I’ve never been to a writing work shop
or a writer’s retreat before.
I did accidentally walk into one
while living on the coast in Rhode Island.
I was out for my normal afternoon walk.
I could hear the ocean, but I couldn’t see it.
The terrain had small twisted coastal trees
mixed with dune type plants and coastal tide
vegetation. I don’t know the names of these things.
But I can see them as clearly now as I did while
I walked among them. I reached the end of the
path and took a left to head back toward
the parking lot and walked directly into a writing
workshop. A writing coach was instructing the participants
to open themselves to nature and listen for the
sounds that stirred them and to write about these
sounds and feelings after having
accumulated enough stimulation.
I just look at a wall, or out my window, until
words find me. I don’t know if I’d fit in at a writing
workshop. I think I’d rather meet a bunch of
writers at a pub and drink beer. We could all
talk about the weather, or sex. Who am I kidding?
I don’t talk to strangers about sex. I’d rather talk
about the weather and listen to what they think.
Great storms bring with them a feeling of importance.
I’d like to know more about that.
I hope those writers in Rhode Island
found what they were looking for.