My name is Nicholas Trandahl, and I’m a writer living in Wyoming. I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. These days I pretty much stick to writing poetry, pulling inspiration from nature, my past, my travels and adventures, and of course my wife/muse. My poetry is reflective and quiet, somewhat observational; I like to set a scene and bring a reader along with me with a poem. I write poetry everywhere-out camping, on a trail, on a beach, in a car, in my bed. But when I get ready to type up the follow-up drafts, it’s at my antique writing desk at home. For the foreseeable future, I’ll continue to write poetry and publish it through my amazing publisher, Winter Goose Publishing. I’ve also published novels and short stories in the past, so we’ll see if I’ll publish more in my future.

I’m an outdoorsman that is always seeking to escape into the wild via camping, hiking out into the wilderness, or fly fishing. I also love to travel and use my travels as a major source of inspiration for my writing. I love to see new places and experience new things. My passions are my wife Brittany (she really ignited my passion for writing), my daughters Lily and Holly, and my unborn daughter due in September. Her name is Story.

I also, of course, love to read and draw my largest influences from Ernest Hemingway, Jim Harrison, Raymond Carver, Mary Oliver, and Gary Snyder.

My fiction and poetry has appeared in several anthologies. Through Swyers Publishing, I’ve published fantasy fiction (The Azure Wizard, 2012), poetry (Lost Yellow, 2013), literary fiction (Clark’s Turning Leaf, 2014; An Uncomfortable Life, 2014), and short stories (Cocktails & Other Stories, 2015).

With my new publisher, Winter Goose Publishing, I’ve published a poetry collection this year, Pulling Words. I’m confident that the poems in Pulling Words are my best writing to date. I’m so happy with the response so far to this collection of poems. My next poetry collection for Winter Goose Publishing is currently in its fourth draft and is tentatively titled Think of Me.


A house spider

skirts the wall of the room.

It belongs here.

It is an islander.

Later, walking alone

down towards the harbor,

I pass tourists.

I look down at my oxfords

as I walk.

I gaze at houses

with feigned nonchalance.

In my sweater,

my hair tousled by wind

that streaks up the hill

from the azure sea,

I pretend that I too

am an islander—

like the spider at the inn.

I don’t take photos.

I buy a bag of groceries,

and walk back

to the room.


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