pinball machine, or taking in the show with his hearing protected by a pair of Mutt Muffs.

“As a woman, it’s a signal that it’s safe,” Mathey said of Lefty’s mascot presence. “At a place where they’re taking care of the dog, they’re taking care of the people, too.”

Lefty died in 2022 at the ripe old age of 15.

Forget bark vs. bite: Lefty’s spirit, at least through Dec. 21, still rings out louder than any other canine in our capital city.

Three fingers—or paws?—of whiskey, please. (Photo courtesy of Anne Mathey)

From Bagg’s to Lefty’s

Mathey first set foot inside 2307 University to hear bracing all-female rock bands like L7 as a Drake student when the venue was known as Safari Night Club.

The building, dating back to 1960, housed a series of businesses and bars—by the late ‘80s a blues joint called Bagg’s, after owner David Bagby.

That closed in 1990 and was followed by Safari, which welcomed a steady dose of live reggae among rock and other styles. (I spent a couple hours of my 21^st birthday at the Safari, and it has remained a sentimental address in my personal geography of Des Moines.)

Shawn Crahan of Slipknot fame briefly owned Safari. As a young music journalist I helped judge band battles there featuring Slipknot and witnessed lead singer Corey Taylor’s debut with the what became Iowa’s most famous musical export.

Then came a sequel version of storied music venue Hairy Marys (its original location in what is now High Life Lounge). There was an Irish bar, the Dublin.

Most recently, Lefty’s.

Co-owners Erik Brown, left, and Anne Mathey stand on the back patio of Lefty’s.

‘Be curious and find new art. Gather in spaces and connect.’

Mathey made her way to Lefty’s after a career pivot from media to the bar biz. She had been an alt-weekly entertainment editor when she joined the staff of the former House of Bricks—briefly at its Merle Hay Road location, then in the East Village in the space now occupied by Garden nightclub.

She met musician Brown at House of Bricks, where he signed on as doorman after moving from Colorado in 2009. That venue’s conversion to a restaurant prodded the pair to become unlikely entrepreneurs and open their own place, supported by a staff of fewer than 10.

They adopted a mission to evangelize local talent as well as “good music from out of state that nobody knew.”

Des Moines metal band Infernal Instinct performs Nov. 20 at Lefty’s.

Here they are a decade later, having curated a space where an act as curious as the “Vaudeville debauchery” of the Tinderbox Circus Sideshow lingered after its performance to teach Mathey how to walk on a bed of nails.

Brown never will forget the blaring triple bill of Faster Pussycat, the Supersuckers, and the Rumors.

Lefty’s eked by during COVID. Mathey and Brown’s goal had been to at least “break the seven-year curse”—outlasting the tenures of previous occupants. They outlived their beloved mascot.

They had been wrestling for most of this year with the decision to close.

It was time.

Lefty’s joined the scene in 2015 among a rash of closures of other longtime music venues: Hull Ave. Tap, Blues on Grand, People’s, etc.

It leaves as xBk Live still thrives just a block away, and newcomers take root such as Locals Bar & Stage downtown.

“People should be sad about it,” Brown said of Lefty’s closing, “but there will be a phoenix.”

The co-owners posted a message on social media that included these lines: “To all the patrons, be curious and find new art. Gather in spaces and connect. Hold each other close.”

I’ll add one more: Be like Lefty and fetch live music often, and don’t forget to protect your ears.

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative Holiday Party

If you’re a paid subscriber to at least one member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative (it doesn’t have to be me), you can attend our upcoming holiday party for free. Otherwise, cover charge is $35 at the door. Other details:

What: Iowa Writers’ Collaborative Holiday Party
When: 7 p.m. Wednesday, Dec. 17
Where: The Harkin Institute, 2800 University Ave., Des Moines
Who: Mingle with members and fellow supporters of the collaborative, and hear the wonderful music duo Weary Ramblers perform.
RSVP: Reserve your spot by Dec. 5.

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

Larry was a man of Main Street and caretaker of community

Kyle Munson — Sat, 01 Nov 2025 19:01:50 GMT

The example of Larry Larson’s life reminds me of why I chose to title this newsletter “Main Street.”

We live in a world of distraction where sometimes it feels difficult to stay in touch with our neighbors—arguably a paradox considering the endless menu of digital apps claiming to help us do that very thing (while monetizing our data). These digital streams also are handy for distorting our view of the world as all political polarization, no commonality.

Larry spent his entire life overseeing a more old-fashioned arena of civil discourse: the grocery store aisle.

Larry, 89, who died Oct. 22 at Mary Greeley Medical Center in Ames due to the complications of various forms of cancer, was a small-town grocer who dedicated his life to serving his entire community and bringing people together.

He was so staunchly grassroots and local he never used a credit card or carried a cell phone.

Bicyclists in the 50th RAGBRAI (Register’s Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa) in July 2023 lounge in front of Town & Country Market on Main Street in Slater.

“I gave him (a phone) years ago, but he never really wanted to activate it, so he didn’t,” said his younger brother, Ken, who also lives in Ames.

I got to know Larry as the owner for half a century of Town & Country Market at 308 Main Street in Slater, just south of Ames on the edge of Story County. My family and I lived in Slater for 17 years, until 2022. The beloved store was referred to as “Larry’s” more often by locals than by its official name. At one point, shoppers even had to be instructed to stop writing checks to “Larry’s” because the bank would no longer honor the nickname for transactions. (Yes, the store did eventually and begrudgingly accept credit cards.)

That was just one of many signs of how deeply Larry and his five-aisle grocery—where you could buy a gallon of milk from the local dairy, fresh ground beef, or Norwegian kringla cookies—were embedded into everyday life.

Larry Larson

Larry was born in Spring Valley, Minnesota, to a fully Norwegian family and raised in rural northern Iowa. He was a student in a one-room schoolhouse in Humboldt County, then moved to Hampton in 1943, then in 1952 to Ames, where the family’s West Street Grocery stood just a couple block from the Iowa State University (ISU) campus.

Larry graduated from Ames High in 1954 and ISU in 1959. His father’s death in 1957 prompted older brother Cliff to sell his own grocery store in the town of Alden and return to Ames to run West Street.

Larry, meanwhile, enlisted in the Army, at first stationed in Turkey on the shore of the Black Sea, where as part of the Security Agency he helped monitor Soviet communications. After the famous May 1960 incident in which the Soviets shot down the American U-2 spy plane and captured pilot Francis Gary Powers, part of the fallout included the transfer of Larry and his unit to Harrogate, England.

Also in 1960, Larry married his wife, RoDean, and they went on to have two children.

Larry’s employers included the Iowa League of Municipalities (now Cities), but it was the grocery business that came to define his career.

“I never went to meat school,” Larry, the son of a butcher, told the Ames Tribune in 2015, the same year he was honored as grand marshal in Slater’s July Fourth parade. “One day back in 1964 at our store in Ames, my brother decided to move out of state, and I had to take over. So, I learned one day, and he left the next.”

Larry was honored as grand marshal of the Slater July Fourth parade in 2015. (Photo courtesy of the Slater Area Historical Association.)

Larry also entered local politics—as a Democrat, like his brother, Cliff, who served as state party chair and also was a staffer for legendary U.S. Rep. Neal Smith.

Larry ran unsuccessfully for the Iowa House in 1968 but won in 1970. His ads that year touted “increased financial support for the three state universities, strong measures to protect our environment, property tax relief, streamlining of state government, and aid to cities and towns.” He was elected to a supervisor seat in Story County in 1976 and lost an Iowa Senate race in 1978.

He established his own grocery store in the town of Huxley in 1971, but in 1976 he relocated to Slater, where his business and sprit of service blossomed.

The store became renowned for its outdoor garden department in the spring and summer—including offering more than a dozen varieties of Buck Roses named after the ISU professor who developed them.

“Now I am employing grandchildren of some of my original employees,” Larry told the Tribune in 2015.

Larson’s wife, RoDean, died in 2009. In recent years he spent time with longtime friend Jeri Prescott, whose husband died in 2012. The two couples first became friends in the 1960s.

“He was a people person,” Jeri said. Larry never wanted to eat at a chain restaurant, she added—always a locally owned business. I would sometimes spot Larry engaged in conversation at the bar of Cafe Beaudelaire. Larry would’ve been content to dine nightly at Mucky Duck Pub in Ames, Jeri said—harkening back to his time in the Army when he fell in love with British pub culture.

Larry entered the hospital on a Tuesday morning and died the next day. His maternal Norwegian grandmother, who arrived in 1899 at Ellis Island, long ago gave her grandson the following poem:

Lord, keep me working; keep me fit
At windows I don’t want to sit
watching my fellows hurrying by.
Let me stay busy till I die.
Grant me the strength, and breath, and will
Some useful niche in life to fill
This is my prayer as time goes by,
Lord, keep me busy till I die.

That seems to encapsulate the life of a grocer—forever busy fulfilling an essential community niche.

Larry’s grocery store remains open under the management of Mandy Weeks and longtime staff.

Larry’s memorial from 1 to 4 p.m. Saturday, Nov. 15, will be held in the Ballard West Elementary gym just a couple blocks east on Main Street from his store. It takes the largest venue in town to hold all the people who circulated through Larry’s five aisles and found community there.

The memorials for Larry reflect some of his ideals at a time when many Iowans need this assistance more than ever:

Food at First food bank
The Bridge Home shelter
Good Neighbor Emergency Assistance
Story County Democrats

After he was elected to the Statehouse in November 1970, Larry sent a letter to the editor of the Ames Tribune, and it was published under the headline “seeks ideas”:

“Thanks very much to the voters for electing me State Representative to the 34^th District. I’m humbled by this new responsibility and will need a great deal of help from everyone in my efforts to improve the performance of the General Assembly and to properly represent my constituency.
“I’d greatly appreciate hearing ideas about the issues the upcoming Legislature should address itself to and the voters’ positions on these issues.
“I’m specially interested in hearing from the many experts in this district as to their concerns about legislation involving their areas of interest.
“Please feel free to write or see me if you have any ideas. Thanks again.”

And then he listed his home mailing address.

Humility. Gratitude. Curiosity. Open-mindedness.

A politician who ran on a platform that found room for environmental protection as well as the streamlining of government.

A grocer who as a Democrat likely served a majority Republican clientele and brought everybody together with his spirit of servant leadership and fellowship.

Larry was a man of Main Street in every sense. R.I.P. to a legendary grocer and Iowan.

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

A restaurateur pivots from palate to palette and launches his art career

Kyle Munson — Fri, 10 Oct 2025 12:57:19 GMT

Steve Logsdon has spent his career with the dinner plate as his artistic canvas—exquisite pasta, protein, greens, and other cuisine framed by knife, fork, and spoon.

He’s chef and owner of Lucca, a fine dining staple for 20 years in downtown Des Moines’ East Village. Logsdon is one of those ever-present, gracious hosts, continually chatting with and checking in on his diners.

I first met Logsdon 30 years ago when he and his brother, Joe (now owner of the equally excellent La Mie), opened Basil’s in the basement food court across Locust Street from the Des Moines Register newsroom. Their homemade pasta and pizza were staples of my midday diet.

Decades later, Logsdon is adopting a new artistic canvas—literal canvas, as a painter.

He’s setting aside the spatula long enough to occasionally pick up a brush.

Logsdon, who started working in restaurants at age 14 but also studied art history at Drake University, is belatedly launching his career as a painter of large minimalist canvases.

Steve Logsdon stands inside the second floor gallery and events space at his restaurant, Lucca, in the East Village.

If you’ve dined lately at Lucca, no doubt you noticed his vibrant artworks towering high above the tables, anchored into the brick walls of the main-floor dining room—4-by-8-foot rectangles filled with bright and orderly geometric dabs of acrylic paint.

Climb the back stairs to the second floor, and the walls are lined with dozens more. Logsdon has produced more than 100 paintings in the last year and a half. They’re titled only with numbers.

He’s following in the vein of artists who inspired him as a student, including abstract expressionist Ad Reinhardt (1913-1967) and “father of minimalism” Frank Stella (1936-2024). His paintings don’t represent figures or forms. They don’t overtly comment on society or current topics. They’re meant to be pure expressions of color and craft.

Logsdon spoke of how Reinhardt would mix turpentine into his paint and let it set for a month to achieve a particular matte finish. Or how he sometimes dilutes his own acrylic with water for a more translucent color.

It almost sounded like he was obsessing over a recipe for pork ribeye with pico de gallo.

Logsdon humored my kitchen and canvas comparisons. Is blending colors in his paintings similar to how he might mingle flavors to sauté vegetables in a skillet?

Somewhat. The main allure for Logsdon is losing himself in the repetitive mechanics of painting to manifest his artistic vision. Whether food or paint, he likes how he’s directly responsible for what he creates and must rely on his judgement for which ingredients pair well.

His studio is modest: two long tables in his cozy Beaverdale garage where he spends hours painting at night. He works from the top to the bottom along the length of the canvas. He usually begins with white, layering on darker colors. The acrylic dries fast, so it’s easy to keep working. The repetition and rhythm of the craft entrance him. It’s the Zen of an artist. The relentless pursuit of consistency.

It sounds calming.

“I’m a very nervous person,” Logsdon said.

The middle painting is one of Logsdon’s personal favorites.

After a lifetime of selling entrees, Logsdon hosts the first showcase for his paintings on Saturday, Oct. 11, starting at 6 p.m. on Lucca’s second floor. One of his original works costs anywhere from hundreds to thousands of dollars.

But three paintings Saturday will be raffled off, and one will be auctioned.

Those who can’t make it to the event can always call or visit Lucca—Logsdon’s makeshift gallery for now.

At this point in his career, and given this belated pivot to embrace a different side of his creativity, which title does he prefer, I wondered? Chef? Artist? Restaurateur? Something else?

Chef is overstated, Logsdon said.

“We’re just cooks.”

At this point I guess he’s also just a painter.

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

An Empire state of mind returns to Fourth Street in downtown Des Moines

Kyle Munson — Fri, 03 Oct 2025 13:32:36 GMT

How will we be remembered in the decades long after we’re dead?

We may not have written a 300-page autobiography, paid for naming rights to a cultural landmark, or etched a profound quip into our headstone.

What if we’re remembered by nothing more than, say, nine letters set into a tile floor? Letters people unceremoniously tread on daily and then get quickly covered and forgotten for decades?

Such was the seeming fate of Matt Kane, an early 20^th century “saloon keeper” in downtown Des Moines who opened his Empire Bar in April 1905 at 223 Fourth St. His watering hole never had time to become a local staple. The bar closed barely more than a year later in July 1906.

The bar’s floor featured “THE EMPIRE” spelled into the tile of its entryway—the letters pieced together as a mosaic of tiny square tile, surrounded by a hexagonal pattern.

The entryway of the new Empire in downtown Des Moines, featuring the tile floor of the former Empire from 1905.

Kane, originally from Maine, was also involved in the Kirkwood Hotel across the street. The Des Moines Register reported in 1915 that he sent a farewell message to the mayor and city council as he retired from the saloon business. At that time, cities were experimenting with prohibition ahead of the national alcohol ban of the 1920s.

“The evident dryness discouraged all who looked longingly inside, and the would-be customers passed on,” the Register wrote of the closure of Kane’s final barroom.

Kane died March 7, 1916, at the Mayo hospital in Rochester, Minn., at the age of 62.

Meanwhile, “THE EMPIRE” in tile was soon forgotten beneath an eventual five layers of flooring just inside the front door at 223 Fourth St.—until this year, when modern restaurateur and “saloon keeper” Jeff “Bruno” Bruning and his business partners unearthed it. That revelation and its civic history inspired them for the branding of their latest hangout.

So, after an epic 119 years of world wars and space exploration and cat memes to define our modern civilization, the Empire has circled back around with a belated sequel. It officially opened Oct. 2.

The Empire at 223 Fourth St. (Full Court Press photo)

“We’ve always had this desire to transform old buildings back into something special and use the old building to the best of what was left for us,” said Bruning, a partner in Full Court Press.

In 1903 the State Insurance Company converted the building into the Elliott Hotel, with a saloon on the main floor. Kane tried his Empire Bar there, then the space cycled through the Elliott Buffet (1906-26), Dixie BBQ (1929-49), King Ying Low (1949-2008), and, finally, Fong’s Pizza.

Full Court Press moved Fong’s to the East Village earlier this year but still had a few years left on its lease at 223 Fourth, triggering this opportunity. Generally speaking, the Empire is the 13^th venue in the ownership group’s lineup.

The modern Empire was “reimagined” with the help of Don Short of West End Salvage, architect Ryan Ellsworth of Invision Architecture, and owner Dennis Epps of Full Court Press. It specializes in convenient over-the-counter value meals (sandwiches, chicken and noodles, etc.), beer, and cocktails.

And coffee.

The Empire also represents another comeback—a partial return for Ritual Café after the popular downtown coffee shop closed this summer. Owner Denise Diaz had a 20-year run with Ritual next door to Pappajohn Sculpture Park. Before that, she got her start in coffee on Fourth Street within eyeshot of the Empire, in what used to be Java Joe’s, from 1992 to 2004.

“It’s almost like I grew up and went to coffee college,” Diaz said of her time at Joe’s.

Denise Diaz serves coffee on opening day at the Empire, Oct. 2, 2025.

As she was closing Ritual, she was unsure of her next step. A chance conversation with Bruning led her to join the Empire to continue serving her Mayan mochas and horchata lattes. But Diaz always has leaned into coffee as a way to create gathering spaces that welcome everybody, from downtown workers to artists to activists and everybody else.

“It’s a way of being part of a community,” she said.

I’m almost certain I purchased coffee from Diaz on the tragic morning of 9/11 on my way to work in the Register newsroom. I remember placing the steaming cup in the drink holder as I started my car and headed north. It was while rolling down Fourth Street that I heard newscaster Carl Kasell’s voice on National Public Radio reporting the curious crash of an aircraft into the World Trade Center. Later that day I was hawking extra print editions on the streets downtown. A few days later I attended a public prayer gathering barely a block away from where the Empire now stands once again.

Every city offers persistent reminders of what can crumble or somehow manage to endure.

The Fourth Street block between Court and Walnut feels like a concentrated repository of civic memory.

It’s true for me personally: I used to discover great up-and-coming bands at the Vaudeville Mews. Enjoyed countless lunches at King Ying Low. I can still hang out at the Lift and spin vinyl LPs. Watch soccer at the Royal Mile. Begin wandering into the Downtown Farmers Market.

It’s true for Bruning and Full Court Press, because the street (including the stretch south of Court) was home to three of their first five businesses, with Royal Mile and Hessen Haus still there alongside the new Empire.

“It feels kind of full circle,” Bruning said.

When you enter the Empire, glance down at the tile and give a fleeting thought to a long-forgotten saloon keeper named Kane.

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

5 standout 'Back to School' tales signal a rebirth for live storytelling

Kyle Munson — Fri, 05 Sep 2025 01:46:57 GMT

School days are some of our most vivid because:

We allegedly grow up—at least fumble through puberty and into semi-adulthood—while going to school, searing core memories of first thrills and fleeting embarrassment into our brains.
We have the luxury (whether we appreciate it at the time) of spending entire days encouraged to learn—surrounded by adults catering to us in a mighty struggle to ignite our naive imaginations. This can work rather well when we’re nurtured by caring teachers and forgiving classmates.

Some random school scenes plucked from my brain:

Slipping on the ice in fourth grade and breaking off half of my front tooth.
Writing a report on the axolotl in elementary science class.
Helping to publish the “6^th Grade News Flash” as my first newspaper job.
Swaying to Journey during a slow dance in junior high—a gangly batch of boys and girls gathered in one of our classmate’s basements.
Marching with the honor band in the Cotton Bowl parade in Texas.
Writing a senior thesis on the Woodstock music festival.

You get my drift. Any of us could fill months of Substack newsletters with these early memories—whether we’re talking the pre-K years or graduate school.

Because school days are such a meaningful and emotionally rich vein, I can’t help but think “Back to School” is the perfect theme for the return of live storytelling to Des Moines, with the debut of Tell It Like It Is: Iowa Storytellers Project on Sept. 9 at Hoyt Sherman Place.

From left: Sarah Scull, Kim Lipshutz, Harry Smith, Tim McCoy, and Quinn Whitaker on stage at Hoyt Sherman Place.

As I wrote earlier this summer, it was nearly a decade ago when I helped launch the first incarnation of this live storytelling series in downtown Des Moines.

Now the tradition is nestling into a permanent home with Hoyt Sherman as its producer, in partnership with the Des Moines Register. What began as an outgrowth of storytelling overseen by Register journalists now is transitioning into an endeavor more deeply embedded in the community at large.

I signed on as one of five coaches for the first five “tellers” you’ll hear Tuesday because I believe this ritual offers the narrative equivalent of essential nutrients for our community. Filling the historic auditorium with 1,200 neighbors to remind ourselves of our shared humanity is something all of us desperately need at a time when endless screens and screeds spend every waking second trying to drive us apart.

What was true in 2015 remains true today about this series: The range of authentic human experience and emotion unleashed on stage is utterly life-affirming. And all it takes is one person behind a mic—no pyrotechnics or other manner of razzle dazzle.

Just consider the varied perspectives of these inaugural Iowa Storytellers:

Tim McCoy is director of violence intervention at Creative Visions in Des Moines and has a secret he’s ready to share.
Kim Lipshutz is a retired HR leader and consultant in West Des Moines whose new title you’ll learn through her story.
Sarah Scull is a journalist and educator from Creston—also a fellow member of our Iowa Writers’ Collaborative—who delivered one of my favorite lines during this week’s rehearsal: “Freedom without grounding is just falling.” (You’ll understand when you hear the context in her story.)
Quinn Whitaker is a high school English teacher and rabid fan of “The Simpsons” whose story may teach you a thing or two about a specific music genre that loomed large during his own childhood in the high school hallways.
Harry Smith is the legendary network broadcast journalist (not to mention this year’s honoree of the Edward R. Murrow Lifetime Achievement Award in Journalism) who, in retirement, is teaching the second year of a class devoted to the virtues of curiosity at his alma mater, Central College in Pella. As a fellow journalist and Central alum, I’ve been blessed to get to know Harry—and I may be forever indebted to him for agreeing to let me coax and coach him onto this stage.

See what I mean about the night we have in store?

And this is just the opening chapter of what looks to be a promising new saga gradually written by scores of Iowan from all walks of life.

There may be remaining tickets for Tuesday’s “Back to School” show (for a thrifty $20 apiece).

I’ll see you there, gathered among neighbors for no other reason than to share true and deeply personal stories, where we try to understand each other a little bit better.

A view from behind the microphone at Hoyt Sherman Place during the storytellers’ Sept. 2 rehearsal.

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

After 21 years of podcasts, do you hear what has (and hasn't) changed?

Kyle Munson — Sat, 23 Aug 2025 21:02:53 GMT

“The more things change, the more they stay the same”: one of our most durable cliches, ever since French critic, journalist, and novelist Alphonse Karr may have coined the phrase in 1849.

It felt appropriate this week as I reconsidered the more recent evolution of podcasting.

As I’ve written before, podcasting for me is a daily habit, primarily built around my dog walks. Through the years I’ve curated my pod diet to the point that I follow dozens of different series, most of the time selecting only certain episodes that interest me. In a very few cases I catch nearly every episode.

Photo by Videodeck .co on Unsplash

Much has changed since the term “podcast” was coined 21 years ago by a British journalist, as a portmanteau of Apple’s iPod and “broadcast.”

It’s somewhat remarkable to think how Apple, responsible for branding and establishing an entire category of media, has given way to rival platforms Spotify and especially YouTube. YouTube now commands nearly one-third of the podcast audience, twice as much as Apple.

That’s thanks largely to the surge of video in podcasting. What began more as a 21^st century streaming version of radio and another “theater of the mind” is becoming—especially for younger listeners/viewers—just as much a visual medium.

A lot has changed, yet so much also feels similar. This year we’ve been discussing the demise of late-night TV talk shows. It’s becoming clear how podcasting is filling the growing void of old-fashioned broadcast talk—and I don’t mean with only Joe Rogan.

Two new lists published this summer drove home to me the shift in podcasting culture.

One list is the idiosyncratic voice of an individual critic: Time Magazine last month published “The 100 Best Podcasts of All Time.” It’s an alphabetical account, not ranked, from “2 Dope Queens” (a former comedy interview show) to “You’re Wrong About” (a journalistic reappraisal of key historical figures and moments).

This month, Canada’s Left of Dial Media published the results of its “Essential Listening Poll” of 300 “audio creators, podcast hosts, writers, and scholars from around the world” whose collective input determined the “100 Greatest Podcasts of All Time.” Their top five:

1. “This American Life”

2. “Serial”

3. “The Daily” (The New York Times)

4. “Radiolab” (WNYC)

5. “S-Town”

In 2014, the smash success of “Serial” helped set narrative standards and a mainstream reputation for podcasting as a category. As a spin-off of public radio landmark “This American Life,” “Serial” leaned into an informal, literary, and meandering style of true-crime investigation. Some of the clearest evidence of how this came to epitomize podcasting culture: Numerous Hollywood scripts have been built around the premise of true-crime podcasters, including the wonderful Steve Martin-Martin Short-Selena Gomez comedy series “Only Murders in the Building” and “SNL” alum Will Forte’s “Bodkin.”

“S-Town,” also in the “Serial” family, is the podcast that flexed the strongest word of mouth as far as I’m concerned. True story: The year it was released I was on a morning walk through downtown Memphis, Tennessee, during a family road trip. On that walk I overheard two entirely separate conversations on the street—many blocks apart—discussing the series. It was as if the entire Home of the Blues was abuzz with the quirky story of intrigue from rural Alabama.

I’m glad to see the New York Times thrive with “The Daily” and other podcasts—including its 2020 acquisition of Serial Productions. Considering the Times also occasionally collaborates with WNYC, it’s sort of a dominant force at the top of the podcast tastemakers list. And don’t forget the flagship newspaper also owns Wordle and runs its own cooking app—part of its impressive diversification in an era of economic decline for traditional media.

But these lists also show how today’s podcast landscape has a lot less to do with complex narrative storytelling, deep investigations, and everyday people. The money for a while has been flowing toward celebrities and unscripted (or loosely scripted) yakking.

In other words, podcasting ultimately can’t escape the pull of gravity back toward what draws a reliable audience (famous names) and is cheaper to mass produce (talk shows).

So, Conan O’Brien has enjoyed a renaissance with his own podcast.
“Smartless” features actor friends Jason Bateman, Sean Hayes, and Will Arnett.
“Good Hang With Amy Poehler” hovers near the top of the charts.

And so forth.

Some observations and recommendations from my current podcast diet:

“The Town,” a pod on the business of Hollywood, is the rare case where I listen to nearly every episode. Host Matt Belloni and his team produce one of the most seamless, fluid, and consistently engaging shows on any subject.
“The AI Daily Brief” helps me keep track of developments in our most dynamic sector of tech and business.
“The Dr. Hyman Show” has been my deepest foray thus far into the booming health-pod scene.
Fellow Iowa Writers’ Collaborative member Maxwell Schaeffer enlists interesting folks from all corners of Iowa for his “Maxwell’s Iowa Coffeecast.”
“Decoding Retirement” from Yahoo Finance is one of the many financial pods I follow.
“Sodajerker on Songwriting,” from Britain, is among the scads of music pods in my feed.

I could drone on, but which shows are you listening to—or watching? Share recommendations in the comments.

And if you see me on a dog walk, please just give me a second to pause my pod before striking up a conversation.

Yes, I realize you could just feed the questions into ChatGPT-5 and respond with your own optimized version of the quiz.

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

Are you an Iowa trivia whiz? Find out with my 10-question quiz.

Kyle Munson — Sun, 10 Aug 2025 17:25:07 GMT

Dear subscribers, how about we enjoy a little summer fun?

I recently completed my 14th consecutive RAGBRAI. The annual Hinterland music festival in St. Charles notched record-breaking attendance (and milder temperatures). The Iowa State Fair is underway with its epic gauntlet of mullets, mammals, and stick food.

So, here’s yet another summer diversion: Try this 10-question quiz to prove your Midwest mettle.

The content of this quiz was prompted earlier this year by friend and subscriber Benji Nichols from Decorah. He was seeking volunteer submissions to enliven a rural Iowa economic development summit with a small dose of competitive fun.

So, I’ve adapted the quiz for all of you here on Substack. You can try it solo or gather friends and family for your own humble household game.

But where’s the sport in that? Where’s your spirit of human discovery of the sort that once propelled Meriwether Lewis and William Clark to trudge through the pre-statehood Iowa wilderness?

You won’t find Lewis & Clark in this quiz, but no doubt you’ll recognize plenty of other familiar Iowa characters.

The 10 questions are followed by an answer key and a guide for evaluating your performance based on the 12 possible points. (Yes, 12 points; my rigorous public school education in Iowa in the ’70s and ’80s included plenty of advanced math.)

Have fun.

The Meskwaki initially purchased 80 acres.

Photo by Demian Tejeda-Benitez on Unsplash

1. Name one Iowa town associated with (A) our state’s most famous REAL cosmic event and (B) another Iowa town known for our most famous FICTIONAL cosmic event. Half a point for one town, full point for both towns.

+

2. The “Honey War” between Iowa and Missouri began in which year?

A: 1829

B: 1839

C: 1929

D: 1959

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3. Which of these town slogans isn’t the genuine slogan?

Anita: A whale of a town

Aredale: It’s not your Dale. It’s not my Dale. It’s Aredale.

Dyersville: City of dreams

Gravity: We’re down to earth. If Gravity goes, we all go.

Stuart: Home of 1,700 good eggs and a few stinkers

+

4. Two concerts held in Iowa—in different decades—both have a valid claim to qualify as the most famous Iowa concert. Name either one. Receive a bonus point if you name the correct year, venue, and city for either concert—two bonus points if you do so for both.

+

5. On July 13, 1857, the Meskwaki (or the “Sac & Fox in Iowa”) purchased how many acres in Tama County as their first federally recognized footprint in Iowa?

8

80

800 8,000

+

6. Des Moines County is located in which quadrant of the state: northwest, northeast, southeast, or southwest?

+

7. What was the relationship of artist Grant Wood to the woman and man who inspired the two figures in his landmark painting American Gothic?

A: Sister and brother-in-law

B: Niece and local mayor

C: Both were his cousins

D: Sister and dentist

E: Fellow faculty at the University of Iowa

+

8. Which city in Iowa was home to the state’s first Black-owned newspaper?

+

9. Legendary Hawkeye football player Nile Kinnick won the Heisman Trophy in 1939. Which is his hometown?

Ackley

Adel

Aplington

Atlantic

Avoca

+

10. How many driving miles stretch between the Johnny Carson birthplace and John Wayne birthplace in Iowa? Earn a point if your guess is within 5 miles.

1

A: Manson was the real impact site for a 12-trillion ton meteorite more than 70 million years ago.

B: Fictional Captain James T. Kirk of “Star Trek” fame is due to be born in Riverside on March 22, 2228.

[Up to 1 point]

2

The 1839 dispute was over the shared state border and control of the modern lower tier of Iowa farmland. It involved skirmishes over taxation and the alleged theft of honeycombs from Iowa trees. It also was inflamed by the cultural and moral divide between Iowa as a free state and Missouri as a slave state. The U.S. Supreme Court finally settled the border dispute with a 1951 ruling.

[1 point]

3

While Dyersville is home to the nearby Field of Dreams Movie Site, “city of dreams” isn’t its official slogan. “Farm toy capital of the world” has been a slogan thanks to its manufacturing legacy and National Farm Toy Museum.

[1 point]

4

Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and J.P. “the Big Bopper” Richardson played Feb. 2, 1959, at the Surf Ballroom in Clear Lake. Their tragic deaths in a wintry Feb. 3 plane crash shortly after the show became known as “The Day the Music Died”—rock ’n’ roll legend. On Jan. 20, 1982, late metal icon Ozzy Osbourne bit the head off a (dead) bat while on stage at Veterans Memorial Auditorium in downtown Des Moines; he received a rabies shot at Broadlawns Medical Center. It remains one of the most infamous incidents in rock lore.

[Up to 3 points]

5

[1 point]

6

Burlington is the seat of Des Moines County in the southeast corner of the state, along the Mississippi River.

[1 point]

7

Grant Wood’s sister and dentist were the models for his most famous painting.

[1 point]

8

The Western Baptist Herald newspaper in Keokuk, 1881-1885, edited by Mrs. Amos Johnson, is credited as Iowa’s first Black-owned newspaper.

[1 point]

9

Kinnick was born July 9, 1918, in Adel.

[1 point]

10

The distance between the two birthplaces (in Corning and Winterset) is 60 miles according to Mapquest.

[1 point]

How to rate your quiz results

Most points possible: 12.

0-2: Maybe you’re really a Nebraskan?

3-5: Next time we’ll give you an easier quiz with questions like, “What’s our capital city?,” or, “Which town along I-80 has the yellow smiley-faced water tower?” (Adair).

6-8: Good job. Just don’t go bragging about your aptitude with Iowa trivia. You know how much Iowans hate a showboat.

9-12: You may be more certifiably Iowan than Nile Kinnick, Grant Wood’s sister, and everybody else mentioned in this quiz.

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

My visits to the 'world’s largest kitchen' and 'world’s largest neighborhood bar'

Kyle Munson — Sun, 13 Jul 2025 19:53:06 GMT

One was a documentary film premiere and the other was a ballpark memorial, but both events offered reminders of the empathy, joy, and sense of community we too often neglect in our daily lives.

Slices of life at the ‘Pieowa’ premiere

For one evening, Varsity Cinema became the world’s largest kitchen.

I’ll explain the analogy momentarily.

Two years ago, Beth Howard embarked on an ambitious project to produce her own documentary film about pie. She was a newcomer to filmmaking, armed with an iPhone and a gaggle of talented collaborators. Her aim was cultural as much as culinary.

My slice of Marcia Miller’s raspberry chiffon pie, seen half-eaten here in front of the Varsity marquee, was perfection.

Beth’s work for the last 15 years—selling pies, teaching pie-baking, authoring memoirs and cookbooks, leading humanitarian outreach with pie and much more—has consistently focused on pie as perhaps the tastiest and most ubiquitous presence in our lives to bring neighbors together and strengthen community ties.

So, last week the Varsity hosted the Des Moines premiere of her debut documentary, “Pieowa: A Piece of America.” Appropriately enough, the event filled the theater and fostered a real sense of community. Step aside, popcorn: After the screening and Q&A session, the audience spilled out into the lobby and onto the sidewalk to fork slices of homemade pie served by some of the Iowa bakers featured in the film.

The film traces the history of pie—across cultures—from antiquity to today.

It also follows Beth’s idiosyncratic path around Iowa in relation to pie:

She shared her first slices of pie with her father in her native Ottumwa at legendary diner the Canteen Lunch in the Alley—a century-old restaurant so cherished that the city built a parking garage around it rather than raze it.
She qualifies as the final resident of the American Gothic House in Eldon, before it was converted into a full-time museum. She even opened her Pitchfork Pie Stand there.
Her film explores the pie contests of the Iowa State Fair, where Beth served as a pie judge.
The Register’s Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa (RAGBRAI) is an epic flock of tens of thousands of pedalers where pie is arguably the signature food (followed closely by pork chops, bananas, ice cream, and beer). Beth has ridden multiple RAGBRAIs. In 2012 she also let me borrow her “pie van” as my family bicycle team’s support vehicle. While the team spent the day on the road, our driver, a locksmith from Fairfield, practiced transcendental meditation and brewed sun tea in the van. We enjoyed a wonderful meal featuring some of Beth’s pies during our overnight stop in Marshalltown, where the team dined and slept in the basement of a former church that had been converted into a homeless shelter. (I’m not making this up. Bicycles and pie both seem to bring out the quirkiness in life.)
Beth’s current headquarters is rural Donnellson on the southeast Iowa family farm of her partner, Doug Seyb. The film does a wonderful job of exploring the local small-town pie culture there established by generations of “church ladies.”

Beth autographs a movie poster for a fan after the July 10 premiere.

Luminaries such as actor Tom Arnold, journalist Chuck “Iowa Boy” Offenburger, chef George Formaro, small business owner Rachelle Long, and National Public Radio broadcaster Scott Horsley bring all sorts of perspectives to pie through their interviews in the film.

What I mean about the Varsity becoming a kitchen is that the premiere felt as if all few hundred of us were crammed into a residential kitchen—where everybody seems to gravitate during any house party—as pies, fresh from the oven, cooled on a nearby counter.

Whether it’s the therapeutic craft of baking a pie from scratch or the sacrament of sharing one with strangers who soon become friends, here’s a film to remind us that what unites us is stronger that what divides us—even if we spend most of our time obsessing over the latter.

Keep tabs on Beth’s “Pieowa” webpage for upcoming screenings.

Beth Howard speaks to filmgoers during the Varsity premiere.

For it’s one, two, three toasts to Bryce at the old ballgame

For one afternoon, Principal Park was transformed into the world’s largest neighborhood bar.

Hundreds of mourners flocked to the home of the Iowa Cubs Saturday for a memorial to beloved sport journalist Bryce Miller. The reporter, editor, and columnist spent 15 or so years of his 35-year career at the Des Moines Register, where I worked with him, and finished his storied run with a decade at the San Diego Union-Tribune.

He died March 22 at age 56 after a two-year struggle with bladder cancer that never robbed him of his signature wit.

Bryce’s smiling face was emblazoned on the outfield video screen, where the service was also capped with a hilarious and heartfelt 12-minute video montage featuring the late sports journalist.

Four eulogies traced the basic progression of Bryce’s life and career, from hometown roots in Redfield, Iowa, to journalism school and newsroom jobs in Iowa City, to his run in Des Moines, and his final adventures in San Diego.

But that barely suggests the footprints Bryce left all over the globe. He covered six Olympics and all manner of college and professional sports tournaments and championships. He was a voter for the Heisman Trophy and Wooden Award. He crisscrossed continents whether he was reporting, fishing, or celebrating birthdays and friendships.

Each ballpark eulogy ended with a toast to Bryce—plus an opening tallboy tribute led by his mother, Bea Winters. The afternoon’s quips and memories included:

“It’s kind of ironic he was a sportswriter,” said childhood friend Robey Orewiler. “He had no athletic ability.”
Longtime friend, Des Moines sports broadcaster Keith Murphy, said that Bryce was somebody who always said “yes.” “He said yes to now. He said yes to fun. He said yes to life.”
Friend Bill Thompson from San Diego said Bryce was in search of four key qualities when deciding where he would settle in southern California:
- A walkable neighborhood.
- A cool bar.
- Good friends.
- A community.

Bryce’s community of family and friends showed strength in numbers Saturday and turned the ballpark into the sort of cool bar he would’ve enjoyed.

Consistent with everything I heard at the memorial (and watched in a wonderful 12-minute video montage of Bryce on the giant outfield screen), I’ll always remember his irrepressible enthusiasm. I don’t think I’ve ever watched any journalist transition so seamlessly between roles as a diligent reporter, inspiring editor, and ingenious columnist.

This wasn’t my first ballpark memorial for a friend and fellow journalist. As I sat in the stands Saturday, gazing at the golden dome of the Iowa Capitol on the horizon, I was reminded of a similar gathering in 2006 for late Register columnist Rob Borsellino—another personality whose work and spirit demanded the scale.

Bryce’s community will carry on through a Cancer for College fund in his memory, providing needs-based scholarships to cancer survivors who want to pursue a career as a writer or journalist.

Meanwhile, I can almost hear Bryce still cheering for his beloved Chicago Cubs—and for the fortunes of all those he left behind.

Iowa Writers’ Collaborative

Des Moines, here's your chance to become a live storytelling capital

Kyle Munson — Sat, 05 Jul 2025 17:31:12 GMT

Nearly a decade ago, I stepped onto a stage in the basement of the now-defunct Des Moines Social Club as one of six Des Moines Register journalists to share a personal story in front of a live audience. It was the inaugural event of the Des Moines Storytellers series.

From those humble beginnings in December 2015, Des Moines Storytellers quickly outgrew small clubs to fill an eclectic array of local venues—the terrace of the Rollins Mansion, the Iowa Taproom, even a barn at Living History Farms.

Photo by Bogomil Mihaylov on Unsplash

After I left the Register in 2018, the series continued to expand. By 2019, it found a home at the historic Hoyt Sherman Place theater, routinely filling its 1,252 seats.

The appeal of live storytelling was evident to anyone who attended or took the mic. Each night featured authentic, compelling tales from Iowans of all backgrounds, structured around universal themes such as love, adventure, or family dynamics. Storytellers received weeks of coaching from Register journalists, refining their experiences into tight, 10-minute narratives delivered without notes. If a storyteller lapsed into an awkward pause while struggling to remember the next scene, the audience sometimes erupted with supportive exclamations and applause.

These storytelling events were emotional rollercoasters, swinging from tragedy to humor, but always leaving attendees uplifted. The stories reaffirmed our shared humanity and a sense of community beyond smartphone screens.

However, last fall, after 43 shows and 246 storytellers, the Register reluctantly ended the popular series to refocus newsroom resources on core journalism.

The final event in October, themed "Overcoming," was among the series' best—and I've witnessed most of them.

But this didn’t turn out to be a sunset or setback for live storytelling in Des Moines. Instead, we’re now on the cusp of a new growth phase in local, live storytelling—and you can get involved.

‘Tell It Like It Is’ takes up the storytelling baton

The community is rallying to revive the series. Lee Rood, a veteran investigative reporter and columnist at the Register, helped to broker a new arrangement in which Hoyt Sherman itself, in partnership with the Register, will become the producer for a relaunched and rebranded version of the series: “Tell It Like It Is: Iowa Storytellers Project.”

The first event is scheduled for Sept. 9 at Hoyt Sherman Place, featuring five storytellers each presenting a 10-minute story on the theme "Back to School." I’ve signed up to coach one of the stories as part of how the series is embracing involvement from across the community.

Aspiring storytellers can apply by emailing a brief description of their story to stories@hoytsherman.org by July 13.

If that theme doesn’t inspire you, you could instead apply for one of these other upcoming themes (event dates TBD):

"Hearts on Fire"
"Search & Rescue"
"Voyages"

Of course, Des Moines isn’t inventing something new here—storytelling is an ancient practice stretching back to our primitive ancestors huddled around campfires.

In a more modern context, a variety of threads led up to today’s storytelling scene:

Since its founding in 1997, nonprofit “The Moth” may be the most famous and widespread source of live storytelling through its tens of thousands of stories staged worldwide. It also produces a podcast and radio show heard across hundreds of stations.
Another nonprofit, StoryCorps, founded in 2003, has recorded conversations with more than 700,000 people nationwide, airing many of them on National Public Radio while also preserving the recordings in the U.S. Library of Congress.
“Stories from the Stage” airs on PBS.
The original inspiration for Des Moines Storytellers came from another Gannett-owned newsroom in Phoenix, where a storytelling series was founded in 2011 to celebrate Arizona’s centennial of statehood. The creator and curator built up the series beyond that initial occasion and eventually helped Gannett roll out similar series to about two dozen other newsrooms—Des Moines among the first. Each local series developed its own flavor. The creator in Phoenix, Megan Finnerty, left Gannett in 2022 but remains a storytelling consultant.

I’m unsure whether Des Moines is unique in making this transition from Des Moines Storytellers to the Iowa Storytellers Project. But there are other examples of strong local cultures of storytelling:

“The Narrators,” a monthly storytelling series in Denver, Colorado, launched in 2010.
“Story Story Night” in Boise, Idaho, also began in 2010.
The American School of Storytelling was established in 2021 in Minneapolis, Minnesota.
The International Storytelling Center in Jonesboro, Tennessee, supports an annual National Storytelling Festival dating back to 1973.

Is there a storytelling series or city I’m overlooking? What has inspired you about the experience of live storytelling, whether as a listener or teller? Leave a comment.