Category: writing

Hoffman Center for the Arts, Manzanita, Oregon

To readers:

This post is confusing. Art responding to art with art, but bear with me. Last spring, I submitted three, 350 word essays for a competition and they were selected to be a part of the Hoffman Arts Center’s Word & Image in Manzanita, Oregon. I was randomly paired with an artist whose three works were also chosen. I responded to one of his drawing with my words and he responded to one of my essays with a drawing. The end result results were two drawings and two written pieces that were shown at a reveal in early October in Manzanita, Oregon. I’ve tried to explain this as simply as I can, but even I was getting confused the night of the reveal. Here’s how it went:

With my son, Thomas, as my plus one, my cheerleader and my support, I attended the Word and Image event a few weeks ago in Manzanita, Oregon.  This was the wrap up to the event that began last spring when my essays were selected to be a part of the project and a few months later, I was paired with an artist.  The artist, Tim Miller, had three of my essays to select one from and respond to with a drawing, and I had three drawings of his to select one to respond to with a 350-word essay.  Got it?

After being paired with Tim last June, we chatted for a bit, getting to know each other, then went our separate ways, me back to Boulder and Tim back to his hometown a few miles away.  We were emailed each other’s work the following day and Tim immediately texted and told me which essay of mine he had chosen, adding that it was selected on one sentence that he was inspired by. I asked him which essay and he told me, “Aunt Ruth.”  I was surprised, but I’m not sure why.  “Aunt Ruth” was a passage taken from a fiction novel I wrote (first draft), with a ten year-old protagonist/narrator. (I’m on my third draft of the book now, likely with a few more drafts ahead, but the “Aunt Ruth” passage has survived all cuts). He made his decision quickly. I pondered for a few weeks before deciding which drawing of his I wanted to respond to.

Fast forward a few months and Tim reached out and told me his drawing was completed and did I want to see it.  No, Tim Miller, I do not want to see it, I told him. I wanted to be surprised at the reveal on October 5th. 

Thomas and I drove to the coast on the 4th, did my favorite hike on the 5th then had an early dinner before the event. I was nervous. I don’t like to speak in front of an audience unless it is a more organic, unplanned situation and I’m given the floor to tell a story in a causal setting. Although I always read my work out loud before sending it out into the world as that’s how I catch mistakes, it’s within the confines of my small office and not in front of an audience. With my plus one son in the audience giving me a nod of “you’ve got this,” I took the mic and read my words while Tim’s drawing was projected on the wall next to me. Once I started reading, I found my confidence and it felt good to be able to read my words, inspired by the artwork projected on the wall.

I’m doing no favor to Tim’s drawings by posting them this way, as they are drawings that beckon the viewer to move closer for the detail. I apologize for the post’s lack of detail.  They truly are beautiful drawings. 

Tim’s drawing, and the drawing I responded to:

Thoughts are Not Facts

My response:

The Precarious Balance of Nature

His name was Ernie Pfaff.  I met him at a fishing lodge in Alaska where I was working.  He’d wander into camp without notice or fanfare and, after a few days, would leave as quietly as he came.  He was always on foot and wore Pac boots, with so many layers of duct tape they looked like tarnished silver boots — fitting footwear for the five-foot tall, elfish man with a twinkle in his eye and a sly grin. Ernie was 81.  I was 26.  He told me he would pitch woo with me if he was younger.  It’s possible I blushed.

I hiked a few times with Ernie, and on those hikes, he taught me about the balance of nature and how we should both fear and respect it.  Don’t let the stinging nettles touch your skin, but drink nettle tea, he told me. He pointed out the nettles on our hike, insisting we crawl around it after it grazed my hands and stung them. I followed him, both on our hands and knees, feeling ridiculous yet protected.

Before he left, he gave me a hiking stick he carved for me and told me when I used it to think of him and his wishes to be a few decades younger.  Before camp closed for the season, I took the stick on a hike up a mountain near camp, appropriately named Pfaff Peak after Ernie.  Halfway down the mountain, I realized I had left the stick behind.  I thought about going back for it but decided it was where it belonged—on top of the peak that held his name, a memorial to a man who hadn’t died, but I knew I’d never see it again.  When I came across the stinging nettle, I felt Ernie’s presence and put my hands in my pockets to avoid being stung. Ernie had called it protecting me.  I called it flirting.

My essay, that Tim chose to respond to (the line specifically that inspired him I’ve put in bold print)

Aunt Ruth

It didn’t look like Aunt Ruth had found her love of children since I last saw her two years ago. She had the kind of face that even if she was happy, she still looked angry. She had brown hair, the same shade as dad’s and mine, that was cut so short that at a glance, you’d probably think she was a man until you saw her clothes. Maybe it was her solution to dealing with the curls that had made a sturdy branch down our family tree. It made her face stick out too much like there was no place to hide. She was the only other person in the house, so I tried to be her friend longer than I would have if it hadn’t just been the two of us. Sometimes, I’d catch her out of the corner of my eye, sitting on the couch just staring into space, like she was trying to find something for her eyes to focus on. Maybe she was trying to dig into the part of her brain where she kept the memories of my dad. I had to keep reminding myself that Dad wasn’t just a dad but also a husband and a brother.  My Aunt Ruth was also sad he died, but she showed her sadness differently than I did.  Her sadness was quiet, and wanted to be alone.  It gave me a feeling that made me want to ask her if I could make her a sandwich or invite her to watch The Carol Burnett Show with me or maybe Bonanza if she didn’t care for laughing. But then she’d catch me watching her, and her eyes would narrow like a cat, and she’d give me a look like she had just caught me doing something bad, and the feeling would go away, and I’d make the sandwich for myself instead.

Tim’s visual response to “Aunt Ruth“

She Kept the Memories of Dad

And finally, the reveal. Tim’s and my work on display at Hoffman Center for the Arts with the broadsides on the right and Tim’s original work on the left.

Responding to art with art, the Greek term ekphrasis, was an interesting and creative experience for me. It was an honor to be a part of an event with ten talented artists and writers and to have my work share space with theirs. As exciting as it was to be recognized as a writer that evening, having Thomas, as my plus-one, was the highlight for me. I couldn’t help but think of the many times I was in the audience, in the bleachers, or on the sidelines, mouthing the same words to him, “You’ve got this.”

Two different versions of pensive…

When I got in the car after carefully placing the cargo in the front seat, I texted my siblings and told them Dad was riding shotgun and I was on my way back to Mom’s.  I hesitated before sending it, wondering if it was inappropriate or possibly disrespectful, but then realized it was exactly what Dad would have said had his dad been riding in the passenger seat in an urn that sat in a box, placed in another box in the front seat.  Because Dad was a veteran and will have his ashes interned at a military cemetery, his ashes were accompanied by a flag given to me at the funeral home, appropriately folded into the symbolic tricorn shape with no red or white stripe showing, only the blue field with stars. Picking up his ashes in a Kansas City suburb at least 30 minutes away without traffic was a task on a list of things that had to be tended to and one I said I would do as I had a free morning.  I’m glad I agreed to what now felt like an honor despite the rush hour traffic I had to go through to get there. When I glanced over to the passenger seat and saw the box with the tightly folded flag sitting on top of it, I knew it would be a moment I would recall later and more than likely write about because it was a new experience for me because it was my Dad, or his remains, as the funeral home now referred to him, who would make this a story and not just something to check off in a long list of things that needed to be tended to.

When we made our initial trip to the funeral home to sign papers and go over details after Dad passed, my brother, Tom, in preparation for being the one to pick up the ashes, asked if the urn had a screw-off lid; we had been seated around a dining room table in a room that looked like it had been decorated to make families feel at home.  Except for the display of jewelry that could be purchased with your loved ones’s fingerprints in the center of the table, it felt like an informal gathering around a dining room table. I don’t recall the woman’s title who we were meeting, possibly the owner, but she took her place at the head of the table after helping Mom into her seat and pouring water for everyone.  Once seated, she smiled at my brother and said he was not the first to ask the question.

“Yes, the urn has a screw top lid, and the ashes are in a bag.  The urn is then placed in a box, and that box is placed in another box. No need to worry about ashes ending up on your front seat.”

I appreciated the break of solemness with the dose of reality.  The subject was difficult, and I was learning the importance of finding the humor and breaking out in laughter as often as possible. At this point, it felt not only good, but necessary for the soul.

It wasn’t my first time transporting ashes.  Several years ago, the container of ashes of our yellow lab, Marley, rode in my lap when our family took them to our farm to scatter.  I remember thinking the container was heavier than I thought it would be, even though Marley’s weight was down considerably when we had him euthanized.  Unlike Marley, Dad’s ashes will not be scattered but will remain in the urn and be interred at a military cemetery.  I couldn’t help but glance over to the box, which didn’t look the least bit out of place as boxes often rode shotgun in my car en route to the post office to return something, but never with a flag on top.  I turned off the music in my car because I wanted to talk to myself or, if I’m being honest, maybe to the box and the spirit that filled my car. I knew the box only contained the ashes of Dad’s body and not his spirit, but it gave me the same feeling as talking to the headstones of my grandparents when I used to go with Mom and Dad on Memorial Day to lay flowers on their graves.  On one such trip, Dad had no blooms available for cutting in his garden, so he stopped at a convenience store and picked up a small bundle of plastic flowers.  When he put them on Grandma and Papa’s graves, he added a note that said, “Sorry about the flowers, Dad, it was the best I could do.”  His dad raised hybrid irises as a hobby, so he knew flowers well, and the apology was appropriate. Conversations graveside on Memorial Day were not solemn for Dad but rather practical.  I followed that lead while conversing down Blue Ridge Boulevard with the box of my dad’s remains riding shotgun and I was smiling for most of the journey. Afterall, I got my humor from my Dad.

I was blessed to have Dad for the entire 69 years of my life, and I’ve seen most of my friends go through this process some decades ago. I had to wonder if they felt the confusion I did right now of grappling with the fact that my physical dad was gone.  Forever.  I will always carry him inside of me — his humor, his smile, his generosity, and the way he viewed life, but never being able to call him on the phone and follow his sometimes indirect storytelling path is hard for me to wrap my head around.   His cell phone has been deleted from his T-Mobile account, and I went through his phone beforehand to make sure he didn’t have any unanswered messages and to check his contact list to make sure everyone had been told about his passing. Still, I can’t take his number out of my phone.  And I’m struggling with using the past tense when speaking of him.  I wonder… do these issues fade in time?  Become more natural?  More comfortable? More familiar?

Dad was 96 and had a very good life for 95 and 3/4 years, and that is what I keep reminding myself.  A few days after Dad passed, my sister, Susan, and I went to our usual coffee spot near our sister Robin’s house in an urban setting of Kansas City.  Exiting the car, we saw a red-tailed hawk perched on a fence post.  As hikers, we both were familiar with the bird of prey, but not in an urban setting.  Susan looked at me, and I looked at her, and we both nodded.  Dad.  After an hour in the coffee shop, we returned to the parking lot, where the hawk was still sitting on the post.  This time, there was no question.  Dad.  I later read that “the sudden appearance of a hawk may indicate a loved one who recently passed is sending signs through this spirit animal about their continued presence.“

We both felt a sense of comfort and reassurance.  A few days later, I felt the same sense of comfort while I looked over to the box that occupied my passenger seat at a stop light and smiled.  You’re still with me, Pops, and I feel your presence. The tightly sealed urn wrapped in bubble wrap in a box that’s in another box with your ashes in it is as close as I’ll ever be to you again physically, but you’ve taught me to be curious and question things that don’t make sense and if you believe something, to trust that belief.  I believe you gave Susan and me a nudge with the red-tailed hawk.

I know that processing Dad being forever gone will come in spurts and not always at the most opportune times.  In the days leading up to Dad’s death and the weeks that followed, the only people I saw were family, nursing staff, hospice care staff, attorneys, bank employees, and the woman who explained the packaging of the ashes at the funeral home.  I’ve been immersed in a place I didn’t anticipate being in on a visit to my hometown to see my sister, Robin, who was recently given the terrible and hard-to-process diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. This process has exhausted me to my core, and I’ve cried more in September than possibly in the entire of my life, yet here I am, still upright, with memories crowding my mind, each one vying for attention.  I worry about Robin while in the throes of mourning my father’s death.

I keep circling back to a letter Dad wrote and tucked into my suitcase when I left for college. He typed his letters as his handwriting was difficult to read, always with the oversized “LOVE, DAD” scrawled across the bottom of the page.  He said, “This could have been considered the 8th wonder because it is not like me to write letters, except possibly to tell some unsuspecting parent that their child wasn’t graduating.” You didn’t know when you typed that letter, Dad, that it would become one of my most cherished letters and give me the idea to do the same with my children.  My kids all got letters that I tucked under their pillows after making their beds in their dorm rooms, something I insisted on doing simply for the letter placement.

“There were times, Laur, when I could have knocked you on your ear, but believe it or not, it was always out of love,” the letter continued.  Several months ago,  Dad had been admitted into the hospital due to issues with his pacemaker and, within 24 hours, was diagnosed with pneumonia complicated by COPD, followed by being intubated, a very dangerous procedure for a 95-year-old.  Two days later, and with much surprise to the doctors, they were able to remove the intubation, and Dad began breathing on his own.  I saw him that day, early morning, and it was just the two of us in the room.  Maybe it was his near brush with death at that time, or maybe I just caught him at the right moment, but we had one of the best conversations we had ever had despite his difficulty in talking.   He told me I was a “real pain in high school, which was a very challenging time…for both of us.” Those words made me smile, and I couldn’t disagree with them because Dad was right.  Then he added that he parented me the same way his dad parented him, which meant ignoring a lot of the behavior and letting me be who I needed to be in the same way his dad had done with him. It was honest.  It was real.  He added that he thought his dad knew he was sneaking out of his bedroom on Saturday nights while in high school and hitchhiking to downtown Kansas City, where he was given playing time with the jazz band The Scamps.  I felt more connected to him in that moment than I ever have—his rebellious spirit clearly having made its way into me, although my stories paled in comparison to his.

The letter ended with, “I’m sure I’ll continue to get upset sometimes with you, but I love you so much and always want the best for you.  And no matter the struggles, you will be OK.” 8/20/73

9/26/2024. Thanks, Dad, for writing those words to me that I read alone in my dorm room, and now, 51 years later, I’m reading again, alone in my living room. I’m holding onto the “you’ll be OK” part with everything I have right now.

Twelve writers and twelve artists were paired to create…

The stars aligned,  serendipity struck, the universe conspired and I found a new, 2024 penny, head’s up, when I left the grocery store.  I was back in Manzanita, Oregon, for the weekend,  where I spent the month of April and where I didn’t think I’d be returning until next spring. 

 When I said my goodbyes a short month ago, — to the sea, the charming town, and the moody coastline, I made a point of slowing down to absorb as much as I could before I left.   I wanted to remember the sounds, the smells, the slow melt of the sun into the horizon, each day more beautiful than the last, and the feeling of soft mist on my face as I walked out of a gentle rain and into sunshine.  Those feelings were still front and center in my memories when I drove into Manzanita a few weekends ago, feeling conspicuous in my rental car — a 2024 Mustang, which was not my first or second choice, but I did choose it over the Camaro.  The guy at the car rental counter in Portland thought he was doing me a favor with the upgrade and I liked his spirit, but didn’t care for the car.

As for the alignment of the stars, they weren’t just aligning, they were in a congo line dancing around me. The timing was that good. There was another labyrinth walk on the beach, by the same artist that created the walk the day before I left, this time the the day after I arrived. The rental house I had in April was available and friends of mine from Boulder happened to be traveling in the area and we were able to connect and swap travel stories on my deck. And the weather just happened to be perfect – sunny and warm in the afternoon and cool in the evening.

I returned because three written pieces I submitted in a competition were selected and I only submitted them after being encouraged, prodded and not so gently pushed by my sisters to go for it, and so I did. Had they not been visiting me during my first week there, I might not have wandered into the arts center that they discovered and doubt I would have written three pieces to submit. Thanks, sisters.  I made my return to be present for the random pairing with a visual artist, who also had three submitted pieces that won.  We will be a part of an ekphrasis, the Greek literary form of art inspiring art, using both visual art and written words.  I will chose one of the artist’s three pieces to use as a visual prompt for an essay and he will chose one of my essays to inspire his art, a drawing in his case.  The reveal of the art with words will be presented at the Hoffman Center for the Arts, that represents the northern Oregon Coast,  in early October.  

I’m thrilled, honored and challenged with this project and have looked deeply into the three drawings I have digital copies of, while searching for my inspiration.  They have become etched into my brain.  I have until July 31st to turn in my words.   Along with feeling honored to be chosen, I also feel vulnerable and exposed when I think about another person going deep into my work, word by word and sentence by sentence, to find inspiration for his drawing and wonder if he is feeling similar emotions as he thinks about doing the same when I studying his drawings.

If I had the actual drawings with me and not just digital copies, I’d probably carry them around with me throughout the day, arranging them on the table next to me while I eat then moving them to the coffee table where I’d  continually glance down at them throughout the evening. Digital copies are not the same as the originals and I wanted to touch them for some reason.  While waiting in line at the airport on my return flight back to Boulder, and any other time I’ve found myself waiting, instead of scrolling like everyone else, I stare at the three drawings, looking for clues, words and my story.  The drawings are beautiful, evocative, well-executed and oddly familiar to me in their content, which confirms that although the pairings were random, the artist I’m working with, is exactly who I am supposed to be with.  

I’m glad I was able to make the trip to Manzanita and was able meet the artist face to face, rather than the zoom option I was told I could use given I don’t live on the Oregon Coast. I felt I owed the artist a face to face meeting, and of course I wasn’t sad to have to return to the house on the beach with the beautiful view.  The co-facilitators each drew a name out of a hat, one designated for the writers and one for the artist to form the pairs.  There were twelve pairings.  My artist happened to be sitting in the chair next to where I had put my jacket down while I socialized with the group before taking my seat.  We were the last two names called.  The first thing he said to me was that he was honored to be working with a good writer.  I told him I appreciated the compliment but given that he hadn’t read my work,  his words seemed a bit premature.  “It’s become more and more competitive every other year when it’s offered.  Your pieces were selected because they were well-written,” he told me. I was humbled by his words, also nervous because it felt like he just raised the bar of expectations considerably.  I only hope my words will stand up to his perceived words of praise.  

I have no idea where I’m going with this, but I’m challenged, intrigued, completely absorbed and scared enough that adrenaline has begun to weave its way into the process.  And that feels productive, even though no words have hit the page… yet…

To the Wandering Writers who I now call friends, may we continue to wander, write about it and share our words with each other.

I returned home yesterday from a six day trip I signed up for with little information and a lot of impulsiveness and I’m so thankful I did. I was on my way home from my 50th high school reunion, breaking up my driving trip into two days instead of one, because I was only one month out from getting a knee replacement. Because I follow writers on social media, my feed is filled with anything and everything that has to do with writers and writing, including workshops, retreats, Zoom classes and sadly, sites that will give you the coveted information on how to write a book in a matter of days and get it published in even less time, at a cost that likely ends in a .99. I’ll humbly admit that, yes, I looked at the site with the same frame of mind that had me contemplating the purchase of a small bottle of oil that was “guaranteed to heal the pain of bone on bone joints.” I did not send money for the writing secret or the knee pain cure. I saw Jessica’s post while seated at the bar at a restaurant in Salina, Kansas (it feels less obvious to eat alone at a bar than at a table, eliminating the awkwardness of the hostess quickly removing one place setting before being seated). Halfway into a plate of gluten-free pasta and trying to enjoy a not very good glass of the house red, I saw the words “Sayulita, Mexico” and “memoir.” I was hooked with Sayulita, a place I had been to multiple times, but the hook was set when I saw “memoir.”

Writing is a solitary endeavor — a team of one, where the writer is the coach, the player, the audience and the cheerleader. While in the process of writing, whether a page or a chapter, there is no one but me to look over my shoulder and say “good work, strong metaphor, don’t go there and definitely not there, but I liked the circuitous route you took, or what all writers wait to hear themselves say, “stand up and dance, because you, my friend, just nailed it!” It’s difficult to be the cheerleader who says “keep writing, you’ve got this” when there are days when you can’t find the right words and everything reads like the voices of the adults in the Charlie Brown shows, “Mwa, Mwa, Mwa.” A writing group, I thought, as I entered my credit card numbers onto the form in-between bites of pasta, was exactly what I needed. A writing group would be able to tell me to keep the words, change the words or maybe write about something else entirely. Actually, short of the two writing workshops I have attended in person and five via Zoom, each only lasting a day or two, I had no idea what six days at a writing retreat would be like, but I did know Sayulita and that seemed like a good enough start.

Insecurities crept in, as they so often do when faced with something new — what if my writing is not good enough? My subject not tragic enough? What if don’t like the other women? Or worse, what if they don’t like me? What if I’m the oldest? The least creative? And finally, for the lightening round, what if no one cares about the pages I’ve written? I can’t speak for the entire group, but can confirm I heard several going through a similar zig zag of emotions.

As I was driving home the next day, my feelings swung from I can’t believe I signed up for a memoir workshop in Mexico, to I can’t wait. Fortunately, the “I can’t wait” stuck and I began preparing pages to share with Jessica Hill, the facilitator, and diving into the two books we would have discussions on while at the retreat. Jessica went above and beyond in preparing us for what to expect with two Zoom meetings to meet the group beforehand and two individual Zoom meetings to dive deeper into our goals and expectations with her.

Yesterday, we said our goodbyes to each other, with hugs and promises of staying in contact. Half the group left for earlier flights, while the remainder of us gathered in the seating area outside of the reception and played with the in-house kitten. We said our goodbyes again when we arrived at the airport in Puerta Vallarta, then again while some of us spotted each another in the long security line that snaked itself around what felt like half the airport. Then finally, yet again, when some of us found each other at our designated gates, where we exchanged our final final on the hugs and goodbyes. Hardly the Irish goodbye of sneaking out the backdoor without notice, we did the opposite and let it linger until we had to finally let go and line up at our respective gates for the flights that would take us home.

Mary, a brilliant writer who had us leaning in when she read, followed by uninhibited laughter at her uninhibited words, found me at gate 10, shortly before boarding and gave me a beautiful pair of silver earrings she bought for me. She told me she saw them and remembered I wore silver. It may have been the night you tucked in early, Mary, and didn’t hear all the pieces that were read that night, but “remembered I wore silver” was a line from one of the chapters I read, touching me even more. After all the hugs followed by more hugs, Mary’s gift to me was what brought on the tears. I let them fall down my cheeks, not really caring about the couple in front of me who was also going to Denver and appeared to be a lot more anxious about leaving than I was. The tears were the kind of tears I wanted to remember and save — tears of support, friendship, love and a connection with our words. Moments I’d be reminded of when hunched over my computer in the early morning hours, wearing a bathrobe with beautiful silver earrings dangling from my earlobes. Moments I will recall while wondering if what I’m typing is good or readable or enough.

Showing off one of my earrings from Mary. I think they’re magic.

I unexpectedly connected with 11 women, who I now call friends, on a level far deeper than I could have imagined possible in six short days and I did it near the place where I took my first trip after my divorce to an all girls surf camp with my sisters. It felt very cyclical in the timing as I thought back to the night eating dinner at the bar in Salina, Kansas. I was supposed to be at La Joya Resort, gathered with these women, sharing my work and being inspired by theirs, while recognizing the journey I had been on since finding my courage on a surf board so many years ago. And inspired I was. I heard words from memoir chapters that made me cry, both for the experience the writer went through and the tremendous bravery she had to share it. I held my new writing friends’ words like the precious gifts they were as I made my way back to my bungalow every night on the the cobble stone paths in the dark, the memory of their words mingling with the sounds of the ocean as I fell asleep. Mornings were spent workshopping various aspects of memoir writing and writing from prompts we shared or kept to ourselves. In the evenings, after afternoons of writing, we shared our words and our hearts in the process.

There were so many places to write and although it was a small resort, we all were able to find our spots and our privacy, whether in lounge chairs by the pool or on the beach, or on my little balcony with views of the ocean or in the lounge area of the dining room. At night, our proximity to the ocean became my sound machine, so loud the first night, coupled with the breeze from the ceiling fan, that I woke up in the middle of the night wondering where I was and if I should take cover given the roar of the waves. I’m a midwest and a mountain girl. The ocean sounds are a novelty, albeit one I embrace. Last night, while having a hard time falling asleep, I tried to replicate the sounds that had lulled me to sleep for the past several nights with an “ocean sounds” app. After 15 minutes it became annoying. It was not the same. One of my new “sisters in writing” (thank you, E. J. ) sent us all a recording she made of the ocean before we left. It was one more reminder for me. I hope the reminders will continue.

When 10 open-hearted women opened their notebooks or computers, and were willing to embrace their most vulnerable selves, magic happened. Beautiful, inspiring, magic. To those women who listened to my words, gently rubbed my back when they came out shaky and gave me the push and the inspiration to keep on writing when it felt uncomfortable and even painful, thank you from the bottom of my very full heart. To say the experience was life-changing sounds overly dramatic, but it truly did change my life, so I’ll go with the dramatic. The words I’m sharing have barely scratched the surface. We ended our time together with a bonfire on the beach where we burned our resistances. It was the perfect ending to new beginnings.

Our resistances, road blocks and fears, up in flames then gone.

Finally, to you, Jessica, who created and orchestrated these past 6 days so beautifully, I’m forever grateful. The alignment of the stars, Devine intervention, manifesting or perhaps a committee of all three, came together for me that night when your post made its way to my instagram account while eating pasta at a bar in Salina, Kansas. As my writing mentor, you’d likely tell me write stream of consciousness about my experience. And so I did. Thank you.

Ten years ago next month, I started this blog.  Honestly, I can’t believe it’s been 10 years and I’ve kept it up.  Like a lot of my projects, it’s waxed and waned throughout the years, but it’s remained and I’m proud that over 152 posts later, I’m still at it.  I’ve been spending time the past few days rereading some of my earlier posts, with equal amounts of pride and embarrassment.  I have my favorites and others I wished had never been published, but they were and I won’t delete them (perhaps an edit or two) as they are as relevant and important as the ones that I hold dear.  There are some posts that still make me cry because I can remember how vulnerable and even broken I was when I wrote them and others that make me laugh or shake my head or cringe at how often I used adverbs, the bane of any writing teacher’s existence.  

So, what was the inspiration, the impetus, the drive or the idea that started this whole posting on a blog thing anyway?  Well, I’ll tell you and it wasn’t my idea.  It was my dear friend Susie’s,  who I’ve called my best friend since we were 15 years old, who came up with the idea.  I would write essays and send them to her periodically because I loved to write and loved to share what I had written even more.  She suggested I start a blog.  I thought she was crazy.  I told her I didn’t think anyone would want to read my essays and by putting them out there, it felt too much like bragging.  She told me I had one reader.  She would read them.  She added that having a blog would be a great way to store all of my writing.  Everything all in one place.  And so I took her idea and ran with it, well, not exactly ran, but walked fast, but with hesitancy.  My son, Grant, did the technical work and the design and I started writing.  I was in Frisco, Colorado when I started making posts and I wrote like a mad woman, finally with a place to put all of my words, although I became very picky about what I’d share, ( thankfully), only publishing my favorites. 

I remember sitting in what had become my writing chair, with beautiful views of Buffalo Mountain as my vista while I typed my thoughts into my new, not yet named, blog.  When I read my first few posts a few days ago, it took me right back to the time, the place, the view and even the chair I was sitting in. I finally had an outlet for the essays I had been writing for decades.  It was like an artist at long last procuring a studio with natural light pouring in through the windows.  I was beyond thrilled. I had a space, a platform and a view of the mountains to boot.  I certainly didn’t think that 10 years later and no longer living part time in the mountains of Frisco, Colorado, with a views so beautiful it seemed like they are just showing off, that I’d still be adding to the site that was started with so much reluctance and trepidation.  I still have the chair, but have added a desk to the mix where I sit and do most of my writing. The chair has become more of a contemplation station, a compliment to the desk.

Thank you to my dear friend, Susie, for believing in me and being my first reader and to my family who quickly followed suit. And to all of you who have read one or all (and I hope if it was just one that it wasn’t the one that makes me cringe on the reread), thank you.  It touches me deeply when I think of people I don’t even know taking time to read what I’ve written.  

In rereading so many of my posts, I’ve decided to recycle a few for the next month or two, or until I get tired of it. I’ll call it an anniversary gift to myself, posting my favorites – the ones that highlighted a time in my life that needed to be captured, not only in photographs, but also in words. 

Enjoy.

Home.

Writing is hard. But not doing it is even harder for me. I’ve been spending the past several days going through writing notebooks, a project that coincided with the beginning of the new year. Cleaning, organizing, throwing out and re-stacking what is kept is food a Virgo’s soul, and if it falls on the beginning of a new year, it’s as good as an all you can eat buffet. There’s actually a name for being inspired by the new year, Mondays, new notebooks, the first page of a book etc. I don’t remember what it is called, but would have better luck recalling it on a Monday or the first day of the month. From desk drawers, large baskets and a trunk, I unearthed stacks upon stacks of journals, notebooks and file folders with hand written pages, typed pages, half filled pages and scraps of paper with words on them that made no sense. The scraps, I threw away. Filled journals, journals that I barely started, almost complete essays, starts on ideas to write about — so many starts, and notebooks from the many writing classes I’ve taken, are now in stacks that cover a big part of the floor in my small office. In looking at the notebooks, some with beautiful artwork on the front but the majority more utilitarian, I wondered, is this normal? Is it normal that the first item I gravitate towards in a books store or stationary store are the empty notebooks? Something I clearly don’t need but love to buy. Is it normal to want to start a fresh new notebook for every class or big idea I have because putting it into a slightly used notebook doesn’t seem fair to the new words — it feels like having to go to the flat tipped crayons with half the paper peeled off for a new project. I stepped away from the mess and went out to walk because walking is head clearing for me and it seemed to be a necessary step in my clearing out process.

While walking up towards the mountains that anchor the end of my street, I thought back to my beginnings on writing and why I picked up the pen in the first place. The random, but maybe not so random, thought about my sister, Robin’s imaginary friends came to mind. When she was 5 and I was 4, or maybe she was 4 and I was 3, she had 3 imaginary friends who lived in the window well at our home in Memphis, Missouri. They were her invisible friends, who she would tell secrets to and have conversations with, probably when she got tired of talking to me, or listening to me as the case may have been. I was jealous of the three girls so decided to join her in her imaginary fun and told her I could see them too. She let me play along but I’m sure she knew the girls couldn’t be real to me as they in her imagination, not mine. The girls names were Cathy, China and Jana. In my mind, I singled out China because she was the more exotic and interesting one whereas Cathy was bossy and Jana babyish. Apologies to your trio, Robin, if I’ve misidentified them. I thought a lot about those three girls while I approached the mountain path, wondering why Robin needed to create them in the first place. Again, apologies Robin for my conclusions here if they are far from the truth and I’m simply making stuff up. I started thinking about those window well girls and saw them as Robin’s diary. She confided in them, talked to them, and likely shared frustrations about her little sister with them. They were the listeners to her 4 or 5 year old words. The keepers that she entrusted with her secrets. All things that would have been entries in a diary if she had had a diary and knew how to write. That diary would come, in 4th grade as a Christmas gift one year. I didn’t get a diary with a tiny gold lock on the front and key that dangled from the lock. I got a watch. A Cinderella watch. I loved the watch (it was stolen off my desk a few weeks later after taking it off for recess), but I would have loved the diary even more. I was jealous that she had a place to write down her thoughts and lock them up when she was done. Since I didn’t have a diary, I did the next best thing and broke into her’s one day out of curiosity. A pulled apart bobby pin and a bit of patience and I was in. I found pages of disappointing recollections of the day such as who she played with at recess, Peggy’s new outfit and the grade she got on a spelling test. My enthusiasm for the red diary waned until sandwiched in-between the mundane I found the gold. In between sentences of day to day events I found the sentence “I like …..” (name withheld to protect what remains of Robin’s privacy). Bingo. That was all I needed to know that my life was not complete without a diary. The thought of writing my thoughts onto the pages of my Big Chief tablet instead of squeezing my words onto the small pages of the diary, never occurred to me. There was just something about that small book with the lock on the front and the tiny key that felt inspiring and magical. Diaries were a place to store all those thoughts and feelings that you weren’t ready to tell anyone else but wanted to get out. Several years later, Dad gave me a small diary with an embossed leather cover. It. didn’t have a key but didn’t need one. It was beautiful in its non-keyed cover and looked old and exotic to me. He had brought it back from Italy when he was in the war and found it, probably when going through boxes of old treasures. I’m not sure why he bought it in the first place, maybe a gift for someone that he forgot to give it to or he just thought it was pretty. I loved it and because it was so precious, I was afraid to write in it because I didn’t want to mess it up with scratched out words and ink smears. I kept it empty until 9th grade, when I started filling the pages with poetry. It was my first in a long line of emotion-keeping vessels.

If I had to give my writing a name, I’d say “friend.” It’s my other person in the room, my roommate, my person sitting next to me that I can nudge and say “did you see that/hear that/feel that?” It’s my container for my memories, my thoughts and my emotions because juggling them around in my brain becomes difficult after a while. It’s my filing system, my keepsake box and my creative outlet.

I’ve lived by myself for the past 15 years and putting pen to journal or fingers to keyboard is my communication to others, but mostly to myself. When I go back and read pieces I wrote 20 years ago or last week, one of two things can happen. I cringe with embarrassment and want to delete or throw it away, but I never do because even though the words may be awful, the feelings still reverberate when I reread them later, terrible as they may be. Or, I’m brought to tears. Not because the words are beautiful, but because they take me back to the exact time and place I was in when I wrote them. It’s like thumbing through a photo album of emotions —the good, the bad and the blurry. All those emotions that I needed to put somewhere because leaving them inside didn’t feel right.

When I got back to my house and my messy stacks of journals and notebooks, I realized that journals may not be what other people covet, but they probably have other items that hold their emotions and memories. Those stacks of dog-eared paged notebooks are my friends. They’ve seen the best of me and the worst of me. Their pages are the essence of who I am. They are me in every sentence, paragraph and page. I’ve lost myself in those pages and if I’m lucky, I’ve found myself too. Behind my desk I have a string attached to the wall that looks like a clothesline with tiny clothes pins where I attach phrases that mean something to me —they are my inspiration as I sit at my desk and type or write in one of my many notebooks. They make me realize that my process of putting words onto the page is a necessary part of my process. Although the completion of words on a page gives me great satisfaction, the real gold for me is in the process of retrieving those words from experiences and organizing them onto the page. It’s the process for me, not the end result, at least not yet. When people hear I write, their first question is often “where can I find your book?” To which I say, I’ve not published a book, yet, which pretty much ends the talk of writing. Full stop. To me, it feels similar to telling someone you run every day and having them ask when you’re going to be in the Olympics because if you run every day, you’ve got to be good. Publishing a book is a goal for me, and a lofty one at that, but before I start eyeing the prize of a book in print, I’ve got to honor the process of getting there and for me, the rewards are in the process.

Every day I look at my pinned words above my desk and every day I have a new favorite. Today’s is “Kick at the darkness until it bleeds daylight.” Bruce Cockburn.

I kick with my words and find glimpses of daylight then nightfalls and I start all over again. (Me)

Thanks for reading. Again.

After attending a weekend memoir writing workshop at UCLA, I came home and wrote. This has become my predictable side effect after sitting in a classroom or in front of a zoom screen for two or three days of writing teacher-given prompts, then humbly sharing our work. One would think the first thing I’d want to do after two or three or even four days of an intensive writing workshop, would be to put my pen down, but it’s the opposite. Feeling inspired and heeding the suggestions that came from workshopping my pieces, I always look forward to continuing the process when the class is over. On the last day of class, zoom or in person, we share our writing goals with the class and six months later, we regroup on zoom for accountability. Those first few days post class, I begin to think about increasing my daily writing time and giving more weight to my goals, but after a few months, I settle back into my newly adjusted normal as the enthusiasm of the class wanes. I’m sure I’m not the only one in the class that does this. This time when I returned to Boulder, post class, I was met with a string of cold, rainy days. Not that I need gloomy weather to inspire writing, but it sure does help. Besides, I cherish the gray, rainy, gloomy days that tell me I need to stay indoors and leave my hiking boots at the door. They are rare where I live. And so I did. I called indoor recess, got my coffee, got comfortable at my desk and started typing. It wasn’t long before I had written 5,000 words, or about ten pages. Everything about what I was doing was routine except for one very big thing. I was writing fiction, not memoir, which was new, very unexpected and not at all what I had been doing at the workshop I had just attended.

A few weeks before the workshop, my son, Grant, asked me why I never wrote fiction. It wasn’t the first time he had asked me that, but it was the first time I really paid attention to his question.

“Because I don’t know how, or more specifically, I don’t have a plot in mind,” was my answer.

He pushed.

“But you’re so good at making stuff up.”
He was right with that. I am good at making stuff up, but more in a way to skirt trouble when I was young while answering my parents ever familiar question of “where have you been, young lady?” Necessity, not creativity. Making up stories about random people I see or sometimes don’t see, is something I’ve enjoyed for as long as I can remember, both with my sisters and my children. Several years ago driving from LA to Ojai with my LA kids to celebrate my birthday, someone in the car (who wasn’t me) started talking about a woman named Kendra and her most recent escapade at work. It took me a few minutes to realize, oh, we’re doing that… then I joined right in adding to the comments about Kendra and the last insurance convention she attended, which was a bit of a disaster as everyone in the car recalled. Of course we all had pictures in our mind of Kendra- what she looked like, how she talked, and of course what she did at the convention to make it memorable in all of our made-up stories. Random conversations about a made up person just begin with my kids and I. There is never any rhyme or reason to any of it and I remember being especially amazed at the fine tuned ability everyone in the car had, not missing a detail. They’ve paid attention and have learned by listening. Of course the farther into the story we got, the funnier it became, which feeds all of the storytellers. Responses were seamless, as if we were reading scripts. I realized my kids had all witnessed me doing this with my sisters and without any instruction or prompts from me, had carried on the tradition proudly and passed it onto their partners. I remember a fun birthday celebration in Ojai, but remember the stories about Kendra at the convention even more.

This has happened at airports, restaurants, hikes and stores with my sisters and with quick lightning rounds while waiting next to a car at a stop light. I have no idea where this odd game of ours originated, but we’ve all got it and we all love doing it. People outside of our storytelling family have reacted in one of two ways — they joined right in without explanations as to what we are doing or why, or they look puzzled and confused and explaining the odd behavior that we’ve taken to such ridiculous lengths is never easy.
“I guess I just don’t know how to start,” I told Grant.
“Just make up a character and write stuff that happens to that character every day—like the stuff we make up. You already know how to do this, mom.”

And so taking Grant’s challenge, I started writing. I wrote about a girl I’ve thought about for a long time, not really knowing why and definitely not realizing she would become the heroine in my book. Situations started unfolding for my 10-year-old, made up heroine. Things I hadn’t predicted. Things that surprised me. It felt like the book started writing itself and although I was behind every word, every paragraph, every page, Tink, my heroine, was guiding me.

I remember once hearing an author tell an interviewer that she was so surprised when the main character in the book she had written, died. The interviewer said, “but you were the one writing the book… you were the one that killed her!” Her response was that the book started writing itself, leading her down unexpected pathways with unexpected consequences. I’ve thought about that interview a lot, believing the author, but not understanding what she was saying. I got a glimpse of that while I wrote, not knowing what was going to happen to my heroine or how the book would end. 5,000 words turned to 10,000 then 20,000 and finally my short story grew to a novel with 75,000 pages. I’m still not exactly sure how it happened but it did and almost two months to the date of Grant asking me why I never wrote fiction, my answer to that was, “I do now.”

I loved the freedom of being able to write down what came to mind, making things up without a thought to whether or not my memory was serving me correctly. Using characters to show, not tell, that were formed with my words —families and friends, the loved and the not so loved, all with the stroke of my keyboard. It was a blank canvas ready for paint, instead of finding the puzzle pieces of memories that would lead to other memories once I started piecing them together. It was exhilarating and energizing and made all day stretches at my desk not only tolerable, but enjoyable. And the rain kept coming. Maybe my book’s dedication needs to not only be to my son, Grant, who put me on this journey in the first place, but also to the rainy May weather in Boulder. I’m not sure I would have been motivated had it been sunny outside, which may sound ridiculous, but anyone who knows me well understands the motivation that gray days bring me. Ironically, I live in a state that claims to have 300 sunny days a year and believe me, people who live here keep track.

Once I put the final period on the last sentence, I took my work to Office Depot to be printed. I wanted to hold the weight of 75,000 words in my hands. While I stood at the copy machine, watching the pages come out of the printer and stack themselves onto the tray, I could’t help but think of the hours I sat at my computer in my office looking at the 3 mini-clothes lines that hang on the wall above my desk. Using tiny clothes pins, I’ve hung phrases or words that inspire me or remind me (“enough of the adverbs”… or… “keep your butt in the chair”…). These two are the ones that I kept looking at and eventually moved to the center of the twine.

“Creativity is a combination of discipline and child-like spirt.” Robert Greene

“The job of the novelist is to invent: to embroider, to color, to embellish, to make things up.” – Donna Tart

I don’t know where the two inch stack of paper sitting on the side of my desk will end up, but right now, just looking at it and picking it up and feeling its weight is enough. There was a freedom that came from creating something from nothing that I’m relishing in. To create people and stories and histories where they didn’t exist before feels like pure magic to me and after spending 75,000 words with my main characters, it’s not surprising that they have woven themselves into my day to day life. The other day I said something to a clerk in the grocery store and as soon as the words came out of my mouth, I hesitated and the thought that it was exactly what Tink, my protagonist, would have said. I have made up a world of imaginary friends who evidently are still hanging around.

Hopefully, I’ll be able to share more about this book later, but for now, just this page:

Dedicated to Grant, who asked me why I never write fiction. I do now.

The first day of school for me was always a day that gave me a knot in my stomach, even though I was returning to most of the same kids I had been in school with the year before and the year before that and several I had played with over the summer. This morning, I had my first day at school, a weekend workshop, on the UCLA campus, and the knot returned. I had had the teacher for three other classes, but all of them from home, sitting in front of my computer on Zoom, pajamas on the bottom and looking more put together on the top. Today, I finally got to meet the woman who has become a writing mentor for me, face to face and in person. Just like six months ago when I participated in a writing workshop in Santa Monica, my son, Grant took me to class, or actually to the hotel where I spent the weekend. We enjoyed dinner before at Flavors From Afar located in the Little Ethiopia section of LA. It’s an interesting restaurant that changes its menu monthly to feature dishes from the homeland of a refugee or immigrant chef. This month’s menu was Guatemala, a place my kids and I all traveled to several years ago. The food was excellent and because of the delicious food as well as their commitment to help refugees, it will go on my “must eat there” for future LA visits. I have to admit though, I was more focused on my upcoming classroom time than tamales or tilapia. My nerves of insecurity were making themselves known.

Grant dropped me off at the hotel, conveniently located in the UCLA campus, and told me he’d wait to make sure I got in OK. He told me “good luck,” adding words of encouragement, a shift in roles as I used to be the one in the driver’s seat offering up words of encouragement. However, he forgot to tell me to make sure I had everything, which in my excitement, I didn’t. He texted me later and told me I had forgotten my jacket and my water bottle. Fortunately, it was a warm and sunny in LA. He suggested buying a UCLA water bottle to show school spirit, in jest, of course, but at this point, I’ve taken enough classes at UCLA — close to 100 hours of contact hours, to justify a water bottle and maybe even a sweatshirt. My son, who forgot homework most days, texting me to tell me I left my jacket and water behind was great fodder for writing if I needed a prompt over the weekend.

When you’ve only known each other from a small square in a page of squares of faces on Zoom that can’t help me think of Hollywood Squares, seeing each other in person took my teacher, Amy and I a minute before we embraced in a hug that felt long overdue. The classroom was nothing special — four walls with a chalk board on two of them, no windows and a horseshoe of desks that were on wheels, which at first I thought was strange, but by the end of the day, we had all scooted ourselves around while trying to find our best spot. I could see and hear what wasn’t possible on Zoom — the emotions in the eyes, the body language, the audible sighs on a well-crafted or heart wrenching sentence. I was in a classroom of 15 talented, authentic and very brave souls who at the end of day one, felt like I knew with a level of intimacy that doesn’t usually come with initial meetings. And we’ve only begun.

After class, I walked into Westwood Village, a few miles from my hotel room, and cobbled together some food to take back and enjoy on the small patio outside of my room. I bought a sandwich bigger than my head, a bag of chips and a single sized serving of rose. I don’t normally eat huge sandwiches, but I worked up an appetite by writing from 9 to 5 so made the indulgent splurge. On my walk home, a man stopped and asked me if I’d like a ride. Flattered by the offer while knowing I’d say no, I turned around to get a closer look of who was either hitting on me, being a creep or simply a nice guy. I said no, but thanks, to the man behind the wheel who not only looked suspiciously too old to drive, but a bit like my Dad. I have silver hair. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

Amy, our teacher, told us at the end of day one to take the evening off, relax and get a good night’s sleep because it would be far more exhausting mentally than we’d realize. Pouring your heart out onto the page, as soulfully fulfilling as it is for me, is also exhausting in a way that catches up to you later and always as such a surprise when I find myself tucking into my bed at 8:30 or 9:00. Regardless of what we were told, I’m sure most people in my class were doing the exact same thing I was doing…writing, rewriting and contemplating what we want to share. There is no rest for the weary. At least not for this weekend.

On the last day, our second day, we each had 10 minutes of sharing time with the class and because I’ve taken Amy’s memoir classes before, I knew what that 10 minutes would probably look like — 20 minutes or even 30 and our class wouldn’t end at 5:00, but closer to 5:30 and even that would be a stretch. We could use the time for anything we wanted, whether that was reading a piece or talking about book plans or writing plans or anything else we wanted to share. I chose an essay I wrote about a woman I knew for a matter of months during my year of living in Phoenix. I wrote it many years ago, decades actually, but have gone in and made edits and changes over the years. I’m hoping it will become a part of something else I’m working on but as per the methodology that Amy adheres to, I’m not going to share much about those plans.

Amy gave us prompts, where we have 5 to 10 minutes to write then could go back and tweak during free time, which was not much. On the first day, we chose a piece we had written in the prompts for the class to workshop. The class would ask questions in areas where they wanted more information written, such as “how old were you when this happened?” Or “Where were you?” Usually the questions were pretty basic. The hard part was we weren’t allowed to answer the questions because Amy didn’t want the writer to be influenced. Rather, the questions were written down and we could decide later if we wanted to address them in our piece. It was a strategy that had been used in all of the classes I’ve taken with Amy, so I was familiar with the drill.

We spent all afternoon on the last day with our “10 minutes of sharing,” which predictably was more like 30 minutes. I was so moved by the bravery of some of the stories I heard and stunned by the tragedies many in our class had suffered as children and young adults. Amy had told us on our first day that we’d connect with one or more of the students and would form life long bonds and we’d be surprised by how close we would become with only 16 hours of being with one another. She was right. It happened twice with her classes on Zoom and it happened even more so in person. We’ve already been emailing and there will be a few who I will try and connect with on future trips to LA. Most, by the way, were from the area but one girl was from Dallas, another from Seattle and one from San Francisco. The remainder lived in the LA area.

It’s such an opportunity for me, with regards to both my writing as a whole and my soul to be able to spend a few weekends a year with other like-minded adults who on a gorgeous day in LA would choose to be in a window-less classroom writing about memories, many of them painful. It will take a few days or even weeks for me to totally absorb the time I spent with this incredible and brave, group of writers. I couldn’t have been in better company.

On Sunday, early evening, Grant picked me up and asked me how my class had gone and although it had only been a few days since he dropped me off, it felt like it had been at least a week. Time spent in that drab classroom went fast but also at times painfully slow. I can’t articulate specifically what I learned to do or undo because those elements will come in drips and drabs while I write, but I know from past experience that there will be a time while I’m writing when something that Amy or one of the other classmates said will be exactly what I need to hear and I’ll add that word or sentence or chapter that I was too afraid to include before and I’ll see the face of the person who shared the wisdom, clear as day, as if they are standing over my desk with raised eyebrows saying, “what are you REALLY trying to say?” I’ll give their invisible self a nod and continue to type, or write in spiral notebooks that sit in stacks in a basket by my desk.

I know every one of us in that weekend workshop came away with something different from our time in that classroom, but there was one thing we could all agree with without exception. Writing is hard. No explanation, and no need to go deeper with those words — hard and as necessary as oxygen for each and everyone of us who sat in the windowless room in desks on wheels. I need to be reminded of that while I sit in front of the ever familiar blank page, while I try to find my words or the meaning or even the purpose behind those words.

Writing is hard and laborious and emotional and frustrating but it’s also one of the purest forms of creativity and making sense of my world that I’ve found, beginning with discoveries through awful poetry in my teens. While back at my desk, where I have a tiny clothesline attached to the wall with 3×5 cards pinned to it with saved words on them, there are two cards I’m drawn to today.

“Authenticity only comes when you take risks.”

“But nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight. Got to kick at the darkness ’til it bleeds daylight” (*Lover’s in a Dangerous Time,” by Bruce Cockburn).

Tomorrow, it will be a different card with different words, but for today, on the heels of inspiration and some deep soul searching, those are my words.

Last weekend, I took part in a one day, memoir writing workshop in Santa Monica, California. I was walking the Dingle Peninsula in Ireland with my sister, Susan, when I saw the email about the workshop. I read it, thought about it, mentally set it aside, then thought about it some more. I later mentioned it to Susan with the caveat that I most likely wouldn’t sign up because…well..you know… this and that and all the other things that I mentally began to stack up excuse by excuse, forming a wall.  Susan’s response was, “Why wouldn’t you?  You could stay with Grant and Katie (my son and daughter-in- law who live in LA) while you’re there.  Again, why not?”  
Her words echoed in my mind for the rest of the day while I quietly paced off the kilometers to our next stay. Later that evening, while seated at a pub in O’Connor’s Guesthouse in Cloghane, Ireland, I venmo’d the money to the facilitator and thanked my sister because she was right.  Why wouldn’t I?  

On the morning of the workshop, Grant drove me to the house in Santa Monica where the workshop was held. We arrived early, something Blackman’s are known for, so drove around the block a few times, something we are also known for, then sat out in front of the house until my watch said straight up 9:00, knowing that I’d likely still be the first one there, which of course I was.

On the way over, Grant had mentioned how cool it would be if there was someone from one of the Zoom UCLA writing classes I had taken. I agreed. It would be very cool and although I had taken four Zoom weekend intensive classes with two different teachers, it was highly unlikely. The UCLA Writer’s Extension Program is big and so is Los Angeles, but I liked that he was thinking about it.
“If that happened, and it won’t, I can guarantee you that I’d remember the writing but not the writer’s name,” I told him.

I turned around to wave goodbye and Grant gave me a “thumbs up, you can do it” gesture. It was wonderfully familiar, only I had been the one to say goodbye in my memories and he was the one leaving with the backpack slung over one shoulder.

We met in a small guest house in the back of one of the participant’s house. As we were finding our places, a woman seated across from me got my attention and said,
“I know you! I was in a writing class with you last February on Zoom.”
I instantly knew who she was. I didn’t remember her name, but remembered what she wrote.
“You wrote about your dad dying, but I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name,” I said.
She told me her name and remembered some of the work I had shared, but also not my name.

Once the facilitator began, giving us an overview on the day’s events, the woman seated next to me said something and I was so struck by the familiarity of her voice that I looked at her and mentally cropped her from the shoulders up — the size of the Zoom screen I looked at for eight hours a day, for four consecutive days, and realized I knew her. And just like the other woman who I had made a connection with, I also didn’t remember her name, but I remembered what she had written because it was so memorable. I was dying to say something to her but the workshop had began and I realized I’d have to wait until our first break. I thought about sending her a note, but thankfully set that idea aside. To be called out in a memoir workshop for note writing would not be something I’d want share with my son when he picked me up and asked how my day went.

When we had a break, I blurted out to her that I remembered her from a class on Zoom over a year ago (a different class and a different teacher from the other woman I had connected with). It felt like a secret I had been holding and couldn’t wait to share. I told her I remembered her writing, but not her name. Her eyes widened and she started laughing and grabbed my arm in a gesture of friendship and connection then told me she never thought what she wrote would surface again and here we were. I reassured her that what happened in the Zoom room stayed in the Zoom room, but she had left the whole class in suspense as we never got to hear how her story ended. Her story was unique and explicit in the way she wrote it and due to privacy, even though I’ve not given her name, I’ll have to leave it at that. We’re close in age (or kind of, I think) and connected as easily in person as we had in the Zoom classroom almost two years ago. I felt like I had formed a true friendship with her by the time the workshop was over. Out of the eleven people in the workshop, including the teacher, I knew two people and was the only one who had traveled outside of the LA area. Maybe LA wasn’t as big as I thought? Grant was right about the Zoom connections and I was right about remembering their writing but not their names.

There was also a Ukrainian woman in the workshop whose family had been on vacation when the war broke out and flew to Mexico instead of going home. She and her husband and their two children ages 4 and 6, walked across Mexico and crossed into the United States at the border in Tijuana. A family in Santa Monica sponsored them and she learned about the workshop because the facilitator’s children went to the same school as her’s. She wrote her prompts in Ukrainian and when we read our writing aloud to the group, she read her pieces in Ukrainian. I was awed by the fact that none of us could understand a word of what she was saying, yet still leaned in and wanted to hear more. The content of her writing was revealed in her emotions as she read her words, none of them familiar, but the tone of her voice and her pauses were. She translated a few of her pieces that she had written, but I found I got just as much out of them hearing them in her native tongue. When asked if she would return to Ukraine, she said she didn’t know and wasn’t sure there would even be the Ukraine she knew to return to.

The first five minute prompt we were given was to write about something that we had brought with us to the workshop, metaphorically or literally. I thought for a minute then chose my backpack that carried my supplies for the day. I wrote about how the backpack that had held water, snacks and rain jacket while I walked the Dingle Peninsula in Ireland a few weeks ago, now held my lap top, a notebook, pens and a jacket. I also wrote about getting out of my son’s car, with the same backpack slung around one shoulder and seeing his thumbs up gesture as I crossed the street to the house where the workshop was being held. The reversal of roles did not go unnoticed for the both of us. I had experienced it before, many times, but I was the one driving the car and he was the one with the backpack. Remembering my writing prompt, one woman asked when the workshop was over if my son would be picking me up and told me she loved thinking about him asking his mom how her day went and if I learned anything. I told her yes, he would and I’d have the benefit of his wife, my daughter-in-law, joining him. As predicted, he asked me how my day went and if I learned anything and rather than get the answer of “it was ok…” that I got so often from him and his two siblings, I had a much better answer for him.
“You were right, Grant. I not only knew one person from my Zoom classes, I knew TWO! And I was also right. I didn’t remember their names, but I remembered what they wrote.”

I’m a participant who takes notes and follows prompts then closes my notebook or shuts down my lap top and moves back into my life as a person who writes daily and signs up for workshops, but who doesn’t call herself a writer. I call myself a gardener and amateur landscaper who gives up every August, a baker (who has logged far more failures than successes), a painter, who has worked out countless emotions with paints on a canvas and has painted over just as many, and knitter whose stacks of unfinished projects continues to grow, but never a writer. I just can’t seem to add the r and turn the verb into a noun. I’m not sure why that is. One of my Zoom connections that day came into the room empty handed — no notebook, no iPad or laptop, but only had her phone. When the writing prompts began, I noticed she wrote everything on her phone and with only her right thumb. Thinking she may have forgotten to bring a notebook, I offered her paper and a pen. She explained to me that she always writes on her phone and had written 250 pages of a memoir, all on her phone, that she transfers daily to a word document.
“But wouldn’t it be faster to write in a notebook or on a computer and a lot easier on your thumb?” I asked her.
Her response was that she didn’t consider herself a “real writer” and opening a notebook to write felt like a “real writer” to her. Opening her phone on the other hand, and sending an email to herself, rather than going the more traditional route, got her off the hook of calling herself a “real writer.” Something she wasn’t ready to claim.

“I’m just sending emails to myself. It’s not real writing in a “writerly sense,” so there are no expectations,” was her explanation to me.

Her writing, by the way, is beautiful and memorable and deserved every page in a notebook. After all, I had remembered the writing of this writer who didn’t really “write” in a traditional sense, but not her name. At the same time, I understood her logic as I never have called myself a writer, even though it is something I do daily and with the tools of a writer — pen, paper, laptop and not my phone.

When I closed my notebook at the end of the workshop, for the first time, I felt like a writer — a writer who is beginning to form a community and ready to claim the title. Also a writer whose son was waiting for me in the car and was anxious to hear about my day.