In a picturesque inn in rural Vermont, a roomful of writers discuss why we write. We have gathered for our annual conference, an event that has taken place for twenty years, cancelled only once, the prior year when pandemic precautions prevented mass gatherings. The conference’s founder, Yvonne Daly, a vivacious ex-hippie and investigative reporter, has gathered her flock for a mid-summer celebration. They are mostly women, among them a few hand-picked young Vermonters whom she has inspired and mentored. A time-tested faculty of poets and authors, teachers and ministers assist her. It hasn’t been an easy year. During the pandemic lockdown, Yvonne’s partner suffered a brain aneurysm. Now, he sits in the front row, miraculously recovered, and smiling broadly despite slightly halting speech and an unsteady gait. Yvonne invites him to tell his story, calling him Mr. Lucky. As the audience listens to him describes his ordeal, their affection is obvious. An all-day blood transfusion has returned the pink to Yvonne's once lovely face. “Back in my hippie clothes,” she says, alluding to her recent weight loss. “Why do we write?” She discusses what writing has meant to her: celebration, communion, community, witnessing, and investigation. She speaks of her early career as a reporter, her determination to chase down a story, her refusal to cut corners before revealing the truth. Over the next four days, the participants answer her question over and over. Novelists discuss their journey from inspiration to manuscript. Poets share heartbreaking odes to a year of quarantine. The conference leaders keep the tone upbeat. When a young writer breaks down in tears describing how it felt to be the child of a felon, when an army chaplain recounts breaking the news of a soldier’s death to his parents, when a long-time participant discusses how to frame her memoir about sponsoring a school for the children of workers in her Mexican retirement town, the audience greets each story with applause and encouragement. If there is an underlying sense of mortality, it is framed by laughter, libations, and even a few post-pandemic (we hope) cautious hugs. One of the seminar leaders is a much-published writer with a formula that works. In her workshop, we scribble down notes, starring the actions we need to take to transform our chaotic manuscripts into novels that will engage a reader we have never met, catch a publisher’s eye. The seminar leader is young and confident, efficient in her instruction, which she has honed into a salable commodity. She leaves after her final workshop, having sold out her stock of autographed books. I chuckle, wondering how she might portray this conference in one of her carefully constructed novels, this ragtag collection of poets and unpublished writers, graying and grizzled, chunky and chatty. Seated in our folding chairs, we exchange tips on the best medications to combat sleepless nights, planning next year’s conference despite all the obvious alarms. And the music! And the food! None of these, of course, are the reason we write, but it is writing that has brought us together. Amid the acknowledgements of regulars who could not attend, is the reality of those in the room whose future is tenuous. Even the pandemic rears its ugly head as a new variant spreads into our idyllic Vermont. By week’s end, a few participants have re-donned their masks. In the evenings, we celebrate. A musical duo arranges a tribute to Yvonne, listing her quirky but loveable traits. A poet captures the essence of her generosity in a few unsentimental lines. If their voices crack, it’s for less than a millisecond, followed by hardy laughter and bright, hope-filled smiles. On the last day, Yvonne announces she is passing the baton. Goodbyes are short, socially distanced, and heartbreaking. Grab a few cookies as you go. Why do I write? Because the world is a scary place, and I have an irrational need to make sense of it. Because people are complicated and hard to keep close. Because I crave the connection that artistic communities create. I lay awake at night and wonder what will become of me. Like the poets and writers who surround me, I want to find words to bridge this senseless world. Three desserts a day, we marvel, as we climb into our cars. Best conference yet.
2 Comments
9/4/2021 12:09:47 am
This is beautifully evocative of the attraction of like minds melded together by tenacity, love, and the power of words to move us all. I am glad this was a wonderful conference.
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9/11/2021 10:12:01 pm
Kathryn, I left a message in response to your Why I Write. Just terrific. Thank you!
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