The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pen

Writing is a solitary addiction.

Because of my craving for writing time and solitude, I’ve never been a person to have many friends.  I held people at a distance, my emotional force field protected the real me. Like any addict, my addiction was my life.  

So, imagine my surprise when I found, not one, but four women to share my writing journey.  From agonizing over plot, through the publication process and the challenge of marketing, these four ‘sisters’ have eased my pain, sharpened my skills and just generally made my life more joyful.

A few months back, we officially became The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pen. Our first speaking engagement was yesterday at the NW Arkansas Writers Workshop Conference.  Our hope was to get our message across AND to entertain.  I think we accomplished our goal.  

Ruth Weeks started us off by acting the part of a humble, frightened writer trying to pitch her work to a snooty agent.  Thirty seconds in, she flung off her jacket and revealed more bling than Liberace.  And cowboy boots.  Hot damn, those boots of hers.  Ruth strutted a demonstration of stepping out, believing in yourself, and making the magic happen in your writing career.  I mean, the woman showed us how it was done.

Once Ruth had folks fired up, it was my turn.  

I pointed to my tiara. Yes, you read that right. Touched the giant, gold star hanging around my neck, whirled my feathery pink boa.  I held my book over my head danced and yelled, I’ve been published!  My sisters yelled and stamped their feet and threw confetti. The celebration lasted approximately thirty seconds when Ruth, holding a sign that said Reality Check stepped up and, foot tapping, demanded my lovely glittery crown and my adorable star.  The bitch even took back my lovely pink boa. I spoke on the reality of having a book published and likened the experience to running a small business.

Next, Jan Morrill acted out a skit she’d written about how, while the rest of The Sisters took that fork in the road marked Small Press and skipped happily to publication, she choose the road to New York Publication and spend a year waiting for the phone to ring.  This presentation came complete with the song Let it please be him. It must be him.  It must be him bursting forth into the conference room to demonstrate her reaction each time the phone rang while she waited and waited to hear from her agent.  My favorite part was when she skipped down the path to stardom in her sunglasses, the frames of which were in the shape of glittery gold stars. 

In stained chenille robe, pajama bottoms and soft, fluffy slippers one of her dogs may have chewed, Claire Croxton demonstrated what happens when you sit down to write, but first, just for a minute, you check your email and your favorite blogs.  Social Networking is vital to building a platform after all!  As Ruth moved the hands of a giant clock, Claire tapped on her laptop, commented on blogs and just networked her little heart out until the clock showed eight hours had passed and she hadn’t written a word on her new novel.  Claire spoke on managing your time.

Linda Apple stepped up with a rubber snake around her neck which, like Marlin Perkins with the giant Anaconda, she successfully wrestled into submission.  Her opening line was “Most people would rather wrestle a poisonous snake than speak in public.” She then beautifully demonstrated how to speak in front of an audience with ease and grace.  Linda spoke on the importance of building your platform as a writer.  

Lord, did we have fun.  Who’d have thought that a lifetime of living in my own solitary little world, mainlining words and struggling to reveal the truth through fiction–who would have even suspected that this would bring me into the glorious company of a sisterhood like this?

Don't tell Ruth

A couple of weekends ago, four of us went to the Crescent Hotel for a weekend of escape and celebration.  Ruth Burkett Weeks was signing copies of her wonderful book Soldiers from the Mist on Sunday.  Claire Croxton had just signed a deal to have three of her books published. (That woman is SUCH a showoff) Jan Morrill had signed a contract with an agent who is delighted with her novel Broken Dolls.  And me, well, as you know, I am thrilled to have Redneck Goddess published.

Well, so we go up to Eureka Springs and stay overnight in this haunted hotel.  I mean, plaques  everywhere you look telling about ghost sightings, newspaper articles about hauntings, statues of the visiting dead, ghost tours on the half hour.  Seriously the place is old, gorgeous and slightly scary.  Now, I lean toward the prove-it-to-me side of the paranormal discussion.  However, Ruth is a true believer and I do think that she has a deeper connection with the mystical than most of us.  Plus, I love the woman and I'd never do or say anything to disrespect her.

That night we sit on the balcony under the stars and listen to the clop clop of horses hooves on cobblestone streets.  Ok, maybe it wasn't cobblestone, but it's my story and that's what it sounded like to me. Basically we're transported into the past while Ruth tells us about her encounters with ghosts while staying at the Crescent.

"That rocking chair right there, it moves sometimes with no wind and no living person in it."
"I felt something like a cold breeze pass through me when I turned the corner."

You get the idea.  So, between the atmosphere and Ruth's stories, I'm a teeny bit spooked when we go to the room.  So we laugh and talk and have us a grand ole time until we fall asleep.  Next day is Ruth's book signing.  I'm sitting in one of the high backed velvet chairs in the lobby, tickled to be part of Ruth's posse, feeling smug that I've not succumbed to fear of ghosts.  Right about then is when I have to pee. 

Now, here's the thing.  Ruth has told us a half dozen times NOT to use the bathroom in the basement.  Where the morgue used to be.  Where they found bodies walled up in the concrete.  Where ghosts walk freely.  Well, no problem, I'll use the bathroom on the lobby floor.  So off I go.  Except, when I get there, both stalls are locked.  No sound.  No breathing.  No tinkling of pee.  Nothing.  I stand way back and do that deal where you nonchalantly peek under the door of the stall to check for feet.  No feet.  I wait.  And wait.  And now I really do have to pee.

A sentence jumps fully formed into my head.

"The ghosts are chasing you downstairs.  To the morgue."

Well, too bad for them.  I raised three boys as a single mom.  What damage could a ghost do me? 

So, down I go.  The old morgue is now a fancy spa.  History's a funny thing, ain't it?  Anyway, the shop's open and filled with fancy soaps and oils, but there's no one there for me to wave a cheery 'Hello.  I'm going into this bathroom now.  Come looking if you don't see me come back out soon, eh?'  So I open the door and step inside.

And, just at the moment I open the door, the window air conditioner kicks on and billows the white lace curtain away from the window.  A funny coincidence.  Couldn't be anything more.  No reason for my heart to do a line dance in my chest.  Both stalls are empty and I go inside and do my thing.  A basement toilet in a very old building - when I flush the thing it sounds like a ghost is jumping up out of the swirling water and into my...well, the sound scared me is what it did.  Still, nothing has happened that can't be explained rationally. 

I wash my hands.  Admittedly it didn't take me long to finish this task, but still, no big deal.  It's those darned stories of Ruth's that have got me skiddish.  I hurry to the door and pull the handle.  It won't open.  Now.  It's humid and the wood has swollen.  No way it could be anything else.  Nonetheless, I struggle with the door for a good three seconds before it budges and during that tiny little lifetime, a chill like someone running an ice cube down my spine reminds me that we are soooo much deeper and complicated than rationality can explain.

I did not tell Ruth any of this.  I mean, that woman will twist and turn these perfectly logical events until she's convinced me that ghosts chased me downstairs and then ran a bony finger up my spine.  You know she will.