Mike, Pat M., Pat Carr, Pat L., Barbara relaxing after class
Two
weeks after leaving Greye-the-cat and Billy-the-the grandson in charge at
Couchwood while I went to northeast Arkansas for a few days, I left them again.
This time I headed the diagonally-opposite direction—to Piggott in Clay County,
for a week’s writing retreat at the Hemingway-Pfeiffer Museum Educational
Center, one of the historical projects of Arkansas State University.
Lodging
for many of us was at The Inn at Piggott (formerly the Downtown Inn)
bed-and-breakfast. Ownership has changed twice since I began staying there, and
the latest owners, Tracy and Joe Cole, natives, both go-getters, have begun and
are continuing to update “the old girl who sat empty for so long,” as Joe
described the two-story red brick former bank building. It sits on the corner
of West Main and Second Street. When I arrived, a folded bath towel rested on
one of the window sills in the Safari Room (#3)—my favorite room--because of a
leak from an unsealed area around it. During our week, painters worked on the
outside of the building.
Trains
rumble through Piggott day and night, and for the first time in all the years
I’ve stayed there, I felt the bed shake as one lumbered past only a block from
the Inn. I was sitting up with writing materials on my lap. Others had said
they’d felt the building shake, but I hadn’t—until this visit.
Writers
gathered from as far away as Boston, MA, Bowling Green, KY, Springfield MO,
Sarasota FL, as well as places in Arkansas: Elkins, Floral, Jonesboro, Piggott,
Benton, Fayetteville, and West Fork.
Mentor, Pat Carr, Elkins, AR
Pat
Carr returned for the fourth time as mentor, but this was my first time under
her tutelage. Monday’s subject was
Hemingway’s Paris circle and the dramatic point of view. Our assignment was to
write about a couple in conflict who know each other well using the third-person-limited
point of view, which means “Don’t go into either one’s head.” Dialogue, action,
images; short sentences, no clichés, few adjectives, and adverbs. The piece I
wrote needed writing for quite a while. I titled it, “Torrent Unleashed.”
Tuesday’s
focus was Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and the Observer in “The Great Gatsby.” Our
assignment was a “Let me tell you what happened . . .” The writer could also be
a character but write solely as an observer. My story, one that also needed to
be written—for my possible clarification—I titled “Why Should It Matter?” I had
a hard time ending it as Ms. Carr wished, but other writers checked in with
suggestions, and I finally wrote a suitable ending.
By
week’s end, I turned in two stories and two poems for the Anthology, a souvenir
with some of the week’s work by the writers.
The
lessons/ assignments were helpful; the notes I wrote more so, but I had an
embarrassing moment that took me down a peg. I’d written an “anaphora”-patterned
poem for the state poetry society’s monthly contest. And one of our exercises
was to write down your first memory. Mine was moving from the “little house” by
horse and wagon up to the “big house” when I was six. Eureka! I was able to
tweak the original poem for use as this assignment. My mistake was
mispronouncing the form. I said “anna-FOR-uh,” having not ever heard it pronounced.
My neighbor at the table quickly corrected me, “an-EFF-er-uh.”
Oh,
well, at 81, it’s still not too late to learn something. And learn something I
did.
Pat L.'s coffee table decoration, fall 2017
