Tin House

I did it; I stepped out of my comfort zone as I have been told to do over and over again for the last year: get out, do more, see people, get involved with your life. A plane took me 6 hours out to Oregon and there I met the most fastidious and intelligent group of writers I have ever encountered. These people appeared unblemished by life's losses; I admit I was jealous of the talent, but I learned more than I ever expected. I met writers, yes. I met friends, sure. I met literary agents, wierd. But, more than that, I realized that human suffering comes in all shapes, sizes, ages, wisdoms, and talents. My writing group was amazing to put it mildly. There were losses of all kinds: body parts (a cancer survivor), spouses (me), children (poor woman), and friends. These losses composed the workshop of Creative Non-Fiction with Ann Hood. A phenomenal leader, Ann tore our pieces to shreds so that we could build them back up to something that resembled good writing. I am trying so hard to get back to the writing I used to do as a regular practice, but am still struggling with times of blockage, unknown white page demons that regale me at all times of the day. The white page is my least favorite color. But, I got started again and I will not stop because it helps. Billy would call my adventure this summer heroic and he would say he was proud of me for going to a writing group, sharing my story and moving forward with my life by meeting new people that fulfill me. I'm proud of myself as well, but hope to write more, and better, as time moves forward. The days without him are simply not forgotten. Everyday something, somewhere (a sign post, a road, a song) reminds me.