My ritual was supposed to be a new post each Monday as a writing warm-up. But. Last week was spring break. Today the nanny is out with a migraine. TC is home sick. Z is on nap strike. And D’s school just called to say she needs her inhaler. Fact: Mondays blow.
I was fortunate enough to be invited to a round table last week to brainstorm over how Literary Arts might best spend their $159k endowment to support local writers. Several in attendance had book contracts. One poet just received a National Endowment. Two of the fiction writers edit a major literary journal. What equalized all of us was how thoroughly impossible it is to find the time and resources to write. We were in favor of larger fellowships, enough money to allow a writer to work part-time during the year or take a summer off to further their work. On behalf of my writers group I pitched a quiet space with a large gathering room in addition to many private rooms, a kitchen, wireless service and a cafe attached to the lobby. These little meetings are my oxygen – writers of all genres discussing their work, free drinks, new friends, no diapers, hands free. The colors are red velvet, black leather, dark oak, tortoise shell rims, swirling brandy, the brown suede of a worn notebook, rollerball pens with blue ink. I do not feel uncomfortable here. It’s vague, but I can just make it out… a cliff house above the fog, storms rolling off of the ocean, a screened-in porch, a wool blanket, candles, red wine, weed and a fabulously talented and eclectic lot of friends who remember the days when George W. made a bloody mess of our country, and how autumn isn’t perfect but at least we’re not as frantic as we used to be. Will we ever be less frantic?
Our parents always seem so calm, but when we arrive we realize there’s always more to be done. Is this our way, forever?