Goodbye to the Working Stiffs

Today  I posted my last guest post at the wonderful, Pittsburgh-based group blog known as the Working Stiffs.

My post today discussed writers as artists. You, the Artist asks writers to accept that the words they piece together into stories is indeed art, and we should all band together to encourage the next generation as they enter the wacky world of writing and publishing.

I’ve had a lot of fun as a Working Stiffs contributor. Posting there allowed me to touch on a range of subjects–some light, some dark–but I hope all thought provoking in some way. It was a great pleasure to work with such fine writers, who amused, challenged and entertained me with their posts, and honored me with their friendship.

Here’s a summary of my contributions to the Working Stiffs:

The Gift of Time and a Boxed Lunch. (Yay! I’ve been accepted to an artists’ colony!)

Over There. (A Veterans Day history lesson on the War to End All Wars—ha—and the little known Bonus Army of 1932.)

Paging the Lorax. (I speak for the Hwy.  50 Shoe Tree and the Spirit Oaks at Toomer’s Corner.)

Twelve Average Citizens. (On a quiet Tuesday night in Georgetown, Delaware, a Patrolman named Chad Spicer was killed in the line of duty.)  

Who Do You Love?  (The story of Charles:  the love of my life—and how he wooed me when I was five.)

Double Dating a Killer. (Have you ever known a murderer?)  

A Position of Trust. (On Dr. Earl Bradley, the worst pedophile you’ve never heard of, and how he was able to abuse so many children, for so long.)

Are You Intrepid?  (On being brave, and trying something new in life.)

Beggars Can’t Be Writers. (Is it okay to ask for something for nothing? If so, tell me where to put the DONATE button.)

In With the Old. (A recipe for My Favorite Cake, and why a vintage cake cover is necessary for success.)

Three Questions for Two New Authors. (A couple of new mystery writers to watch.)

I’m a Big Girl Now. (Will your parents ever stop treating you like a child? No, probably not, but you gotta love ‘em for boldly not trying.)

I Bought the Book, It’s Mine Now, So….(Is it a sacrilege to write in a published book?)

To Have and To Hold…A Grudge. (A post-election look at Delaware’s Return Day tradition, and a question about how long you hang onto hard feelings.)

Three Travel Adventures (Embarrassing moments on the road.) 

I’m Not a Believer. (Goblins, ghosts, woo woo and voodoo—what rattles your chains?)  

Postcard from Writing Camp, 2

A funny thing happened at the end of my residency at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts: my car would not start.

 Was this a message?

“Please stay with us, Ramona! Two weeks was not nearly long enough. Oh, sure, you accomplished the specific goals you set—with two days to spare—but think of the goals you could reach if you had two more weeks! And the wonderful social time you chose to enjoy: The Valentine’s Day reading with the pink marshmallow snowballs! The Open Studios afternoon when the visual artists blew you away! The snow day and the horses wearing their adorable plaid blankets! The delicious meals that you didn’t have to cook or serve or clean up! The generous Fellows who shared their work, respected your schedule, and offered their friendship! The party with the stories about the deer head and the handcuffs and the Mason jar of real moonshi–”

 Uh, anyway. I heard the message. Sadly, this time, I couldn’t heed it.

Last Sunday night, a group of us watched the Season 2 ending episode of Downton Abbey in the VCCA library/TV room. It was great fun to hash and guess what Season 3 would bring. It will be a long wait until Season 3 will be broadcast, but it is in the works and it will finally come and it will be worth the months of anticipation.

That’s how I feel about leaving the residency. It was wonderful, I will return, and it will wonderful again.

I could take the Downton Abbey analogy a step farther and compare being Upstairs to being a Fellow. We didn’t have our every whim catered to, but daily needs were taken care of efficiently and unobtrusively.

A lot of artists come and go. You can be social, go to meals in the dining rooms and linger, participate in after-dinner performances or runs to the dollar cinema in Amherst. You can ramble around the grounds, pat the horses or be adopted by a cow (Hi, Wendy!)  Or you can spend all day and night – literally, since there are beds in the studios – focusing on your work. You can talk about your work, if you want to. You can give a performance or showing, or not. Your choice.

If you consider the activities in my imaginary “please stay!” message,  it sounds like a vacation. It was, in some ways, but very much a working vacation. I hit my studio diligently every morning after breakfast. I opened The Ark’s skylights, fired up the Christmas lights, sat at my desk, and got to work. Some days I free wrote like a madwoman; one day I hammered out 14 pages. The next day, I cut it back to 8 pages, then down to 2½, but such is free writing. Some days I paced around or stared out at the cows while letting my thoughts brew.

No one disturbed me, called me, knocked on my door. No one interrupted my creative process. The Ark was sacred, and I was able to immerse.

The time flew. Each day felt a minute long.

This is the value of a private work studio. It’s a mind game as much as physical. The studios are for work. One works in the studio. My Internet connection was sporadic, so I gave up trying to go online from my studio unless I needed to do research. If I needed a nap, I took one in the bed five feet away from my desk. When I woke up, my desk was staring at me. Beckoning.

I’ll sum it up this way: Every time I walked through the door of The Ark, I was walking into my story.

I never left the grounds, which explains the dead battery. Next time, I’ll go for longer and plan an excursion or two. I don’t know if I’ll get The Ark again. I’d be happy to, but I’d be just as happy to write my name in the door frame or on the wall of some other studio.

 My thanks go out to the VCCA, the Mid Atlantic Arts Foundation for awarding me the fellowship that funded this residency, and most of all, my fellow Fellows and friends there. I hope we meet again.