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

     

Another week in the Ozarks: writing/ critiquing/ basking in autumn’s ambiance

 

 

                OCTOBER 24, Saturday, 9 a.m. – Couchwood.  Leaving—again--for a week at Eureka Springs by way of Beebe to pick up b-f-f Dot. To hit Hwy 65, we cut across Hwy 64 to Conway, stopping in Clinton to “sell” a book, then to Marshall for gas. After a must-stop at Ferguson’s for coffee and a huge cinnamon roll, we rolled into Eureka Springs around 3 p.m. One more leg down the twists-and-turns of Scenic Highway 62 to Spring Street--our home for the next week.

                We settled into our suites, Dot in Spring Garden at the Main House of Dairy Hollow; moi in Muse 1 of 505, the Usonion house in the Frank Lloyd Wright style.

Dot went out with her daughter and granddaughter. They had driven over from Edmond, Oklahoma, to see their mom and grandmother since they hadn’t been able to visit Dot on her recent birthday.

                OCTOBER 25 Sunday. The trio invited me to join them for brunch at Myrtie Mae’s restaurant, after which Linda and Amy headed back west. Dot and I worked separately on our writing goals—her’s was to write a new chapter every day. Mine was to finish last week’s Halloween column, finish “Dazey’s Dilemma,” a short story-in-progress, and to begin on a possible memoir inspired by May Sarton’s “Coming Into Eighty.” I would tentatively call mine “Edging Past Eighty.”

OCTOBER 26, Monday. We met the other residents, Cynthia from Springfield, Judi from Cincinnati, and a new writer from D. C. a young, Jewish man who worked at the Library of Congress.

At 7 p.m., a Haymaker poetry critique session was scheduled across town. At 9:30, the 8 poets who had--as one guy said, “tortured” (critiqued) each other’s work--“limped away” to rest for the “onslaught” of a second session the next morning. All our poems were equally discussed, dissected or divided. Fun, fun, fun!

OCTOBER 27, Tuesday, 8:30 a.m. The poets met at the Forest Hill Restaurant, and then to the Express Inn for another session. The glassed-in breakfast room jutting out from the building had served as a meeting place for several years and most of the group lodged at the Inn. I began the meeting with a “lesson,” or “sharing,” called “Genesis of a Poem.” Then we sparred through another poem from each.

At noon, we traveled to Sparky’s, fortifying ourselves for the final afternoon session. After it ended at 4 p.m., we hugged and kissed those friends we won’t see again until spring.

OCTOBER 28, Wednesday. I revised the Haymaker-critiqued poems as per suggestions, then returned to Dazey. Rain fell gently, confining us to our rooms. Looking out my window, I noticed . . . “a squirrel/ up and down the wet pine . . . sometimes/ lost in the grayness”.

OCTOBER 29, Thursday. We struggled to get enough internet access to check our email. We later discovered that the entire town went down that night. But at 1 p.m., we left for our flea-marketing excursion. First, to the Purple House, the hospital’s thrift shop. Then to The “doggie” store—the Humane Society’s thrift store, then to the Barn Shoppes.

At dinner, we discovered the cook’s faux pas: She served pork. Ahron had to go without meat.

OCTOBER 30, Friday. The last full day. Judi left early, we were leaving tomorrow, Cynthia, on Monday, but Ahron had two more weeks of residency. Dot and I spent two hours at the last flea market, the Echo, whose merchandise is all donated, and whose monies go to the free medical clinic.

OCTOBER 31. We left at 10, stopped in Marshall for lunch and ice cream, then pulled into Beebe at 3, into Benton at 4. It was a thoroughly wonderful week. The two cats even “spoke” to me after leaving them with only an every-other-day check-in.

May November be full of inspiring nuggets for you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another week in the Ozarks: writing/ critiquing

 

 

                OCTOBER 25, Saturday, 3 p.m. – Couchwood. Prepping to leave for a week at Eureka Springs by way of Beebe overnight at b-f-f Dot’s.

                OCTOBER 26, Sunday, 10:14 a.m. Leaving Beebe on Hwy 64, turning north on Hwy 5 at El Paso through Rosebud to Quitman—new territory for me—we hit Hwy 65, thence to Marshall for gas, and Ferguson’s for coffee and a huge cinnamon roll. The vista was aflame with reds, oranges and yellows. Then through Harrison to Hwy 62 West, and on through Alpena, Hugh, Green Forest, Berryville and Eureka Springs. Between the latter two, we were stopped in traffic for (it turned out) fire trucks and ambulances. A vehicle was burned black.

At the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow, we secured keys and found our suites in 505--the Usonion house adjacent—Muse 1 and Muse 2. After unpacking—or not—we sat on the deck with lemonade and surveyed this part of the Ozarks that we both love. Meals on the weekend have to be self-prepared from stores in the main kitchen, but we’d each brought enough food, so we ate in “our” dining area. Later, Dot worked a little on the BIG Sunday AD-G puzzle, then passed the paper on to me. I stayed up as long as it took to finish.

OCTOBER 27, Monday, 8:30 a.m. On the deck early, I began what might become the penultimate chapter of Her Face in the Glass, the sequel to A Journey of Choice. The voice is Liddy. It’s late October after WW2 ended. She’s sitting out early on their porch and enjoying the ambiance of the season AND the Missouri Ozarks. (Sound familiar?)

At 7 p.m., a Haymaker session was scheduled across town. At 6:50, mesmerized by another resident’s unfolding life, I remembered, bounded up from the communal dinner, and fled.

At 10, the six poets who had, as one guy said, “tortured” (critiqued) each others’ work, “limped away” to rest for the “onslaught” of a second session the next morning. All our poems were equally discussed, dissected or divided. Fun, fun, fun!

OCTOBER 28, Tuesday, 8:30 a.m. The poets met at the Forest Hill Restaurant, and then to the Express Inn (formerly HOJO) for another session. The glassed-in breakfast room jutting out from the building was our  meeting place.

After that session, we traveled to Sparky’s for lunch, fortifying ourselves for the final session that afternoon. Afterwards, we hugged and kissed (in some cases) those friends we won’t see again for a while.

OCTOBER 29, Wednesday, 8:45 a.m., in the 505 conference room—by then it had turned cold--too cold to sit outside. My goal this morning was to write the challenging assignment for the Bombadil’s online writing group, a branch of the Missouri State Poetry Society. Dot worked on her fourth novel (she read two or three books during the week). And I wrote until time to meet our friend Vicki for lunch at Catfish Cabin.

Afterwards, Vicki returned to work and Dot and I browsed at the Echo, a thrift shop that helps a medical entity.  Mid-afternoon, we returned with our bargains, and worked (or napped) until dinner time down the hill.

We secluded ourselves until 9:30 p.m. (wine-thirty) when we broke for snacks and visiting.

Alas, everything must end, and so must this post.

 Happy November to you.

 

Mother Nature doesn’t always accede to our plans

Google image: Ozarks

            

                 BFF-Dot-from-Beebe and I have spent the past few days “on vacation.” Planned ‘way back in early August, Navarre Beach, Florida was to be our destination. An off-season, half-price rate made it ultra enticing.

 

               But as the time neared, Karen, the tropical storm, threatened. And came closer. Then closer. Predictions were dire.

 

                The condo owner called and cancelled us. With the rain they’d already had, he said, plus what would come with Karen, Navarre would flood and more than likely cause evacuations. Who wanted to spend an anticipated (Dot had never been to Florida) vacation holed up in some hotel with (possibly) the power off? Even if one’s son lived in the area?

 

              Dot was ready to go somewhere. We lobbed possibilities back and forth: Eureka Springs and Branson were two of them.

 

               “What about the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow?” I asked her. She was accepted earlier through an application process that included ten pages of writing samples, a list of publications and two references.  But, because at that time they required a 2-week minimum stay, she backed out, not needing to leave her place for that long.

 

                I’m an alumna of the writers’ colony, so I said, “Let’s call Linda and see if perchance she has two suites unoccupied/unscheduled. SHE DID!  And for the entire time we intended to be away! Serendipity! The rooms were in separate-but adjacent buildings, which was fine with us.

 

                I boarded Greye and Boots at the animal clinic, and we Taurus-trekked northward to the Ozarks (4 hours) instead of southward (10 hours) to the Florida panhandle.

 

              Even with the next-day’s rain, we both were happily warm and dry in our suites, complete with writing space, wireless hookup, coffeepot, snacks, good lighting—everything a writer needs for a productive getaway. Oh, and our laptops.

 

              Dot slept longer than usual the first night due to the extra walking, climbing and descending stairs, excitement, etc. Plus, she didn’t need to get up for work or to get Son off to work with a lunch. I usually sleep as long as I can anyway, having nothing but cats to cater to.

 

            We wrote and read and emailed and Face-booked. At mealtimes during the weekend, we ate from the residents’ refrigerator that held culinary leftovers—cauliflower, rice, soup, pasta, dilled potato slices, white cake with a lemon curd layer—plus sandwich makings, juices and milks. Or from food we’d both brought along.

 

           By Sunday night, the Corvette Club members had returned to where they were from—or were on the way home. The previous day’s rain had cooled temps down to jacket weather. I’d packed shorts for the beach, but did have two pairs of jeans amongst them. A windbreaker and one long-sleeved blouse were my only warmish duds, so Dot loaned me a denim shirt.

 

          Six other residents have moved in since we came, so this week at the common dinner hour, there were 8 writers around the dining table. Such sessions of good food, fellowship and sharing added to the serendipity of the alternative vacation—

 

                                                    ---the mountains instead of the beach.



Cold week in the Ozarks: a journaling

Bundled up last October; not quite as cold this spring. But still cold--most of the week.

 

by Pat Laster

 

 APRIL 1- Monday, 7:55 a.m. – Couchwood. Sunny and foggy; up at 6:58 before alarm. Prepping to leave for a week at Eureka Springs – Lucidity Poetry retreat (for two days and three evenings) but living at the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow.

APRIL 2 – Tuesday, 8:14 a.m. At WCDH in the Peach Blossom Suite. Lower floor accessible street-side by stone steps (a death-trap by night without a flashlight) or park-side by a narrow path between the building and the edge of a 6-foot drop-off onto Polk Street. 42 degrees, rainy.
          After the first night, I wrote:

Lighting’s

poor, chair’s too low. 

The heating unit sounds

like a squadron of motorbikes

revving.

 

Coffee’s

good, the décor’s

pleasing and restful, bed’s

comfortable, dresser storage

ample.

          9:42 a.m. –breakfast: an Easter dinner roll spread with peanut butter and dried berries brought from home, almonds (ditto), cold skim milk and coffee from the common kitchen here. A cinquain texted to the roll baker:

Brother
Guy, I just ate
one of your homemade rolls
at Dairy Hollow in April.
Yum, yum!

APRIL 3 – Wednesday, 6:23 a.m., up with alarm at 5:58, 34 degrees!?! A call during the night from Tech Support Simon, who was “tuning up” my 3-week-old laptop, interrupted my sleep, making the alarm seem even earlier.
          Leading a Lucidity poets’ workshop across town that started at 8:30 meant leaving here at 8.  Jottings from the session included: “forensic = law,” a line from one poem, “The dead always want more,” and a reminder that “specifics are better than generalizations.”

APRIL 4 – Thursday. My notes begin at 11:30 with a lecture by our renown and long-standing professor Larry Thomas from Ypsilanti, Michigan, who has traveled this route for 19 years. After this year, he’s bowing out. Past age 80, he deserves to, though we will miss him terribly. Notes: Frost’s quandary can become our own: “What should I do today?”
          In another note the lecturer says, “A poem says one thing and means another.” I don’t agree with that statement, because many of my works are literal, not metaphorical. Perhaps he was talking about GOOD/GREAT poems.

APRIL 5 – Friday. 42 degrees—finally sunny. 10:05 a.m. After two days of arising by alarm for Lucidity workshops at 8:30, I sleep in till I’m rested. Vivid dreams of being back in the music classroom of 7^th graders are thankfully quashed by notification of a full bladder. At 7:20, I rouse, decide it’s too early, so, like a cat, I stretch, yawn, assume my favorite (fetal) position and return to sleep. But not a deep sleep, for I begin building Fibonacci (a new form of poetry for me) in my head. [6 more pages of notes.]

APRIL 6 – Saturday, 7:38 a.m. 50 degrees! I take my coffee outside and a bird seems to greet me. “Sweetie, sweetie, sweetie, sweetie,” with an occasional 5^th “sweetie.” It must know I stand below. [Tee-hee.]
           From inside, I grab a straight-back, slatted-back, caned-seat wooden chair. (Yes, I know there’s too many adjectives, but I want to be specific.) Add a pillow, fetch the oak TV tray that I brought with me “just in case.” (This is the “case.”) Voila! An outdoors writing station! [7 more pages of notes, mostly research about boardinghouse rates and related information.]

APRIL 7 – Sunday, 7:32 a.m.—up at 7:27, 51 degrees, cloudy. DREAM: I’d accepted an interim choir directing job at a local church. After one-and-a-half rehearsals of a difficult but doable anthem, I up and quit. “Lack of respect,” I shouted.
          First inciting event: While I was “teaching,” a man whom I knew talked–not whispered--to his neighbor the entire time. Second inciting event: Four women—two of whom I knew—quit singing and began hand-jiving in rhythm.
          Skip to the end: As I was leaving, the talkative tenor had gathered the group and some Cokesbury hymnals in the choir loft to “pick out something for Sunday.”
          I think I just dreamed a short story!