A Letter to the Tambourine Lounge, Where I Used to Hang

On some Thursday nights before all this happened, I would drive to Sturgeon Bay. Off the main drag is a little place called the Tambourine Lounge, where songwriters, poets and essayists have a chance to display their wares.

Starting last summer and continuing into February, I would appear about every four to five weeks, reading some of the essays contained herein. For the most part, they were received well. I planned to continue, but as you know, something got in the way.

The writers' group that turned me on to this, Write On, Door County, held a writers' retreat last summer and invited the participants to read their work at the Lounge. I have met no one else in that group, so far, who has also tried. Remember, I live in Milwaukee, some two and a half hours away.

Write On, Door County has reached out to its members and asked them to submit reflections upon being cooped up as much as we have so far. Below is my contribution (though I failed to submit it electronically and might miss the chance to get it into 'official' form), limited to 500 words:

Last summer, on a complete whim and because I knew I needed something fresh, I registered for a writer's retreat in Door County. I knew nothing about the culture or the coterie to which I was introducing myself. It was supposed to be a four-day reread, divided into halves. Finding it at the last minute, I went up for the second half.

I deal almost exclusively in non-fiction musings, so I was stretched by the retreat's premise of writing fiction from the pants' seat, with prompts, for 45 minutes at a time. I learned that I could do it at least as well as eight other very good writers. It was a tonic. We encouraged and supported each other. The management seemed genuinely interested another projects of mine.

At the conclusion, I learned that I could read my stuff at the Tambouine Lounge in Sturgeon Bay on most Thursday nights. But I live in Milwaukee. I made the effort to travel shortly after the retreat, though, found it to my liking, and continued to do so on selected Thursdays. Five hours of travel to read for ten minutes sounds pitifully unbalanced, but for the uniqueness, it can't be beaten.

The Tambourine Lounge constitutes a modest retreat for fledgling songwriters, poets, and essayists. Understated, like much of Door County, it is a place to take risks in front of a live audience.

There is a bracing esprit de corps. It is easy to forget, amidst the agony of one's creativity, that most people want you to be good and, at the very least, respect those who put their wares on display. Some of the musicians were very good indeed.

Though I was greeted warmly, the feeling of "outsider" was difficult to shrug off, partly because I was there every four or five weeks. But when I once took a little longer to return, one of the facilitators saw me arrive and said, "Where you been?"

Knowledge that one is missed enlightens and warms. I kept reading to large and modest applause. It is one thing to write; it is quite another to read it. I found myself revamping pieces I thought were "perfect." But sometimes things that were "just right" three weeks ago no longer are. Michener called himself a good re-writer. Anyone who takes it seriously knows what he meant.

I found myself settling in. My moniker, Mark from Milwaukee, stuck. It became my escape, my cubby hole, to which I would lend commentary no one there had heard. I felt a bit like a friendly ghost. It became worth the round-trip.

The invisible monster now prevents me from making my Thursday sojourns. I miss them, miss the gang. I hope that when this malady moves on, they will remain and renew. So I wonder if everybody's well. I just want the regulars to know that Mark from Milwaukee is okay, and he's fighting on, and writing on, to read again.

And I hope, of course, that you are well and fighting on. This is hard, but so, sometimes, is survival. Stay well, be careful, and with some luck, I'll see you down the road.


Mister Mark