the fitting in part . . . well . . . you were young in comparison. one morning at breakfast, you were talking with someone and you said something about 20 years ago and high school. the woman to your right stops you short and demands to know your age. when you tell her you will be 40 this year, she exclaims, "oh!! i thought you were in your twenties!" you tell her you love her and would like to take her every where with you. so as far as fitting in, in your age group, you are one of only a handful under 40. you were few and far between.
as for the fitting in with the "writer" part of you - you have no problem at all. everyone there was there because they love to write or want to write or are trying to get their writing published, read, out there.
the first thing everyone asks you upon your return, is, "did you write your heart out???"
no. no, you did not. you did almost no writing at all. but you have a good excuse . . .
every morning, you wake at about 7:30ish, get ready for the day and head out for breakfast which is to be taken with about 200 other people in large tables. so, you have to find a place that isn't taken yet that has silverware and fruit at the place setting. this is usually between people that are already seated and likely know each other. some are kind and some are not. you talk about what is coming up for the day or what happened the day before. you discuss what you like and what you don't and what you are writing and whether or not you talked to an agent or what strikes you as absolutely amazing from another author. you wish each other luck and sometimes exchange information and sometimes not have enough time. you re-introduce yourselves because so many people makes remembering names so difficult. your favorite one of these moments is this:
a playwright turns to you as she is running to give her next workshop, "what was your name again, dear?"
"kp, like kitchen patrol."
"kaypea," she repeats, like she is rolling it around on her tongue. "that sounds like a writer's name."
"well, it's the one i've used for the last 20 or so years, so i'm hoping so."
she nods as if this is just right. "well, it's a good one. i'll see you later, kp."
it feels like validation, even if she hasn't heard anything you have written. she has heard you read before though. you have taken her workshop on what "action" is in a play and we read Gypsy (you read the stage directions). it is fascinating and makes you really appreciate a good play and what moves the play forward. you think it will really help in scenes your fiction.
after breakfast, you run to find a seat in one of your workshops. they are full to the tippy top with 40 or more people in each one and if you don't get there at least 15 minutes early, you will only get a chair and no table (which, of course, makes it difficult to take notes). then you stuff your brain for the next hour and a half with what ever wonderfulness that happens in the workshop.
after the first workshop, you have a half an hour, along with the other 900 people at this conference, to find a bathroom, grab some coffee or tea or water, change out of your sweater (because now it's no longer FREEZING), and find your next workshop room in time to get a seat with a writing space and that is if you don't talk to anyone - and believe me, you want to talk with people because you've just had this weird shared experience but you can't because you need to pee and you need some water and you need to figure out where you are supposed to be . then you spend the next hour and a half stuffing your brain full of more exciting and cool stuff only to want to talk with someone about that workshop too - and the one before, but you need to find a bathroom and lunch and there is a line and there is a keynote speaker you want to listen to in less than an hour and you want a good seat.
then you listen to a most amazing author tell you about his or her experience with their writing and their research and how they fell in love with what they do. and you cry. hard. so hard that you go back to your room an hour and half later, having taken no heed of the wetness on your face that your best friend says, "um, you have mascara all down your face." and you look, and you do - you have mascara all down your face, and you don't even care.
then you go on an amazing "excursion" where you are crawling to some local cantinas listening to a beatnik inspired performance that takes you back to when Uncle Bill really existed and you cry because you think of your first husband and how cool he would think this is. you look over to your best friend and you squeeze her hand for so many reasons, not the least of which is her being there Like Water for Chocolate. and when you aren't there, you are eating tacos and running into those same said people.
with you and not the most of which is her just knowing this is the thing you need and will love and is the most right thing for you. and if you aren't crawling to cantinas, you are watching cooking classes and giving beer to the presenters and hearing a most amazing new orleans accent tell you of all the wonders of and after these excursions, you are trying to find your place in a ballroom for another author speaker where you are inspired to buy his book (and spend hours trying to find a way to buy it in the united states since it's only available in canada) to send it to your favorite artist because she's writing her own book about art and what it means to ask for supporting art. and you think about how weird it is that all things are connected and how everything finds itself eventually, over and over and over.
then it's time for dinner, or a fiesta . . . with a donkey. . . and mescal with shot glasses around your neck. . . and then it gets to be after 11pm and you know you are supposed to be up for the next day to do this all over again.
and you are so busy you aren't even taking pictures and you are so glad because your best friend is here taking pictures. you are too busy to take pictures, or read, or write, or even have time to pick at your fingers. . . they've never looked so good.
and while you are at a fiesta with a donkey you meet the production manager and sound and lighting people and you gush over how much you noticed how they saved the day. and they give you their card and the next day when you are barely figuring out where you are supposed to be, they want to see you and they ask you if you will help them with this Shakespearean play that is to go on the next night and can you do rehearsal? and OF FUCKING COURSE YOU CAN because you cannot wait to see the actual show and these people want you to HELP THEM? of course you want to do this. and you rehearse with them and these two amazing Shakespearean actors who tell you that you are doing great work and they are tired, and you are tired, and the sound and light people are tired and you tech this show like a bitch. and they love you and you love them and they give you cupcakes and water. because they are awesome.
and then you go through your day and stuff your brain and run a show like a boss. and you are proud and you have fun and you are grateful. and then you get to go out with your best friend who came all this way to hang with you and your new friend (her old friend) and you talk and drink and listen and eat volcanoes of shrimp and pork and steak and chicken and fish and it bubbles and erupts and is amazing. . . and comes with a side of guacamole you cannot possibly replicate.and on the last day you have where you aren't in some workshop reaching too deeply within yourself , you explore the city with your best friend and her friend, your new friend. you hike up crazy hills, worse than you have ever hiked on any of your marathons (and maybe it only seems like this because you are at 6000 feet). you take so many pictures of doors while thinking of your mother and magic and stories you want to write. and you spend money on rings and bags and other day of the dead-type fabrics for your family. and you eat - oh, do you eat. and then you try to nap by the pool, but the sky is so blue and the temperature is too hot and you are to distracted by both to be able to read or write, so you still do neither and you go back to your room to nap because, HOLY HELL, you need a nap on this 6th day.
and then you get on a plane, and you cannot sleep, but you read. voraciously. you read your new friend's work and a book by an author that did a workshop that touched you so deeply you buy her books. you don't buy anyone else's books, but you buy hers and you carry them around for days waiting for her to be available to sign them for your step-daughter. and you cry while you read this book and you realize how all of these things are so connected over and over and over.
and you think about this whole week and how amazing it all is - you think how all these things are connected to each other over and over and over.
and then you break open - wide
and THEN you write
you write your mother. and you cry, unabashedly as you write more than 2000 words to her with less than an hour left on the plane ride home. and you still don't care that the tears are coating your neck as you cannot type fast enough to share with her all of the things you need to tell her. and how you will always write to her from now on.
and you are happy. because you are a writer. and you have been opened like a new book cracked - that sound that is so satisfying yet a little sad because it is the only time that sound will be made.
and you continue to share. . .
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| the sky is the limit. . . looks pretty wide open to me |
