I wondered when I'd see the first post about the collection of writers gathered this week in a location near the campus of Brigham Young University. Turns out, it didn't take long. On day one, I saw a picture, a simple shot of a bunch of shoes in an entrance way.
It brought back memories. In the past, my shoes would silently reside among the sandals and Vans and boots and New Balances and various other brands and types of footwear. I'd shed my shoes, find a quiet place in a home build by a famous writer, a building that affords an atmosphere to allow myself and other writers a place to create art and bring peace and frustration to my soul.
Not this time...not this year.
For the second time in as many years, I decided to remain home. Last year, the unknowns were the deciding factor. The last thing I wanted to do was bring home an illness to my family--can't afford to do that. This year, other factors came to light that prevented my attending. I'm not regretting the decision, only that I know what I'm missing.
Such is life sometimes.
My writer friend who posted the picture (I'm assuming he took it as well...), identified the shoes as belonging to writers. He should know--he writes like a man possessed, possessed with stories to tell. When I see the shoes, I know a few things: 1. That the people who belong to the shoes have given up their lives for a short period to hone their craft and further their stories. 2. The writers will have hours and hours to write followed by good food and the possibility of game play in the evening. 3. The writers will be awarded incredible hospitality as their hosts are some of the best people I know, who open their homes out of the goodness of their hearts.
And if those who own the shoes choose to do so, they will write more, create more, and advance their stories more than they most likely ever could at home. I salute you, those who made the journey to the house on the hill. May your words flow like water and the blocks never come.
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