I thought: What about a writers' conference? Are there some nearby?
There were, in fact. A couple in Chicago that were either quite expensive--I could stay in the hotels or drive there from here, two hours a day back and forth, wondering whether it was worth it--and one in Door County.
I had never heard of Write On, Door County. It seemed relaxed, as so much of Door County seems to be. In fact, the conference was about to begin the day I looked, but it didn't feel like I'd be out of sorts to show up for the second half.
So I called and yes, there was room for me. It was to be a small gathering of people interested in writing. Beyond that, I had no idea what it would be like.
Basically, it would be people from the area, no farther than Green Bay, which was less than an hour away, sitting in a circle, prompted by the facilitator, giving us a scenario and letting us expand on it. The rest was up to us. There would be no lectures, to be sure. This was a conference for doers.
Of course, it would be about writing fiction. I had blundered into something I don't do often, or well. I was scared off in college my sophomore year, when I signed up to take an English course in writing, then was told I had to produce 30 pages of fiction per week. I liked the teacher--had him for a seminar the previous semester and he encouraged me--but I was also playing on the baseball team and didn't think I'd have the time. Plus, I couldn't imagine producing that much every week.
Besides, I like to deal in facts. I like the security of it, the certainty of what was known and the fascination of what wasn't; out there a little bit, but discoverable. But fiction is very much like that, too, blended differently but spinning a tale that's believable if the reader is invited well and competently.
Besides, I like to deal in facts. I like the security of it, the certainty of what was known and the fascination of what wasn't; out there a little bit, but discoverable. But fiction is very much like that, too, blended differently but spinning a tale that's believable if the reader is invited well and competently.
This above is what I concluded after I was finished. What I did was pick up in the middle of a four-day exercise in stretching minds that was well underway by the time I arrived. Momentarily, I felt overwhelmed. Would I be good enough? Would I make a fool of myself? But I had little time to consider that, fortunately. Had I known, I might not have shown up at all.
I wondered whether the other participants had though the same way. I looked around the circle in which we sat. Nobody looked like a writer, but then, I thought, neither do I. But they seemed filled with enthusiasm which had only grown with each assignment.
I had no idea whether I fit in there. But by golly, I would try. What was there to lose, besides my money, which was already spent? I could make it home easily by the evening, only ego damaged but identity largely still mysterious. I could skulk and shake my head and wonder why I had even signed up for such an excursion.
Or, I could dive in and risk analysis. But then, I told myself, I had been doing that off and on for years. I belong to a loosely-knit writers' group that has been meeting since 1978. People bring their writing, if they're poised to have it sometimes ripped apart. If there's something wrong, it will be found upon one reading. If it sounds good, someone will say something. Or, nothing. The analyst doesn't have to, and often doesn't, spare feelings.
I try to, because I remember the personal part; this is the accumulation of, sometimes, dozens of hours, and to make it sound amateurish and too simple (which it is, sometimes) feels horrible inadequate. To insult writing is to insult one's mind, the thing that makes you, you. That's not easy to take.
But I'd kick-started this blog for a year, and wanted to know, from more independent sources, whether I'd gotten any better. The scenario wasn't for a nicely-hewn essay of 700-900 words, though. It was for those who would take an idea and run with it, hard, for 45 minutes. It was for those who could take the challenge of a blank slate, four or five times a day, and create something that made sense out of pure poppycock.
So our facilitator gave us an idea, and about 45 minutes to concoct a story. We were in the back of a residence with trails through fields and woods, outside in excellent weather, carved out to be alone with one's thoughts. I parked myself at a table next to the house, and was allowed to 'own' it for my time there.
Ostensibly, the stories were to have a conclusion, but I ignored that for the most part. If I felt an ending coming on, I would tie it in. But mainly, I would stretch my imagination as far as it would go.
I found more there than I thought I had. In all the time we were assigned to write, several hours in all, I couldn't have raised my pen to contemplate or get the dreaded writers' block for more than ten minutes. I wrote my way through what seemed to be any facades. I amazed myself, but then, I shouldn't have. I haven't just dropped into the human experience. A few things have happened. I could draw on them and, once opened, my mind kept bringing more back.
To judge by the reactions of the other writers to whom I had to read my stories, I stood up fairly well, equal to what they had done with two days' head start. Time was an important factor, of course, and the combination of the writing time and reading time prevented deep analysis. But people were there to encourage each other.
It was an acknowledgement that if there was good in a story, it should be reinforced. It was like teaching golf: It's too hard to do anyhow. Better to find the positives, and let the participant expand on that. The more one succeeds at a hard thing, the more one returns to it, confident but with respect.
The facilitator also met with us one-on-one to discuss things we were working on. I really appreciated that and the assistance that was given. Writing is an immensely lonely thing to do, and it's easy to conclude that you're out there on a limb endlessly. It's great to be told that you're valid, you're doing something that's worth it, and that someone's cheering for you.
We were given each other's e-mail addresses, so I tried to connect when we were finished, because in sharing, we had struck up what I thought was a friendship. Alas, as in most other situations, it wasn't to be. The sincerity at that moment might have been genuine, but too difficult to sustain.
So I wonder what everyone's been up to, especially now in the days of the pandemic, when we've all had the opportunity to produce huge volumes with huge volumes of time on our hands. As I've written before, I took advantage to the invitation to read some of my items to a small group in Sturgeon Bay, and I'm glad I did. I never met any other participant in the conference there, and although I only attended every 4-5 weeks, I doubt that anyone else went to the trouble.
But that's okay, too. I hope they went on to write something outstanding and publishable. It inspired me, and still does, to keep writing and figure out just what's going on out there. I doubt if anybody can. But plenty of us are still trying. That, I think, is the joy and burden of the writer. It shall always be such.
Be well. Be careful. Wear a mask. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.
Mister Mark
But I'd kick-started this blog for a year, and wanted to know, from more independent sources, whether I'd gotten any better. The scenario wasn't for a nicely-hewn essay of 700-900 words, though. It was for those who would take an idea and run with it, hard, for 45 minutes. It was for those who could take the challenge of a blank slate, four or five times a day, and create something that made sense out of pure poppycock.
So our facilitator gave us an idea, and about 45 minutes to concoct a story. We were in the back of a residence with trails through fields and woods, outside in excellent weather, carved out to be alone with one's thoughts. I parked myself at a table next to the house, and was allowed to 'own' it for my time there.
Ostensibly, the stories were to have a conclusion, but I ignored that for the most part. If I felt an ending coming on, I would tie it in. But mainly, I would stretch my imagination as far as it would go.
I found more there than I thought I had. In all the time we were assigned to write, several hours in all, I couldn't have raised my pen to contemplate or get the dreaded writers' block for more than ten minutes. I wrote my way through what seemed to be any facades. I amazed myself, but then, I shouldn't have. I haven't just dropped into the human experience. A few things have happened. I could draw on them and, once opened, my mind kept bringing more back.
To judge by the reactions of the other writers to whom I had to read my stories, I stood up fairly well, equal to what they had done with two days' head start. Time was an important factor, of course, and the combination of the writing time and reading time prevented deep analysis. But people were there to encourage each other.
It was an acknowledgement that if there was good in a story, it should be reinforced. It was like teaching golf: It's too hard to do anyhow. Better to find the positives, and let the participant expand on that. The more one succeeds at a hard thing, the more one returns to it, confident but with respect.
The facilitator also met with us one-on-one to discuss things we were working on. I really appreciated that and the assistance that was given. Writing is an immensely lonely thing to do, and it's easy to conclude that you're out there on a limb endlessly. It's great to be told that you're valid, you're doing something that's worth it, and that someone's cheering for you.
We were given each other's e-mail addresses, so I tried to connect when we were finished, because in sharing, we had struck up what I thought was a friendship. Alas, as in most other situations, it wasn't to be. The sincerity at that moment might have been genuine, but too difficult to sustain.
So I wonder what everyone's been up to, especially now in the days of the pandemic, when we've all had the opportunity to produce huge volumes with huge volumes of time on our hands. As I've written before, I took advantage to the invitation to read some of my items to a small group in Sturgeon Bay, and I'm glad I did. I never met any other participant in the conference there, and although I only attended every 4-5 weeks, I doubt that anyone else went to the trouble.
But that's okay, too. I hope they went on to write something outstanding and publishable. It inspired me, and still does, to keep writing and figure out just what's going on out there. I doubt if anybody can. But plenty of us are still trying. That, I think, is the joy and burden of the writer. It shall always be such.
Be well. Be careful. Wear a mask. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.
Mister Mark
