Dear Writers,
I hope y’all have found a rhythm, wherever you are. I look forward to hearing how it’s going. I look forward to seeing what stories you have to share; what you have found shaping, sculpting, revealing new things about ourselves and others, which is what fiction as well as the best nonfiction seek to do. The worst thing we can do in this current situation—other than panicking, or afflicting others—is to allow ourselves to become numbed.
It’s a beautiful spring day in the Yaak—as glorious green as it can be. Blue sky. Aspen and larch new leaves and needles soft soft pale new, as if the color was applied to them only yesterday—which it pretty much was. Last week, or a little longer. Spring comes late up here, fall comes early, especially for the larch, which can live for several hundreds of years, remain standing for another century or two after death, then remain visible on the forest floor for at least a century or two more. The thousand-year old trees.
I’m writing to get y’all’s thoughts on what the rest of the workshop year might look like. If y’all are like me, y’all are zoomed out to the max, enough, already. We have to keep moving forward, improving our craft, every year—if one is a writer, there is no other option—but in no way can I request that anyone put themselves in harm’s way by getting on an airplane. I do think we could run a safe in-person workshop under safe distancing protocol, in sunlight, by campfire, whatever, evenly-spaced. Tests are available for incoming folks in the small nearby town of Libby, Montana. I am in no way in agreement with the chief executive’s nonchalance about these matters—a more grotesque response than his could not be imagined in fiction itself—so I find myself reaching out to y’all for ideas. My own best guess is that we will continue to see spikes throughout the country, moving east to west, with the big wave returning in the late fall. It seems a concerted push might lead to some form of vaccine around year’s end, but I am less sanguine about availability for regular folk.
All this has me thinking of scheduling something in August, for those willing to drive to Montana. For our regular December workshop along the Rocky Mountain Front, in Augusta—we can plan it—but I believe with every ounce of my science-self that that will have to be a revision, a Zoom, We could plan December, driving-or-flying—but based on John Barry’s excellent and profound The Great Influenza, I imagine we are in for a heightened sheltering beginning in early to mid-November.
This is all guesswork. My own inclination is to plan for August, and plan for December, with the awareness that, circumstances dictating, we might have to fall back to a Plan B. We know what Plan A looks like—intense boot-camp level of supportive improvement/re-making/re-imagining/strengthening of a manuscript, in-person, with good food to assuage the intellectual rigor. But what would a Plan B look like? Obviously there’d be the intense attention to each story/essay/group of poems. But as I’ve been doing this over the last several years, what has emerged as a definite and significant benefit has been the development of a community among the participants. How would that be affected by Zoom? I can assure you that’s not the preference, but as a default, what would a Plan B back-up look like that would best serve/maximize y’all’s needs? I’m tinkering with some ideas—one-on-one check-ins over the weekend, the dreaded writing exercise, etc.—but would want to be more creative than that, as well. Send me your thoughts, please, as we ease forward, masked and distant and oh so clean. What are y’all reading? Me, Ed Abbey’s Desert Solitaire and William Maxwell’s They Came Like Swallows. I’m aiming for Plan A. It won’t happen if we don’t strive to make it so. Know that we’ll adjust accordingly, if necessary.
Drivers—one idea would be if you can find another antigen-possessor or trusted shelterer to drive with, consider making a road trip? Montana’s been the lowest-hit place in all 50 states and for that we are so grateful, while mourning the grief and tragedy in so many other places around the country. In no way do I take that for granted and I am dubious given the absence of messaging and absence of ethics and intelligence coming from the White House that we shall pass through the summer unscathed. “Hope for the best/plan for the worst” seems appropriate these days. That said, again, we are writers, and writers write, and the best writers edit, edit, edit.
I am guessing that y’all are pretty much in sync with where I am, through all this—wondering, What matters, in an era where one could be lights-out two, three weeks from any given moment. I find myself returning to the basics: family, and art. If anything matters, it’s those two, more than ever. What we carry forward—what we send forward. I’m writing. But I still find myself wanting to teach, too. I look forward to hearing y’all’s ideas and interest/date suggestions.
Be well and stay safe—and please register new voters.
Rick
