It’s the sense of duty that tugs you from the bed on a Saturday morning, later than you had intended, but with this constant gray mist and a headache that won’t subside, earlier than you would prefer. The rain boots and umbrella are surprisingly where they should be; the only thing making you later is yourself.
Farmington Avenue has become trickier to navigate, quite a feat that. The sidewalk is barricaded on one side for construction. Maybe barricaded is not the right word. It takes no real skill to cross the boundary, but playing by the rules means a zigzagging walk that is more irritation than inconvenience. (On the way home, those rules will be abandoned. In the concrete, names and deep footprints are seen.)
At the Carriage House Theater, a man stands in the parking lot beside a grill. It has mostly stopped raining, but this seems overly hopeful.
Entering what had been the Hartford Children’s Theatre for years, it seems appropriate to see about a dozen young children sitting on the floor, occupying themselves relatively quietly. Only a few of them are familiar. Climbing over the obstacle course means getting to one of two areas filled with adults wrapping up breakout sessions. In moments, everyone (Except for the kids. They do what they want.) will return to this room and recap what was discussed separately. We hear that Hartford’s civilian police review board currently has only one civilian on it, and this individual is not a city resident. (The City of Hartford website list does include a Hartford resident, but the date on that is 2012) There is a push for the Community Bill of Rights to include an explicit anti-discrimination method in the preamble. If there’s any grumbling, it’s inaudible.
There is some rallying to build excitement and then an invitation to come forward and sign the Community Bill of Rights. It soon feels silly to continue counting signatures. A young girl not quite able to write her name independently does not let that detail thwart her; she hands off her baby doll in exchange for a marker. With some help, she adds her name to the list.
Even after snatching up a few cheese danishes, the headache has not faded. We learn that the early bird gets the coffee. There’s not a drop left, but it is nearing noon. Snap a few more pictures for an article someone else will write, then head up Farmington to find some caffeine.
Tisane is a well-oiled machine on this day. The recently added bar on the side away from the alcohol bar makes for more solo seating. The mocha is doing nothing to help the headache, but it makes nothing worse. This is the first opportunity in days to sit still. After the Piper Kerman talk at UConn Law, her book has found its way onto the night stand, and now, into the bag. Upon finally hitting a rhythm with the words, I’m gently interrupted by a Real Hartford reader who, despite no longer living in the city, continues his tradition of using the laundromat next door, stopping in for espresso, and then returning to his chores. We chat for awhile about the state of affairs and now it’s time to wander back down Farmington to catch some of the Writers’ Weekend at the Mark Twain House & Museum.
It is lunch time at the museum, but I’m still somehow in breakfast mode. The cheesy garlic bread gets rave reviews; I’ve had it before and can confirm this is deserved excitement. For a writers’ conference, people sure are chatty. The expectation was that everyone would be typing or jotting down ideas in their notebooks while dining alone. Not to say that writers are anti-social. We’re not.
Aisha Sabatini Sloan is stuck in traffic, so writers amuse themselves in a classroom while waiting. When she arrives, she is apologetic, maybe embarrassed. Then, she dives in. She is here to talk about techniques for structuring the essay. With most of the workshop participants identifying themselves as current or former teachers, there is a thirst for approaching this form of writing in a way other than how we have always done it. She gives us a prompt. We dutifully write. A few share. We learn that travel is a common source of inspiration in the room. Hawaii, Italy, Alaska. The hour is up too quickly and try as we may to prolong it, the door keeps opening with new writers entering for the next workshop session.
A new hour, a new classroom.
Patricia Ann Chaffee asks the half-dozen women to describe themselves/ourselves and their/our writing experience. Most have some publications under their belts. The discussion is on freelancing– how to generate story ideas, how to pitch to an editor, how to track down the right editor. Rejection comes up, how stupidly deflating it is.
But that’s only one obstacle for writers.
“There’s a lot of talent out there but not a lot of ambition,” she says.
One can debate Madonna’s talent, but there’s no doubt that her “Blond Ambition” tour was appropriately named. She knew how to hustle. That focus, that drive to hustle, can silence all the scowling rejection that one receives.
This feels less like a workshop and more like a support group, with business cards. I’ll take it.
This is not the end of the weekend, but there’s something to be said for making a graceful exit before getting too worn down.
Sunday morning, the rain has stopped. We take bicycles out and head to Mo’s Midtown, which is more on the edge of town than anything. The wait inside of the breezeway is awkward, always. More than one person there means a shuffling around each time one of the vestibule doors open. The alternative is to wait outside and risk losing one’s place in line. Hangry and line jumpers don’t mix.
The waiter knows what we want, but she goes through the motions of asking just in case. Chocolate chip pancakes. Home fries. Apple walnut pancakes. Tomato juice no ice. Coffee. Decaf. There’s no lingering over breakfast on the weekend. That’s bad form when the line continues out the door.
Back on bikes, we take Farmington Avenue because it is the most direct route, but it’s hellish. Motorists, you don’t know from pot holes!
The bike rack is next to the Harriet Beecher Stowe Center’s Museum Store. Locking up, a friend greets us. Heckles, more like it. We end up in the store, getting a birthday present for another friend. The beauty of walking and biking is that unless you are very buff, there are fast limits on how many things you can purchase and haul. This is at the front of the mind while walking toward the Mark Twain House & Museum, where authors have their books for sale, ready to be signed.
Matthew Dicks is about to lead a workshop on the publishing industry, but first he gently harasses people into moving toward the front of the room. The hour zips by. If none of the information about agents, editors, and publicity comes in handy, at least the sixty minutes were fully entertaining. The phrase that will be remembered: “bored in Boca.”
We make choices. Do we spend out downtime playing games on our phones? Do we make all of our time quality time, whether that means hugging our cats or sending out hundreds of query letters? That’s the other takeaway from this author’s workshop: Our time is limited. Be wise.
The Writers’ Weekend is nearing the end, with Syllable: A Reading Series acting as the finale. Being in the auditorium feels so formal. Writers share texts about being brave: experiences with cancer, cleaning months’ worth of dog feces off a roof, talking to strangers in Abu Dhabi, and beyond.
One participant tells me that the weekend has felt like a “shot in the arm” for her. Nobody argues.
