Three writers together; what might they do? Play a game!

Marilyn, me and Christine - at the Lucidity Poetry Retreat, 2017

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                Early in April, three women were in residency at Dairy Hollow in Eureka Springs. Lee, from NOLA, Kay from Tulsa/New York, and Pat from AR. All three of us were working on memoirs. [They are not the women in the picture, except for me.]

                At 9:30, the night before two of us left for home, we gathered in the 505 kitchen. Kay brought a novel with her. “For a game,” she said. She and I drank wine; Lee had dessert: banana cream—a sliced banana (and a little sugar) covered by fat-free Pet Milk. I couldn’t—and still can’t—imagine anything with Pet Milk in it as tasting good.

                We “gamed” while we visited. Here are the rules: One writer picks a sentence or two from a novel, writes it on a lined sheet. Then she passes it to the next, who reads it (silently) and writes something that continues the first. But before passing it to the third writer, she folds down the first sentence so that only the second sentence is visible.

                The third writer reads the second sentence, then writes a response to that, folds it so that only her response shows and passes it on. Around and round it goes until the page is full. Here is the complete “story.”

                “Beth puts a finger to his lips. He stops talking. / “Don’t say it. I can’t hear it now. Let me have this moment of not knowing. This one moment.” / “Okay, I’ve settled down enough to respond to your accusations. But be nicer. Don’t forget to give yourself the feelings and not blame me.”

                “Oh, you narcissist! I come to you with my pain, and all you can do is say ‘Don’t blame me’!” / “That is not what I said. It’s complicated, don’t you get that?” / “No, it’s not. It’s simple. You simply admit you’re wrong and I’m not.” /

              “Oh, yeah? Is that what your ex-husbands would say?” / “No. In fact, they wouldn’t say that. Why bring them into this? Deflecting again? Can’t you have this conversation?” / “Yes, I could, but, why do it? It’ll just make things worse—if they could get any worse!” /

                “Of course, things can get worse! Aliens could land in Eureka Springs. The zombie Apocalypse could happen!” / “Sure. Make fun. This is funny to you, isn’t it? I’m done. When you get serious—if you get serious about dealing with this, you know where to find me.” / “Until then, I’m moving to Texas. Let me know when you’ve decided.”  THE END

                We three agreed this worked very well with “in-tune” writers. Since I changed the names of the other two, and they gave me the sheet, I transcribe it here without asking.

          The next morning, after we had coffee around the same table, Lee began her 10-hour drive south. I left two hours later for a four-hour drive. Kay stayed for three more weeks.

         In a day or two, two or three new residents checked in to the writers colony. Perhaps Kay will suggest they play a game. Every day is different. Every writer is different.  Every game will be different.

It’s so much fun being a writer.

[The women pictured at the top are poets from Texas and were in my workshop group. Here are the others in that group.] I have no photos of Lee and Kay, sorry to say.

Phyllis & Pat 

Mary and Carol             Above: Phyllis & Sandra