In June 2009, I attended the Jackson Hole, Wyoming writer's conference. I expected feedback and clarity regarding writing interests - critique of a submitted manuscript of a short story entitled "Goodbye Berl" - and panels of authors, agents, publishers. What happened was all that, and more. Following are journal entries from the trip...the Yellowstone trip and my last day in Jackson are filed in my head, yet to be written...
You can't put your feet in the same river twice.The Snake River rafting guide expertly maneuvered the royal blue blow-up craft across the last channel to a small pebble shoreline near a bridge. My Thursday morning river float trip quickly came to an end, and I made a beeline from the wobbly craft to a nearby metal closet. Almost two hours on the river, so you know where I was heading – pottys r us.
Paul, the twenty- two year old guide who captained the craft as deftly as Neo, told us that the river changes every day. Since ours was the first raft trip of the day for the Sands White Water Company, I felt like a pioneer crossing the wild west. That's right, a crusty guy named Charlie Sands named the company, and so you know it was meant to be that I'd be on this river ride, and that I bought a sweatshirt and cap emblazoned with the name.
So, here I am writing about my second day in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, from a pale green hovel in the Sundance Inn on Broadway Street in downtown Jackson Hole. Twenty feet from my room is the Jackson Hole Playhouse, and sleeping a few blocks away is my new best friend, Elaine. Elaine and I met at the conference today, and she's everything you'd expect in the way of a fun gal. Cowboy boots and hat, Muslim, half Swiss and half white Atlanta trash, coffee shop owner, Manhattan realtor, roll your own ciggies, ex-LA movie starlet wannabee, and Gawd knows what else. I'm betting I'll find out over the next few days.
Did you know that the cracking sound under a raft is the rocks speeding along in the current, rubbing up under the boat?
That when you sit on the bottom of the boat instead of on the inflated sides, you feel everything in the river through your backside?
That a scenic float trip is actually more dangerous than a white water trip, and the guides are paid more for the scenic ones? It's 'cause of the changes in the river from day to day – trees are in the way that weren't there yesterday, and they have to course-correct on every curve.
That there are life metaphors like that one all along the river?
Like – if you hit the waves broadside you'll probably capsize, but if you hit them head on, you just softly blip over them. Usually.
That a bald eagle's next can weigh four thousand pounds? They get full of the fish bones and such from a bald eagle family's lifetime.
Well, I'm ramblin' but you knew that. You probably also know that I had a lot of anxiety about this trip, and that it's turning out to be fantastic. This Zephyr ride that passes for my life continues to rock and roll, and I'm still hanging on.
When I left Louie Armstrong airport, I'd just been intent on getting myself into the hotel room, so that I could let go of some of that anxiety. When I saw the funky room – and that's not a fun-funky but a dinky-funky – I hightailed out of here yesterday afternoon for a look at the town of Jackson Hole. It's like those small western towns I've been in on motorcycle trips in another life – breathtaking mountains all around a picturesque, shop filled square. I'd wanted a writer's haven of a room, and instead I got a depressing hovel. Oh, well.
So, yesterday I'd planned on walking around the town and getting the lay of the land. What I hadn't planned on was the abundance of motorcycles, and motorcycling couples, at ever turn. I was seeing ghosts and having deja vu, and between the fatigue, stress, and memories, things got a little overwhelming. A rest, a few tears, a shower and the sound of my brother's voice got me back on track. I had a wonderful salmon dinner at the Cadillac Grill, watched LSU in victory, and had a beer on a saddle-topped stool in the famous Cowboy Bar.
And I also wandered into the aforementioned Sand's river raft company, after being disappointed by several other raft companies who didn't have room for me today. But the Sand's came through, and today began and ended wonderfully.
After the river trip, and before the conference began, I even fit in a facial at the Rusty Parrot Spa. I don't know which was more heavenly, the lush scenery on the river or the delicate touch of the masseuse.
You know, I didn't go into the conference today expecting to make a new friend, although I knew there would be a lot of interesting people to talk to. I just happened to sit next to a woman who turned out to be exactly who I needed to sit next to. Life's just like that sometimes. The conference is looking to be all I wanted – inspiring, fun and interesting. Speakers I've heard today were incredible, but the most incredible thing happened at the end of the day.
Jill Conner Brown, the sweet potato queen writer, was scheduled to be the key note speaker. She didn't show, and so they got a comedy improv group to perform instead. In our break before the cocktail party and the comedy show, Elaine and I went for Thai food and I was telling her about the Cowboy bar. She wanted to do the line dance lesson, so I left her there and headed back to the conference.
Country dancing or a comedy show and free cocktails? Can you imagine my quandary. Well, I made the right choice in going for the drinks, because the smoozing was good. I met a cool 83 year old writer, and some other interesting types. See, you could submit a manuscript for critique at this conference, and I'd sent in “Goodbye Berl.” That's an insanity-inspired short story I wrote after Dan's crawfish boil. Dan cut his finger while preparing the food, there was a line about not getting blood in the boil, and I was off.
Anyway, as I was going for drink # two, this guy saw my name tag, and introduced himself as one of the faculty who will be giving me the critique tomorrow. It was so cool – he noticed my name and remembered my story. He had some nice things to say in the few minutes we spoke, and I really, really tried not to gush. Common, he's from Minnesota so a story about crawfish must have caught his attention. We get to hear three critiques in the course of the conference, so we'll see happens next.
The improv group got tiring shortly after that. You know, I wanted to support local theatrical types, but I work with the funniest people on earth in theatre, and the Cowboy Bar was waiting.
And so is tomorrow, and the ever changing river of life.
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And the river rolls on.Here's some highlights from Friday in the Hole:
Critique – In a sketch in "Voices of Louisiana," I play Anne Rice who asks the spirit of Truman Capote for some tips on writing, “character development, plot, that sort of thing.” Not liking his comment that what she does is “typing, not writing,” she bites him on the neck.
My first critique on a short story I submitted named “Goodbye Berl,” was done by a twenty-something writer and editor from Vermont. I think she gave me some good advice and suggestions on books to read about said character development – and I left without biting her – but I don't think she's my reader type, knowwhatimean? although she did like my sense of place, she didn't get the story and was worried about the cannibalism. Go figure.
The second was the publisher guy I'd met the day before, and he was much more encouraging. Liked my characters and sense of place (the story is set in Meraux, Louisiana) and so I've got a name and a card and if I finish the story as a book, that's a start.
When I booked this conference and sent in a manuscript, it was all about exploring writing fiction instead of memoirs and playwriting. It's interesting to think of where I could take the characters in “Goodbye Berl,” or any of the other projects that have danced in my head through the years. I could have submitted something I'm more comfortable writing - narrative non fiction or essays - and maybe felt less anxiety, but what the hell.
Pasta and Guac – Food here's been damn good. A hole in the wall Mexican place for lunch found me eating guacamole and quesedias (sp?), rubbing elbows with Mexican relatives. Elaine and I found an amazing Italian place late last night, with homemade pasta and ambiance that makes you want to return. Although hotel prices are ridiculous, the food prices aren't.
Accommodations – I succeeded in getting an 'upgrade' in my room, and slept in a queen sized bed last night. Note to self – never book a twin again. This room is the same size as the one I vacated, so the queen means I have to crawl around the bed to get to the bathroom, but I do have two pictures on the walls and a bigger screen TV. I think it's 25”... but the walls aren't Cookoo's nest green. The tiny bathroom has fifties tile in yellow and brown, but anything's better than green.
While Elaine and I were walking to the Library for a writer's talk - fifteen minute walk outside of town - we found the “Jackson Hole Lodge” - which is perfect and where we will stay next year. Yes, I'll be back so anyone who is interested, check it out online.
Panels – It's pretty much what I'd expected in this department, and what I've experienced in other conferences. Some are outstanding and give you lots of relevant info. Some are all stuff you've heard before. It's just people. Oh, and the writers who come to these things – a mix of strange, bookish, weird types, and then there's me. Young writers, middle aged, many locals and then there's ones from Maine, Illinois, Louisiana, and all points beyond. There's a very, very intense woman who shows up everywhere and raises her hand, and we just cringe. “Cause the questions she asks are often indecipherable, and it's getting to be fun to see how the presenters handle her. If they call on her once for a question, that's fine, but for God's sake don't let her ask a follow up. But she's here, and she's chasing it, too.
Why Write – The writers who have given talks or been on panels are inspiring, each in their own way. And that's the inspiration – one believes in outlines, another doesn't. One got an agent, another didn't., before publishing. One freely admits his depression and writer's block, another exudes confidence. So, we each are on our on writer's journey, and the key is to simply keep writing. And that's the best advice I've been given so far.
And I continue to find the pen taking a life of it's own, as I take notes and dribble thoughts during panel discussions, dinner, and in my dreams. The river metaphor especially comes up, as I picture the raft trip and my repositioning skills. See, it's comforting to think that the roller coaster ride I once called my life may now be a scenic river raft trip. I move to sit on the bottom of the raft, feel the feelings under the surface the river, when I need to lay low. I can sit on the inflated sides of the boat at times, and enjoy feelings of freedom and oneness with the river. I move at will, and can take pictures, be in the scene, or close my eyes and smell the river instead of watching it. Trust the process, my instincts, the river guides. Acknowledge the fears and dangers. Just be. That would be a nice place nice to live, instead of the Zephyr, don't you think?
Oh, and I talked to one writer, great big cowboy type who writes western novels and is a fantastic speaker, and he'd just returned from New Orleans. He left our conversation with a wristband, a card, and a promise to tell an actress he knows about the Voices. We'll see. As Barry says, you can die from encouragement in this business.
Motorcycle Mamas – so , there was one of those times when I had to move around the raft a bit. I was having a low point yesterday, heading for my room and the comfort of the covers over my head, and I stopped in the lobby of the everlovely Sundance for some coffee. It rained all day yesterday, and three women were in the lobby talking, dressed in motorcycle shirts and boots. They were doing laundry and hanging out. Deja vu all over again.
We struck up a conversation, and talked of their travels and adventures, their bikes and the husbands who piloted them. I shared my bike stories (the bee on Milt's fly in our Deal's Gap Ride, the hail storm in the desert outside of Taos, etc.), and I shared about my Louisiana and the Voices. Even had a wristband to give them. And, I didn't fall off my life raft as it took the waves head on. But damn, was that a big wave.
Elaine – so, if you're still reading here's the best part. Elaine's one helluva interesting cookie. She read some of her stories to me in the town square yesterday, before we went to our critiques. We were both kinda anxious, so we got an ice cream cone and I got to hear her memoirs. She's terrific, and I think she will get a book deal from this. An editor loved her stuff, and she's flying high. I was reminded of my experiences when I got the first Chicken Soup story published, and it was a joy to share her joy.
She's positive and upbeat and totally kooky. And the very last think I learned last night over fresh pasta and Chianti is that her Muslim husband has two wives. And she's worked out her misgivings and is just happy as a clam.
Why I'm here - SaturdayI haven't written in detail about the presenters and authors I've listened to, but today's changed all that. Today I found out why I'd come here.
The first speaker was William Powers, with a topic of “Write to Change the World.” A New York Times, National Geographic published author, with stories to tell about living and writing in war torn Liberia, complete with slide show pictures. He was inspirational, and I was in a quandry about whether to go to his 2 pm session entitled The Life Cycle of the Creative Process, or that of Craig Johnson, a great western writer we heard from yesterday. Johnson's got my Voices wristband, and he's talking at 2 about “Finding Stories.”
When the ten pm speaker, Chris Crutcher, began his talk, I didn't expect what I heard to be life changing. His bio is listed as an 'author, educator and family therapy consultant known for his realistic fiction.' He writes young adult books, based on his work as a therapist and child protection advocacy.
I'm in my room now 'cause I needed to regroup after his talk, and now I know where I'll be headed at two pm, because he'll be speaking - “Crutcher on Craft.”
He began with some relevant details about prepositional phrases, and adverbs. Then he began to talk about the truth of a story, and told of a piece called “Trying to save Piggy Sneed,” by John Irving.
After hearing about Piggy, he explained Irving wrote; “I light the fire, and then I think of all the reasons Piggy might not be in that barn. If I write it good enough, true enough, maybe Piggy won't be in there.” He also said that Superman isn't brave, he's bulletproof. When you bulletproof, you can do anything. It's those of us who aren't bulletproof who are brave. He used a phrase 'out of sequence death' that I'd never heard before, and then he said this:
“When we grieve, we make room for the next thing. When we don't, we get sick.”And then, he told a story that I'll never forget.
It's about a little girl, and I hope to remember the details that made Crutcher such a marvelous story teller. I may not, but I'll forever have an image of a little girl crashing cars together. And a banner that says “I love you, Mommy” on a swing set.
As a therapist, Crutcher was asked to help a co worker with play therapy for a little girl whose mother had been killed. He didn't tell the girl's name, but I'll call her Penny.
Penny's dad was a horrible man, the kind who scars children for life. Her Mom was a wonderful Mom, when she wasn't a drug addict. But, she was a drug addict.
Once, Penny's Dad was heard to tell his kids, as he brought them to the court appointed therapist - “this building is magic, and I can hear everything you say in it.”
I made a note, that line would be good for a short story I'm working on. Then, Crutcher wove the rest of Penny's tale.
Penny's Mom began to clean up her act, getting counseling and kicking the drug habit. The therapists saw a remarkable change in the little girl. Even though things were still hell in her life, her Dad was still evil, having her Mom be everything she needed made Penny a happy little girl.
After weeks of that experience, only a couple of days away from a court hearing to remove custody from the father, Penny's Mom made a date with her drug dealer. In the ensuing evening, a car crash killed the mother.
And Penny was in a bigger hell than ever. In therapy, she was allowed to crash cars every day. That's all she wanted to do, and to play with. Sometimes she'd be sad and sometimes angry. She'd play out the scene from every angle, sometimes being the dealer, or her mom, or whatever she needed to be. That one day, she wouldn't need to crash cars anymore, but now she did.
Cruther was asked to cover for Penny's primary therapist, and he wasn't up to the task. Don't worry, he was told, just play car crash. Be whatever mood sh e was in that day, that's all you'll have to do. He worked with young adults, and wasn't sure he could handle a young child.
When he arrived at the center, he found that somehow all the play cars had been removed from the playroom by someone, for another project. He ran to a local store and bought everything with four wheels he could find. Said he spent $150, but it was worth it to walk into the center with cars that day. He pulled them into a room still in their sacks and boxes with a red wagon, to where Penny was waiting.
She said, what's that, and he said cars. She said why, and he said to crash. And she said she didn't want to. When the primary therapist showed up a short time later, Penny asked her to get some paper, and make a sign. The sign was cheerfully painted with neon markers, and it said “I love you, Mommy.”
Then Penny and the therapist put the sign across a swing set, and Penny asked to be pushed very high. She pushed through the banner, and yelled, I love you, Mommy.
Well, they say when the student is ready, the teacher will come. And that's what's happened today.
I just got back from Crutcher's workshop, and it was all I needed it to be. Then I did a little retail therapy, and then I had my last critique. This was from an author, and it was validating, inspiring, and so, I'm on the sides of the boat again.
Now, off to a cowboy poetry walk, wine and cheese and an outdoor barbeque. It's like 80 degrees or something, and hot as balls (as a friend would say), and I know you in Louisiana have no sympathy for that kind of talk.
Tomorrow is Yellowstone day!
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