Man plans, but tends to suffer a failure of imagination. Permafrost-melt? http://ow.ly/vXxt30bUjRq Knowledge is a process of refinement!
Gather your best writing pals, circle a date on the calendar, set a goal for what you wish to accomplish, and head to a bed and breakfast for a writing renewal retreat. That block of uninterrupted time of which all creatives dream is inspiration magic.
Knowing that you’ve set aside a time period for the act of creating, or rekindling your creative flame, can actually be intimidating. Will I function okay without interruptions? What will I do without a phone ringing just as I sit down, or someone knocking at the door just as I’m developing a crucial scene? How am I supposed to concentrate without errands, chores, and never-ending house projects vying for my attention?
The Frederick Inn, located in Buckeystown, Maryland provided the quintessential setting for such an overnight idyll. There is something to be said for the inspiration of being in a space that is not home. Our group of four rented the third floor of this alluring property, armed with a white-hot goal of maximizing a 24-hour block of time to maneuver through story revisions, plot development, or just getting reacquainted with dormant work.
What made the Frederick Inn ideal for such a retreat was the opportunity to tuck ourselves away in a secluded space (individual rooms, a common area that included a four-top table situated by a large window straddled by two stunning stained-glass panels, two powder rooms and a shower), access to the establishment’s well-appointed kitchen to store home-brought meals to avoid the time-suck of ferreting out food outside of the property, and the just-right attentions and made-from-scratch breakfast (drool-worthy zucchini quiche, fruit cup with mint, coffee cake, parmesan-topped tomatoes…) from the convivial innkeepers, Pat and Kirk.
This charming, endearing couple also seemed to take particular delight in providing grist for our collective inspiration mill, sharing stories of the property that revealed more mystery than history. Trunk-traveling headstones returned by an octogenarian with a flimsy reason that didn’t quite get to the heart of the emotions beneath the macabre attachment. A bevy of relocated headstones like a mouthful of teeth tucked away in their own version of a graveyard, bodies (or at least the essence of their dust) presumably still in situ. The bottom portion of a grave marker with what looked like claw marks at the edge, a lone sentinel away from its topper. The lady Elizabeth, her headstone’s inscription bearing the image of a weeping willow tree and the designation of “consort,” which sounds more scandalous than the 19th century use turns out to be.
Such mysteries of times past remind us that every inch of earth has a story. A writer is only too keen to let such wonderings infiltrate her imaginings, and who knows what will come out on the other side?
Cheers to a successful 2017 retreat, and a new tradition.
My grandmother would often recount a story to the family of an experience she once had when she was a new transplant to Washington, D.C. She didn’t yet drive, relying on bus transportation to navigate the city.
Details as to where she was going are hazy in the family memory. Was she headed out to a job site, or was she headed home from one? Grandma was a talker, so unfortunately the tendency was to drift off into an almost-meditative state when she was in storytelling mode, which was pretty much anytime you were with her or on the phone. (This is why you should tune in to what older folks are saying, for those questions you’ll have later.)
The other details are clear. One evening, she said the bus she was on let her off at a stop. It continued on before she could catch it once she realized this was not the right location. The night was oppressively dark. She was in an area outside of D.C. that was still rural at that time, well before its later development into mega-suburbia.
She could see nothing around her, including any houses. It didn’t help that her eyesight was always poor. Now it was compounded by a pitch-dark night with no streetlights to aid her. A dog appeared by her side, startling her. Friendly, wagging its tail, she didn’t fear it. The dog began walking, looking back in the way an animal will do to indicate it wants you to follow.
With no other options, she followed. Soon she saw that the dog had brought her to a house. Relieved, she went up to the door and knocked. The homeowner opened the door, and Grandma explained how she had been let off at the wrong stop. She mentioned how thankful she was that their dog had rescued her and brought her to its house, since there was nothing and no one else around.
The homeowner said, “What dog? We don’t have a dog.” Grandma described the animal, of which there was now no sign.
“Never seen a dog like that around here. No one we know has a dog like that.”
Without the dog there as proof that she hadn’t been seeing things, she let it drop and accepted a ride back to civilization. But she remained convinced that the dog was a ghostly spirit that had assisted her in her time of need.
Have you ever had a paranormal pet/animal experience? Please share if you have or know someone who has!
Back in October, for a couple of nights in a row, I felt the tell-tale pressure of something small moving along the mattress next to me as I got ready for bed. I waited for Vlad, my year-old cat, to settle atop the comforter.
No feline settling happened, just what felt like more tentative steps. Lying on my right side, I craned my neck to look over my left shoulder, but no Vlad. I attributed it to a trick of my imagination.
The next night, the same occurrence. “Vlad?” No answering purr. I looked over my shoulder and once again, nothing there. I settled back on my side, and the feeling of something moving lightly, a weight on the bed, resumed.
I got up the following morning and did what anyone would do: went to Google for a sanity check, as there had to be a rational explanation.
Typing in a query of “feeling someone is in bed next to you,” I got a potpourri of answers to sift through (and was grateful I didn’t get some really obscene results). The ones that fit best concerned animal spirits of lost pets coming back to check on you.
I was on the fence over that theory until I realized two things. My beloved cat Gizmo had to be put to sleep five years ago the same month. Also, Vlad did not sleep in my room either of those two nights.
I’m curious to know: Have you ever had a paranormal pet/animal experience? Please share if you have or know someone who has!
Won’t you sit down and stay a minute? Grab a mug of something warm, relax for a few–and thanks for reading!
Into the Out There
D. Lara Smith
“Vines, vines, vines… the planet is being eaten up by them.”
Derek Ross kicked at the leafy undergrowth while roughly thwacking away at tendrils that grasped at his face and clothing.
Thompson Peters was two paces behind him, sticking close because the vines were no sooner trampled down by Derek’s boot before they snapped back up in defiance. He eased his glasses to the top of his nose. It was a repetitious, habitual movement he did even when his face wasn’t sweat-slicked—and sometimes when he had already taken his glasses off before bed. He wanted to get contact lenses before he started high school, but he would have to ask his mom to spring for them after she’d just bought these glasses six months ago. Not likely.
“It’s kudzu, and it is theorized that global warming—”
“Seriously, dude?” Derek stopped and turned around. “You keep talking like that, and every senior in high school is going to want to beat you up.”
“What are you talking about? Wait until they find out you’re a Mensa candidate.”
Derek shook a fist at him but kept moving, his emo-black-dyed hair in spike-jutting clumps.
“Besides, seniors don’t pay as much attention to freshmen as you think they do. That’s what my mom said.”
“Thompson, your mom is old as dirt, so what does she remember about school from back in the dinosaur age?”
Thompson felt his cheeks flush. He slapped a reaching vine away from his face. “Don’t talk about my mom.”
Derek stopped and glanced back at him. “Just playing.” He shrugged an apology as he unscrewed the cap from his water bottle, tilting his head back and taking a long swig.
“So, how far in did your brother say this old cemetery was again?” Thompson asked.
Derek tapped the remaining drops of water into his mouth. “That stoner? He had no idea, just said he and his bunch of stoner friends walked and walked… like that tells me anything.”
“Um, Derek, did you just finish all your water?”
“Yeah, man, I’m thirsty!” Derek wiped droplets of perspiration from his upper lip. “We aren’t going to be out here that long.”
“You still need some for the rest of the walk. We’re not even there yet! And I only have one bottle with me.” Thompson reached behind his back and reassured himself that the bottle’s sloshy weight was still tucked into the elastic band of his shorts.
“So you’ll share it,” Derek replied in what he considered his menacing tone.
Thompson ignored it and changed the subject. He’d known Derek since they’d been just out of diapers. “How often does your brother and his friends come out here?”
Derek laughed so loud that it was like a sharp crack in the air, scaring a bird from the tree cover above. Thompson jumped, and was startled again when Derek turned on his heel and suddenly walked back toward him. Thompson straightened his shoulders, mentally kicking his own butt. You’re already creeped out and you haven’t even seen the graveyard yet.
Derek stopped in front of him and then turned so he could walk in step with him. They quickly got into a simultaneous rhythm of whacking at and stomping on vines as Derek talked.
“They came out here exactly one time,” Derek said, his arms now animated to punctuate his story. “They obviously weren’t stoned enough, because my brother said the place gave him the heebies. Check it out… Devon said there was this old broken-down church that looked like the hammer of God came out of the sky and smashed it up like it was made of Lego’s. He also said there are some old tombstones, all crooked and broken like no one has come out in a long time on Mother’s Day or any of those other happy-crappy holidays to leave any flowers.”
“So what’s so scary about that?” Thompson asked. A knobby tree branch caught him in the face, knocking his glasses askew.
“Hey, you all right?”
“Yes. I guess I’m not a very good bushwhacker,” Thompson said, rubbing at the spot where the branch had thwacked him good. It stung, and his eyes were tearing up.
“They were scared because they’re a bunch of pansy-ass stoners. Besides that, they said the place just felt weird, had an eerie vibe. They thought they heard something, or saw something.”
Derek gave him a light punch in the shoulder. “Don’t know, but I think you’re about to find out—look right through there…” Derek pointed ahead and off to the right.
Thompson squinted. His new glasses weren’t as good as his old ones; he still felt visually-challenged. “What am I looking at?”
“The stone building?”
Thompson was silent until his eyes adjusted to the light beyond the shadowed tree line. “Oh, man! There it is… that has to be it. Do you see gravestones?” His pace picked up along with his excitement, and next thing he knew, he had greenery and dirt in his mouth along with the sensation of his head being used as a gong.
“Dude, are you okay?” Derek knelt beside him.
“I can’t see anything… I think I hit my head.”
“Well, your glasses fell off. Here you go. Oh, yep, looks like you smacked your head. You’ve got what looks like a red bump there, or maybe that’s blood. How many fingers am I holding up?”
Thompson pushed Derek’s hand away. He felt embarrassed for tripping like that. Damn vines! He got up and brushed off his clothes. His mom would be so mad if he came home with his new back-to-school clothes all stained up. Thompson looked down and saw a grass and dirt stain on his new white polo shirt. He kicked at the vines in anger and spit the dirt out of his mouth. His water bottle had shot free from its elastic bonds, and as he bent over to retrieve it, his head swam. After a quick swig, he shoved the bottle back inside his waistband.
“Come on, let’s get this over with.”
They trudged into an open area where the abandoned church and gravestones were huddled in a close grouping. “One, two, three…” Derek began counting the crooked stones, voice trailing off as his finger worked the air. “There are only eighteen graves here. What kind of dinky cemetery is this?” He leaned down in front of a tilted headstone and began pulling a vine clinging to its rutted stone surface.
Thompson looked around and noticed there were no trees in the center area. There were trees on the outskirts, standing like silent sentinels, forming a perimeter. The vines weren’t as respectful, though, their tendrils and suckers grasping at everything within reach. It bothered Thompson to see that, and he began pulling at the encroaching invaders, yanking them with all of his strength to break free their tenacious grip.
“I can’t read this one. Can you read that?” Derek asked, pointing at the stone Thompson had just cleared off.
Thompson knelt down and tried to make sense of what looked like scratch marks on the stone, even running his fingers in the nicks and grooves to see if he could read it by touch. “I can’t tell what it says. It’s too worn down.”
The humidity was getting to them both. It had been somewhat cooler under the tree cover, but without it, the air was much warmer and had a cloying, slightly rotten smell. Both Thompson and Derek had beads of sweat on their forehead and upper lips. Their clothes clung in spots to their clammy skin.
Salty sweat droplets slid down into Thompson’s eyes, making his eyelids reflexively squeeze closed, and also into the wound on his forehead, making it sting anew. He took off his glasses to swipe at his entire face, then reached around to retrieve the bottle of water. He drank a good bit of it, trying to slake his thirst as well as remove the still-lingering taste of dirt from his mouth.
“Can I have a swig, man?” Derek asked, his hand outstretched.
Thompson rolled his eyes. “Don’t get any backwash in it.”
“Yeah, whatever man.” Derek snatched at the bottle. But he didn’t quite have a grip as Thompson let go, and the bottle dropped between them, spilling the remaining contents.
“Are you kidding me?” Thompson screeched, hands smacking up against his forehead.
“Ouch, ah,” he groaned as he struck the sore spot. His fingers gingerly explored the growing knot.
Derek grabbed the plastic bottle and stood up. “Sorry… but look, there’s about one sip in there. Here, hang on to it.”
Thompson sighed, shaking his head. “Go ahead and drink it. We won’t stay long. There’s really not much to see and I’m hot as an exploding star.”
Derek threw back the last sip of water, shook the bottle to confirm its emptiness, then heaved it.
“What?” he laughed. “This place is already all littered up. Look around—broken stones, fallen-down church, vines trying to eat everything. That bottle will be swallowed up, too, in no time.”
“This place should be considered a… a sacred site.” Thompson thought of his father’s grave. Every holiday, he and his mom took the long drive out to the cemetery, Thompson cradling a bouquet of flowers, careful not to crush their petals before they could be placed with solemn ceremony into the flower holder at the head of the grave. He was always careful not to step on the spot where his father’s face would be.
“Come on, let’s keep looking, see if we can read anything that tells us how old these dead people are.” Derek walked to the next stone and knelt down. Thompson went to another and did the same. They continued in silence, moving from stone to stone until they’d just about run out of stones to read.
“This place isn’t that creepy. I don’t know what my brother was so freaked out about. Probably trying to get one over on me. Hey, come here and look at this!” Derek yelled, waving excitedly.
Thompson hurried over. Derek was kneeling in front of a gravestone that was on an end closest to the tree line. “What is it?”
“I can read this one! It says, ‘She sleeps! Be still.’ What does that mean? And why put an exclamation mark? Bizarre-o, if you ask me.” Derek looked up at Thompson, his face distorted in puzzlement, and then he bent toward the top of the grave. “Hey! Wake up, lady! You’ve overslept!”
“Stop it!” Thompson hissed. It was creeping him out.
Derek laughed and shrugged in response and stood up. “Well, she’s asleep alright, taking a permanent dirt nap. I wonder who is supposed to be still? Us, or her?”
Thompson shook his head. “I don’t know, doesn’t make sense. Maybe they didn’t know what else to say. What’s her name?”
Derek bent down to read the stone. He leaned closer, then felt with his fingers. “I don’t see anything else. That’s weird. What kind of gravestone doesn’t even have the person’s name?”
“I don’t know… I need to sit down a minute.” Thompson sat on an especially cushy-looking entanglement of vines, clutching his head. “I have the worst headache.”
“Probably that big rock you’ve got growing out of your skull.” Derek walked over and peered closer. “It’s all purple-looking now. Nasty.” His face screwed up in disgust. “Scoot over, I need to sit down too. I would give anything for a soda right now. I shouldn’t have eaten all those chips earlier. My mouth feels like a salt shaker.”
“I told you not to drink all your water.”
“Okay, mom, thanks for that advice. Little late now.” Derek pulled at the leaves around him, breaking them free of their stems. He got a devilish look on his face, his mouth twisting into a wicked grin. He whispered, “Do you think this place is haunted?”
“Shut… shut the hell up, man.”
“Whoa, foul language! But that won’t stop… the ghosts!” he bellowed.
Birds squawked out of the treetops, startling them both. “I’m going to have a heart attack. Would you cut it out?” Thompson blew out a breath and squeezed his eyes shut.
Something moved behind them, and they both jerked around in unison.
“What the hell was that?” Derek whispered.
Thompson scanned the woods around them. “I don’t know… maybe a deer? Or a really big squirrel? I’m not a Boy Scout.”
Shhh hehhh ahhhh…
“Did you hear that!” Derek semi-shrieked.
Thompson felt a chill whoosh over him, turning his sweat into a myriad of icicles the length of his body. The sky had gone overcast.
“Look, it just got real cloudy,” he whispered, pointing up.
“Clouds don’t make sound,” Derek retorted.
“Unless it was thunder.” But it hadn’t been thunder. Thompson looked around for the source of the noise. He pointed again.
“What?” Derek jumped back as if someone had thrown water on him.
“Will you calm down? I’m just trying to show you—the trees are blowing around. It’s the leaves making the sound.”
Derek visibly relaxed, heaving a deep breath. “Just wind. Okay.”
Both boys scrambled to their feet. Thompson felt his head and vision roll separately, his equilibrium thrown off. Derek grabbed his arm and hissed, “You see that?”
About twelve feet in front of where they stood, a mist was forming above the vine cover. It swirled lazily, growing taller as it filled out. Derek and Thompson stood, mesmerized. Thompson was only vaguely conscious of Derek’s vise-like grip on his upper arm. It hurt, but in a distant sort of way.
Now a crack of thunder did sound directly overhead, and a zip of lightning shot out of the now-heavy dark-cloud formation, striking a tree and sending sparks shooting like fireworks.
The mist morphed into the figure of a woman. A dress formed, then arms. Hands reached, the fingers both beseeching and beckoning. The head took shape, then a face developed with distinctive features: mournful eyes, a slash of cheekbones, mouth, lips. The lips parted and yawned wide, stretching into an elongated jaw line that looked wolfen.
A keening issued from that chasm, then a moan joined the keening and grew louder before an immediate ratcheting up into a shriek that pained Thompson’s eardrums. The boys simultaneously clapped their hands over their ears. Thompson’s hair stood up and adrenaline flooded his hormonal pathways. Instinct took over as rational thought stopped.
In unison, they turned and crashed into the closest opening in the tree line.
Approximately twenty-nine hours later, a search and rescue team discovered the boys, who were now seated on a log, shivering despite the heat.
“Shock,” said Freddie Wilkins, EMT-trained and wilderness medicine certified. “You hear that gibberish they were talking?”
The team’s lead, Reverend Dave Carson, nodded. Wilkins shook his head, laughing. “An abandoned church and cemetery. I’ll tell you, we’ve all been all through these woods. Never seen any such thing, and there’s no structures like that on our map. My guess is, both are dehydrated, and the one has that nasty bump on his head, says he doesn’t even remember how he got it.”
Reverend Carson was chewing on a small stick he had fashioned into a toothbrush. He believed in keeping the weight of his pack to a minimum, but he valued clean teeth. “You hear that bit about the ghost woman? Said a warning was right there on her gravestone, “be still” or some-such. They think they disturbed her because they pulled some vines off the stones. They think this ghost haunts the graveyard and won’t allow anyone in to take care of it. Asked if I knew any legends.”
Wilkins rubbed at his chin. “Hallucinating, drug side effects, who knows what. Scaring themselves and each other mostly.” Wilkins grinned expectantly. “So, what’d you tell them?”
Reverend Carson pulled his cap off his head and wiped a line of sweat from his forehead. “Same thing I tell all these kids that come out here to do drugs and end up getting lost. Don’t know any legends offhand, but I’d make it my first priority to find out as soon as I got back to my base. Seems to satisfy them enough they can relax.”
Wilkins shook his head. “Everyone who gets lost out here says the same thing. Must be some kind of urban legend they pass around along with the communal bong.”
“That’s what I’m figuring. Well, I manage to get a lot of new members this way, it seems. I give them my card and tell them to come to services, and maybe they’ll find answers to their questions. They seem open to the message. So, I guess every cloud has its silver lining.”
Wilkins slapped him on the back. “See you next call-out, Reverend.”
Reverend Carson gave him a wry smile. “Keep the peace, my friend, and make sure you color within the lines.”
Dad lives across the street from a graveyard. A pragmatic man who sees the world through a thick lens of logic, he says it’s the best neighbor you could ever have. Even so, he has had some paranormal experiences that he has made some semblance of peace with by not giving those experiences any more heft by discussing them.
Mom won’t drink water that comes from his tap. “Corpse water” is how she refers to it, making the rest of us stare down into our steaming cups of coffee and wonder if she’s right, and if so, whether those juices were boiled out or if they linger in our brew. She stops at a nearby Dunkin’ Donuts on the way, refusing to take the chance.
Our visits are all-day affairs, as we have to travel there and then the time goes by at a rapid pace. A loner who requires massive doses of alone time, I usually need to escape the boisterous noise (of which I do admittedly play a hearty part) and seek a pocket of solitude for a short while. Often I go to the backyard which has as sprawling a vista as you will find in a very populated state, with each year marking the encroachment of new construction and people that are beginning to swallow that mountain view.
The other option I have is to cross the street and enter the graveyard, which is attached to an old church and serving its departed congregants. I have been an infrequent visitor because, though open and right off the road, it feels like a private space and I am respectful of that.
And yet, it’s a space that beckons.
The graveyard is weathered, the earth lumpy and the gravestones worn. On my first visit, I carefully made my way down the rows, mindful of two things. One, not venturing too close to the church so as to avoid being obtrusive. Two, the placement of my feet. What is the length of a casket in the ground, hidden from sight? Was I stepping on someone’s legs? There was no tell-tale settling of the grave sites to guide me, as the landscape itself had settled in a haphazard way.
I read the names and dates, some stones’ inscriptions more legible than others. One stone in particular, small, sitting off-kilter, and obviously old from its gray color that could have blended into any abandoned quarry, immediately halted me.
She sleeps! Be still.
I don’t recall if there was a date indicating the span of life. Maybe it had been sanded away by the elements. All I know is that those words have always stuck with me because they were such a concise use of language. Though spare, the words had depth of meaning that held an unfathomable mystery as to what prompted them.
Since then, I have on multiple occasions tried to again locate the stone and have not been able to do. Perhaps those words have finally been etched away. Still, it seems odd that I can’t find it in such a small cemetery. Just another enigma, along with those beautiful, haunting, and mysterious words, appropriate for a graveyard and yet not something in the realm of what you’d normally find on a headstone.
Was “be still” an admonishment not to arise and trail her spirit over the earth? Or was it a wish that she would be at peace and rest easy, maybe deserved after a hard and bitter life, or an agonizing and lingering death.
I don’t know the answer. And that is the allure, why it still sticks with me. The story behind the words endures as intriguing, but ultimately taken to the grave.
This is the background inspiration for a short story I will post next week. Thanks for reading!
In the woods, hiking alone, I often suffer from attacks of scopaesthesia.
Also known as the “psychic staring effect,” scopaesthesia is the twenty-five-cent word for the sensation that comes over you of being watched but not something your vision has picked up. For example, having the prickly feeling of someone’s eyes on you, causing you to turn and scan to see who it is.
Oh yeah, there are some hikes where I get it bad. When the feeling comes over me, it’s all I can do not to start running blindly. But then I visualize myself tripping on a tree root and all of the squirrels and birds and crickets laughing at my expense. That usually snaps me out of it—along with a long, lingering scan of my surroundings.
But what if there’s more out there than just squirrels… birds… crickets…
Some contentious theories have been expounded and actual experiments conducted to measure what turns out to be an elusive answer as to what, exactly, is responsible for experiencing that knowing.
We have a gaze detection system that makes us sensitive to the positioning of others’ eyes. Also, our eyes differ from animals in that our gaze is more easily detectable: think about the amount of white around our eyes when compared to a cat or a bird, for example. For humans, the white is considered a benefit because it helps us to communicate. But for a predator? They want to blend…
Some skeptics don’t believe that the “knowing” you’re being watched is anything more than capturing some sort of tip-off picked up by our peripheral vision. What that doesn’t account for is the feeling that comes from behind you. Some believe it has to do with a sense at the cellular level—a quantum effect. Researchers have devised tests—some in search of a legitimate answer, others simply to debunk the whole idea altogether.
One center created an experiment that began in 1995, “Do you have eyes in the back of the head?” A whole lot of statistical numbers later, there is evidence supporting that people aren’t imagining that sense of uneasiness they get and urge to turn around to see who or what is watching them.
Regardless of what science can prove or not prove at this point in time, go into the woods. When you feel like you’re being watched, just ignore that feeling and keep on your journey.
And if you find you can’t ignore it, that your body hair is standing on end and tingling like so many Spidey-senses, and your curiosity is just burning and you need to know… Stop. Don’t turn around. Wonder a moment if you’re about to be ambushed. Leave your senses open to someone’s—or something’s—approach. Wait and see if anything happens.
I dare you.
You’ll never pass a field of corn and think of it the same way again!
Jacey wrestled the end of her tail out of the closed door before turning the lock. She was more than thirty minutes late, thanks to her tail. This was the second time she’s gotten it caught–once in the bathroom door and now in the front door. Not to mention the glass of wine it had toppled. Jacey had considered changing out of the sexy cat costume, but the only other option she had was Dorothy. And that outfit was too cliché for a farm turned Halloween haunt.
Why was she rushing to meet up with friends at a corn maze anyway? She’d rather be almost anywhere else. Flirting with the new bartender at Red Tap was at the top of her list.
I promised Amy.
Settling behind the wheel of her beat-up Honda, Jacey jerked forward to adjust the end of the tail now sharply poking her in the back…
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First times hold a special place in any writers’ heart. The first time they finish a novel, the first time they see it in print, first five-star review, first fan letter—first royalty check. Writers tend to remember these firsts, and more, with great reverence.
As most of you know the Waterfront Writers’ duo was invited back in February to present at the 2015 Mid-Atlantic Fiction Writers Institute. Over the course of the months that followed, they developed a collaborative writing workshop based on their experience writing Two Weeks to Rites, a web series featured here, as well as other pieces. Sandra R. Campbell and Desiree Smith-Daughety have been on several author panels, at numerous conferences, but what you might not know is that this was their first time developing a full-length workshop and presenting as a team.
The MAFWI conference was this past August, and luckily our beloved…
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By choosing to live in an urban area, I am disconnected from nature. Often achingly so. While I can step outside into my yard and enjoy the benefit of grass, trees, flowers, the calls and songs of birds, and a view of the sky overhead, it’s only a stop-gap connection. I can still see, hear, and smell civilization. So, I must actively seek opportunities to get into a deeper natural place, and if I don’t have time to travel far, it can be a Soviet era-style selection for suitable local areas.
While I make the effort to get out, I know not everyone has an interest. And, some people are not just disconnected—they never had a connection to start. This was demonstrated once when I met up with a buddy for a little day hike. The particular urban oasis we chose was a forty-five minute drive. My buddy had apparently invited along a friend and the friend’s pre-teen daughter. The more the merrier, so it’s said. But it didn’t turn out to be very merry. The friend showed up wearing jeans on a hot day, carrying a big purse on her shoulder with intent to take it with her on the trail.
But children can be just as disconnected as adults. We’d hardly sallied forth before the young girl began dragging her feet and then altogether stopping, saying she didn’t feel well and looking about as miserable as a preteen can look when forced to do something in which they have no interest. The mother convinced her repeatedly to keep going but at a certain point, said she’d have to take her back to the car. (Unfortunately, they’d carpooled with my friend). We weren’t that far in, and I knew somewhere ahead the trail looped back so that they could reach the start point with relative ease. A couple of times I said I was pretty sure we were close, but it had been a while since I’d been to that particular park. The woman, who I had only just met, snapped at me, “Well don’t get us lost!”
I didn’t snap back that I hadn’t signed up to be a trail guide because I could hear the panic in her voice. I also didn’t point out that it’s hard to get lost in the woods when in certain spots you could hear—and see—the traffic from the road as well as homes dotting the way, visible through the trees. It’s not anywhere close to being desolate, but to this woman, we may as well have gone past the point of no return. It made me think about the handshake deal we in urban landscapes make, where we give up some degree of independence and form an interdependence for our survival. We also give up a feeling of comfort in what is our natural world. When an urban oasis is considered daunting, I would hate to see what would happen if society ever collapsed. People do adapt. Or, they don’t.
I’ll be talking, along with my writing partner, Sandra R. Campbell, about another form of survival: collaborative writing! We are presenting a workshop at Mid-Atlantic Fiction Writers Institute on Saturday, August 8th. If interested, here are the details: