Another Year For The Retreat To The House On The Hill...

 Spring...many look forward to the season to witness new life in nature, to feel the sun on their face, to shed the winter clothes and venture forth in t-shirts, shorts, and sandals.

There's another reason, of course, but it's a bit obscure. If you listen carefully, you'll hear the siren's song, when writers pack up their laptops and head for the hills...or one hill, to be exact.

For the first time in many years I found myself able to take time off from work and attend the writing retreat in person. I've missed the past couple of years due to "life," but this year, things were looking up. The first day or two of the week we had planned to so some much-needed work around the house, then when I was planning to leave, I got hit with a cough. It wasn't so bad that I couldn't function, but bad enough I didn't want to be hold up (yes, hold up...) in a house with several other authors trying to turn blood, sweat, and tears into art. 

I stayed home.

All is not lost. Those who put together the writing retreat each year encourage everyone to create no matter where they are, be they at the hill house, or in their own house. 

This year, instead of pounding out words for stories yet un-written, I worked on two stories that need editing. Then, I did something I haven't done in almost a decade...I submitted part of a manuscript to see of the publisher is interested. 

Submitted a story is like pushing the button to launch a bomb. It's scary, exciting, maddening, nerve-racking, but at times, needs to be done. I've submitted several stories in the past--mostly short stories--but the feeling is the same and hasn't stopped conjuring those emotions. Maybe that will change in the future...

Maybe not.

Even though I did not write 43k or 45k words as some at the retreat did (unbelievable...), I feel it was a success. I've needed to kick those stories out of the nest for years. 

I'm again making it a goal to attend in person next year. I came closer this year than I did the past couple. I suppose that's what the retreat is really all about...setting goals to improve, to create, to push yourself for the benefit of mankind. 

Must be spring.

Honored...Humbled...Won Another Kovel

 In a perfect world, I would have been able to gather with friends for a week of creativity, board games, story swaps, and overall awesomeness.

Sometimes things don't work out.

Sometimes that's okay.

If you consider yourself a writer, you may be one of the fortunate writers who either arrange/create/participate in a writing retreat. I've been on a few in my writing career, though they've all been at the same place. I only have one frame of reference when it comes to writing retreats so I can't with authority speak for them all, but in my opinion. they're fantastic.

This year I wasn't able to attend for non-writing reasons. I did find myself at a work meeting held within a few miles of the annual event. On my way home, I stopped by. I believe this year's retreat was the best attended since I started going. The house is big...had I gone I most likely would have slept in the living room (or in my car...). I wouldn't care.

I got to say hi to many friends and fellow writers. And when I left, I was presented with an Edward M. Kovel Award. Yes, there are higher literary awards, but none mean as much to me. 

To the writers, those who gave up their time and home for everyone else, to the families that support their loved ones and allow them to take time off to pursue something they love, may your Kovel be filled with the tears of your enemies and my all your words flow like sparkling water.

Oh, by the way, my Kovel was for: 

Best Visit to a Mental Hospital...

Much-appreciated, and accurate, too.

The Story/Stories Behind The Shoes...

 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.

It's Like An Old Friend...That's Wearing Out

 I always do it...I'll wear a hat while working in the yard or doing some other activity and the hat gets funky, so I'll toss it in the wash. Can't have a funky hat, now, can we?

I should not wear my favorite hats while working up a sweat so I won't need to toss them into the washer and dryer where they get chewed up but good. And once they start to fray, well...it's only a matter of time.

Being a bald man, I have a certain affinity to hats. They're not just head coverings. They have their own personalities, their own characteristics. No two hats are the same, even if they follow one another off an assembly line. Hats protect me from sunburns in the summer (which totally suck...), and a frozen head in the winter. Back in my father's day, all men--no matter if they had hair or not--wore hats. They were as much a part of a gentleman's wardrobe as a pair of shoes. Personally, I'd love to see that return because the hats were wicked cool, but those days never will return...it's a shame.

All things wear out. In the grand scheme of things, hats last a relatively short time, as compared to, say, rocks, or  VW beetles, or grudges between sports teams and their fans. And if you wear those hats overly, it expedites the deterioration process.

If I'm careful, I can nurse the collection of fabric and stitching and see how long it'll last. Hopefully, a bit longer. But, when it's time, I'll go the way of all things. It'll have no future--no one will necessarily want it, even though it's a trophy of sorts...A Koval Award from 2018. And when it's retired, I'll hold fond memories of the hat.

For it will be replaced by another selection...most likely not a trophy, but another friend to offer comfort, to shield me from dangerous rays, or bitter cold, or the revelation to the world of my lack of hair. For many, it's just an old hat. To me, it's something more.

My First Uncle Orson's Writing Class...Day One

I quickly scanned the list of attendees. I saw my name, and the names of a few others I knew. I wondered how many people I would know at Orson Scott Card's writing class. Turns out it was three. And even though I thought I knew what I was in for, I wasn't even close.

Today was Day One of Mr. Card's two-day writing event. He asked, as the class began, what we expected to learn from the class. An interesting question, and to be honest, I wasn't sure exactly what I expected. I hoped I would learn more about the craft of writing. I had heard Mr. Card speak at a LTUE writing symposium years before. Maybe I thought the class would be more of what I experienced back then. Mr. Card's question made me think...just what was I expecting?

I saw and chatted with those I knew, and I met a few other people I didn't know. In the class we discussed point of view, themes, and story structure. We heard from our teacher and a few classmates as they shared their writing assignment. I've never been to a multi-day writing class. I'm assuming this is what these classes are like. What I loved were the insights, the little things authors think about, the things we think about as we drift off to sleep.

We're halfway done. We've got another day left. I've been to enough conferences and symposiums to know that when you love sitting and listening to someone talk about writing, but when the urge to leave that instruction so you can run from the room and get to your writing place and get writing, that's a successful class. So far, so good!

Attend Writing Retreats...It's Something Writers Do

I have friends who, from their earliest thoughts and reckonings have wanted to be writers. That's all they ever wanted to do. They have stories--many of them very entertaining--about how when they were young (almost always when they're in their single digit years...), they created their first story. It could have been a story about a dragon coming to destroy their school, or about their first pet and how they loved that puppy more than life itself. The point is, these people had a singular goal: to become a writer.

My experience was much different. I approached writing as an adult (more age than maturity...). I didn't do many of the things young writers do like write stories for the literary projects in jr. high or high school. I didn't submit stories to local newspapers or writing contests. But today, I have done something that writers, many writers do. It's something writers talk about doing, and when they talk about it, they usually praise it for how beneficial it is to the craft they love. Today I'm participating in a writing retreat.

There's a half dozen of us, give or take. We're spread out in a rather large house at the base of a mountain. The home itself has a literary history. International best sellers have been written within its walls. We're hoping some of that successful literary karma finds its way into our WIPs. 

For me, I chose the quietest section in the basement, found an incredible comfortable chair and went to work. Not knowing what to expect, I did not make any word count goals for myself today. I think I will tomorrow. I need to push myself and write...write like the wind.

With a trusted portable heater by my side, words have come. Usually when I write, there's either music or TV in the background. Today, only the warming buzz of the heater and distant sounds of creativity are heard.

Yes, as I've learned more about this obsession called "becoming a writer," I've learned there are things you do. I can now cross "going to a writing retreat" off my list.