On Writing Communities
When we think of writers, what do we picture? For many of us we see a cluttered desk in a home office, papers strewn every which way while a person sits staring at a computer screen with a permanent frown. The coffee on the desk has long gone cold, and this book isn’t writing itself. If you’re in my age bracket, you might actually just picture Johnny Depp from Secret Window. (Side Note: If I had a lakeside cabin with a cleaning service that I could run away to, I don’t think I’d be murdering anybody. That’s a sweet set up, mon frere.) The point is, when we think of the writing life, we picture a life of solitude, torment, and frequently alcoholism. I largely blame this on Ernest Hemingway, but I’m liable to blame just about any literary complaint on “Papa,” which is a topic for another post. Truthfully,…
#WilWrite22
In some ways, it still feels like I’m processing the conference. It’s blurry, a mishmash of faces and conversations – most organic, some crafted during certain events. There’s a pocket in my backpack full of business cards and scribbled names and email addresses. All folks I want to keep in touch with. I have a lot of emails to write… The conference kicked off (unofficially) Thursday night with a Writer’s Fair, that was open and free to the public (w/proof of vaccination and masks). It was an extremely casual look at local writing organizations (Wordcrafters in Eugene, SFWA, Astoria Writers Guild, etc.,) with a little social hour complete with a full-service bar and appetizers. We also celebrated the release of The Timberline Review, and heard some WONDERFUL readers! I wore my best “Summer Speculative” look and got to meet my critique partners Nan C Ballard and Laura Cranehill IN PERSON!…