After a few months of volunteer reading, I approached the principal with the idea of an after-school program for third-, fourth- and fifth-graders. I would call it The Shakespeare Club.
What? William said.
The Shakespeare Club. I could teach them all the stuff I know and maybe they could become better readers, I don't know...it's worth a shot.
By October, William had helped me make a brochure and I pitched the club idea to parents, teachers and schoolkids. By November I had thirteen kids meeting in a classroom once a week. By April of the next year that number had dropped to ten kids, and in May they performed a rudimentary production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" and I sank into a bathtub exhausted and drunk on goodwill.
For years my friend Heather had been encouraging me to go to a weeklong writers' conference in upstate New York. She had been attending it for what seemed like an eternity and thought it was just what I needed. It was sponsored by an organization called the International Women's Writing Guild.
Geez, Heath, I don't know. All women? I'm not really into large gatherings of women. Goddess-type talk and airy-fairy stuff aren't for me. I don't think I'd be good there.
After my Shakespeare Club duties were over, it was clear I needed something else creative in my life. I was hankering to write but didn't know what. I said what the hell and signed up for the conference.
In June I arrived at Skidmore College, site of the event, and checked into a dorm room with a healthy dose of skepticism. On my first morning I followed Heather around like a puppy. Over breakfast I buried my face in tater-tots and sausage while she greeted friend after friend with gleeful screams and hugs.
I left this girly reconnaissance behind and went to peruse a schedule of classes. The first class I landed in was a non-fiction workshop taught by the writer Susan Tiberghien. I opened a brand-new wide-ruled notebook and uncapped a Uniball pen and as soon as Susan suggested a writing prompt I found myself scribbling words across the page like a writer on a cocaine bender.
Where the heck was this coming from? I was like one of those crazies who talked about channeling. Page after page filled up with words then sentences then paragraphs. My fingers were stained with blue ink and I sat back in my hard-backed classroom chair.
This is it. This is my conception.
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