Two weeks ago, to this day, I sloshed my way to a small cottage—second one in, to the right of the beekeeping hive. It faced the big house and an old grey barn, and nestled in, good and comfy like, on a parcel of land where, I can only imagine, there once lived an orchard.
I arrived bearing a wee hostess gift, proper writing accoutrements (as specifically instructed), and a mind set on adventure.
That last bit didn’t stick around for long. As a matter of fact, it blew that Popsicle stand right about the time we were instructed to write a wee bio, including one fictionalized account, in ten minutes.
And, begin . . .
With the clock ticking, I assumed standard operating procedures for a pop-quiz. Mainly, I panicked and my mind drew a blank. Whilst the others furiously penned their life stories, I struggled to recall from whence I came. As for reading our creations aloud? We’ll just pretend that part never happened . . .
All the same, when all was said and done, the writing workshop seemed a smashing success. Apparently, I was the only one who felt the need to eat a doughnut and fall into bed immediately afterwards. Rather than tire, it invigorated the others; and it showed in their work–even the one who claimed to be no writer at all.
And let’s not forget the one who amazed us all with her grace and talent. With each writing prompt she delivered a story worthy of any literary journal–lovely, poetic prose, with words that played, and sang, and danced.
Of course, even then, her name was Malia and she hailed from Hawaii, which I took as my sign I should have been home watching Hawaii 5-0.
So tonight marks the second gathering of the literati. I shan’t be in attendance. More than likely, when the clock strikes 6:00, I’ll be sitting on my couch, in my pjs, doing what I should have been doing two weeks ago. But perhaps I’ll do a little writing, too. After all, sometimes you’ve got to sit yourself down and get it done–just, you know, maybe without the timer.