Writers Needing Writers

Writers need other writers. I’ve recently returned from a trip to the Pacific Northwest, a time of re-gathering, refueling, reacquainting myself with myself. A time of reestablishing my connection with other writers.

It’s not travel that refuels. Not for me, anyway. In fact, it’s not travel I seek at all. I am at core a homebody. I love my life, my home, my study, my routine and have little need to wander. On this trip in particular the magic lay in reconnecting with much-loved friends from my years teaching at Vermont College of Fine Arts.

I flew from Minneapolis/St. Paul to Portland, Oregon, to meet Ellen Howard, a long-time friend and travel companion. Then she and I took Amtrak to Vancouver, B.C.—a spectacular ride; the tracks border the ocean most of the way—to meet Sarah Ellis.

Lots and lots of talk in between patches of exploring Vancouver. (Are you going to retire . . . ever? What would it mean to retire? Can we stay current in this changing world? What makes middle-grade fiction—that traditional base and current step-child of juvenile literature—so compelling?)

Then Ellen and I re-boarded Amtrak for Seattle where we stayed with Laura Kvasnosky. More exploration, more good talk. We also took photos of Mr. Geo, the guiding character in my Celebrating the 50 States books, in various classic state-of-Washington environments to support the publicity for the upcoming book and gathered at a picnic with some VCFA folks.

Back in Portland we attended Ellen’s writers’ group where I saw more former VCFA faculty and met a couple of them the next day for brunch and a walk through a delicious book store.

Then home. Remembering deep kindnesses such as the banana bread Sarah had waiting for me when we arrived. It was gluten free, and since I’ve been gluten sensitive for years it was a delight usually forbidden to me. And then in Seattle, John, Laura’s husband, made gluten free popovers one morning, something I’ve never had. As you can tell, I was well fed.

But far more importantly, my soul was fed.

We talked and talked and talked. Good talk. Easy talk. Important talk. I grow weary sometimes with being a writer in social situations. What occupies my mind and my heart is too strange to bring into normal conversation.

I appreciate the moment when someone, trying to draw the quiet person I am into a group conversation, says something like, “Are you still writing?” I appreciate it because I know the question is meant to be polite. But it’s like being asked if I’m still breathing, and I find any kind of response difficult.

Perhaps even worse, if more appropriate, is “What are you working on now?” Because I know the truth is no one really cares what I’m working on now unless that someone is my agent, an editor the work is intended for or . . . another writer. When I try to answer such a question in a normal social environment, if I respond with more than a three-word sentence, I can always detect the instant when the asker’s eyes glaze over.

Writers care about one another’s work. The struggle, nearly 200 pages into a novel, to rethink and reframe the entire piece, is comprehensible. The need to make a whiney, needy character likable is an important point of discussion. Insights into today’s picture-book market—if anyone actually has such a thing—are fascinating.

And so now I am back home and, thanks to my generous hosts, I am heartened, energized, filled to the brim . . . and ready to climb back into the cocoon of my daily work.

And I am grateful.

Grateful for my good friends who fed me in multiple ways.

Grateful for writers everywhere who create the world I live in. 

Grateful, especially, for those who read this blog. You help me know, even in the quiet world of my study, that I am not alone.

Thank you!