I had the good pleasure of attending a gathering of about 100 North Carolina writers this past weekend in the lovely mountains of Asheville. Award-winning fiction writer Ellyn Bache (http://ellynbache.com) kindly extended the invite to me. And off I went, not realizing the gift I had in store.
Mercy, I wish this writer could come up with a better word, one that is not a cliche or considered trite, but the word that continues to come to my head to describe what I felt being in these good folks’ midst is special. It has to do with how encouraging they are to and of each other, their talk of mentors, calling them by name and thanking them and not being afraid to show their souls when they served on a panel discussion about their mentors or finding home. Home, yes, that’s it. That place where we feel welcomed and encouraged. A place of warmth. A place where egos are checked at the door.
Not all writers are this way. I had an experience at the world premiere of a play a few years back. I was in the restroom during intermission, and little did I know the almighty writer on whose novel the play was based was washing her hands beside me. I said to her, “I’m really enjoying the play.” She told me, “Don’t talk to me right now. I’m processing.” She dried her hands. I kept mine wet. I could not move.
In 1990, I lived in Atlanta because a corporate job took me there. Two years into it, I walked to my condo for lunch one day and saw on my coffee table, the first chapter of a novel I’d begun. This happened on a day when my corporate job was particularly boring. No, better than that — meaningless. I went back to work that afternoon and picked up a yellow legal pad and on it, wrote my obituary. I wrote “Brenda McClain, manager of Media Relations for BellSouth, died today in her home in Atlanta.” I said to myself No ma’am. If I died right now, I could not rest in peace. I skipped a space and wrote HOW WOULD YOU LIKE YOUR OBIT WRITTEN? Immediately, I wrote “Brenda McClain, writer, died today in her home in…..” I knew I wanted to die a writer, but I didn’t know where.
Within five minutes, I wrote my resignation and set about giving myself the life I wanted, one where I gave the better part of me to my fiction, while I was fortunate enough to do some consulting/training on the side. I stayed in Atlanta five more years before I decided where I wanted to live. I entertained two places — 1) Somewhere in North Carolina because of the serious writing community that I had experienced with the North Carolina Writers Network (http://www.ncwriters.org/) and The Writers Workshop in Asheville (http://www.twwoa.org/) and 2) Edisto Island, SC because of the remoteness. I chose Edisto.
But sitting there last weekend among those good people in Asheville, I let myself wonder how my life would have been different if I’d have chosen to make a home in North Carolina, instead. For a bit, I let myself imagine that I would be living as a published writer with at one whole novel out there vs. a life of a writer who — yes, has won some awards — The 2004 SC Fiction Fellow and the SC 2003 and 2007 Fiction Project — but has two novels in the proverbial drawer with a third — and a promising third at that — about to be born.
But I didn’t stay with that for long. Because that’s not the road I took. And, because I believe that our lives play out exactly right, I welcomed exactly the decision I made, which delivered me to the place I am. Poet Ann Deagon, the weekend’s honoree, likes to sing some of her words when she reads aloud. During one particular poem, she paused to get herself in tune. And then she said, “If I don’t start in the right place, who knows where I’ll end up?”
As much as I would have loved to have experienced all these years with this amazing North Carolina fellowship, I believe I started in the right place.
Still, though, it felt good to be among them again. They showed me what was possible and reminded me that should I ever have the occasion to wash my hands during a stage adaptation of my novel and someone compliments the play, I want to believe that I will graciously nod my head and thank them ever so much. And then I will smile and think of North Carolina and those people and their hearts.
Well, I’m awfully glad you came to Edisto, otherwise I’d have never met you. I think my life would be less full (though I wouldn’t know it, would I?) for never having done so. I thank you, and some of the other, former members of our little Charleston group, for giving me encouragement during your time here. Sounds like you had a great time!
I’m glad I came to Edisto, too, Mary. We all gave each other encouragement, and it is glorious. I’m loving following your guitar enjoyment!
What a great column, Brenda. It took me a long time to get to North Carolina, but it was that community of writers that drew me. I left an isolated farm in West Virginia, and there are many days I think of the “what might have been” of staying on the land I loved – but I have felt welcomed, included, enfolded in the great writing tradition of the Tarheel state. I know it was the right choice.
So, here’s to those novels-in-waiting! Edisto has been good for your craft, I know.
Looking forward to seeing you again, somewhere in the Carolinas.
Thank you so much, Val! Your response here is another example of the comraderie I felt. Hope to see you soon. And, yes, Edisto was absolutely perfect for me.
One of the great things about being a North Carolina writer is that the sense of support and caring stays with you even if you journey far and wide (and maybe even if you weren’t “exactly” in NC to begin with. SC is pretty close). Keep the pages of that novel coming!
Love those words, Ellyn. Yes, that kind of support and caring has legs stronger than the wind. You embody that yourself, and I thank you.