A Golden Time

I just got back from a writing residency at the Vermont Studio Center.  This was my third time to go there, and it was, by far, my most productive experience.  Located in the little village of Johnson, Vermont, this artist residency has been going for a long, long time.  My first experience of it was back in 2018, and then in 2019.  Of course, during COVID, while the residency did function, there was little to no interaction between participants.  And that would be most unfortunate because one of the huge strengths of this residency is that writers are in residency right along side visual artists, and meal time is a wonderful time to sit with someone in a completely different area of creativity and talk about texture and color and layers, whether one is talking to a sculptor, a painter, or someone working in textiles. And, there are specific times when the artists make presentations about what they’re doing in their studios, complete with side shows of their work, while writers, on the same evenings, can read from their works in poetry, fiction, non-fiction, or whatever. 
 
What seems to work for me, there, is that I have no responsibilities or distractions to keep me from my writing.  Every morning, after a quiet breakfast in the dining hall, where I could gather up some yoghurt and a piece of toast, or cereal, I would walk over to my office in the two-story building dedicated as work space for writers, and I’d sit down at my desk, turn on my laptop and drop myself down into a story, or spend time musing about how I was to begin my next one.  And, I would sit there and work from, say, 9 a.m. until noon, dedicating my intentions to the writing.  Sometimes, I would be so engrossed, that I wouldn’t even notice when it became noon, which was when most of us would head over to the dining hall for a wonderfully prepared lunch. 
 
The meal itself, which was nicely planned and executed, usually took second fiddle, for me, because lunch and dinner were the times when we could meet our fellow artists and writers and talk about how our work was going, or an artist would explain to me some new aspect of oil painting they were excited about. At the same time, when I would be asked about how my work was going, I’d get more enthusiastic than ever to talk about where my stories were going or, as once happened, I was telling a fellow writer that I’d just discovered that my bass player’s character had a neurodiverse son—a fact I hadn’t known until that very morning. These conversations, artistic sharing sessions punctuated by trips to the salad bar or the soup pot, and then, of course, the dessert table, would help to keep me focused on my work illuminated by the work of others. It was a synergy that just doesn’t happen at home. 
 
After lunch, I would usually take a walk around the beautiful grounds of the Center, and normally would circle back to my room so I could change into a different outfit for the warmth of the afternoon.  Then, back to my office (named after the writer, John Dos Passos), and I’d write again until dinner at 6 o’clock.
 
Now, for complete transparency, I didn’t actually write all those hours I spent in my office.  By that, I mean, it wasn’t always the kind you do with your fingers on a keyboard, but sometimes, I’d just sit in my Queen Ann chair and stare out the window onto Gihon river, jotting down ideas that came to me, whether it was while trying to figure out how to begin a story (whose point of view, what time frame, etc.), and sometimes I’d even be trying to figure out which was the next story I was going to start next.  Of course, this writing retreat was to be devoted to generating new stories which will be part of a collection of linked short stories, and I’d already figured out the basic range of the stories needed.  Having this time to think and dream was like long car rides I’ve had and using that time to dream up the plot of a novel, or a series of songs, something I’ve always felt gifted with, some kind of magical inspiration.
 
My wonderful time spent in the clutches Sheherazade lasted just three weeks, and somehow the time went very, very fast.  So fast that I started to miss it just after I got there, knowing that I was about to plunge myself into a period of sheer creativity, something my every day life just didn’t allow.
 
And, of course, I am back home, now, recalling those weeks with envy of the next cohort of writers and artists who are there, right now, while I fight off the need to deal with updating legal stuff, making and attending doctor appointments, teaching an online class for uninterested college students, and planning and preparing meals. The Vermont Studio Center spoils us artists and writers. It’s a golden time, and I hope to go back there, some day.