Workshops

Workshops. Bah. Humbug. They do a few good things, granted. But they wear poorly. Or maybe that is a given. I need a fresh audience to pay attention to. I need new work to read from my peers, and they usually submit pieces of a larger work, or chapters. Only once have I been exposed to a book I actually wanted to read in five different sessions. That would be about ten writers times three pieces each times five sessions for a round number. 150 stories. Seems like quite a few, but it is a reasonable guess. They just get stale, especially the remarks such as "I liked it, as usual..." which insincerity prefaces several readers' comments each week, no matter what. You know from their written remarks or what they don't say that they neither like what you have written, nor you for that matter, but the rules do not allow for them to say what they feel. The significant benefit is that a deadline of any sort is a good thing. And reading in front of a group is an excellent part of the process. I need to find a new group. I need to move on. I am restless.

Arties

She just walked past the window, south on Thayer Street. Two hours ago, I spoke with her as she walked, nearly ran, north. She is hard to miss. Yellow pants. Red jacket. A black and white checked packpack. Glasses and a hat. She's a comical looking character. I know she went to see a movie at the Avon, where the arty films are. By herself, I think. It's fun to see movies by yourself. I haven't done it for quite a while. Usually she is away on weekends, but lately, she has stayed in town. "I Loved You..." something or other is the name of the film. She said she was late. Hurrying down the street, it looks as if she's now late for something else. Always hurrying. We're busy little animals, are we not?

A Call from Dad

It is still puzzling me. Dad called the other day, out of the blue. He did not ask anything; he had no agenda. Perhaps I said something in the course of the conversation that caused him to change his mind. He never calls, and when he does, it is for something. I like to think maybe he was reaching out this time, calling to say hello, I'm here. Or to remind me he is there in the retirement home, not doing much and wouldn't mind a visit, but cannot quite bring himself to ask me. Or to say thanks for stopping by earlier in the week. Who knows? I have never quite been able to understand him, for all my intuition about most people. It is a father-son thing. I am sure.