I’m at a writing retreat for three days. I haven’t done one of those since before I started writing the Allison Parker Mystery series - 8 years ago! This retreat is at a place called the Well of Mercy in Hamptonville, NC. I think Hamptonville must be the Well’s mailing address because the actual location of the Well is in the MIDDLE OF NOWHERE at the end of a gravel road. Truly, when the pavement went to gravel I worried that the “bitch in the box” had finally lost it. But - as advertised, quietly, the retreat grounds run by the Sisters of Mercy is a lovely, secluded, escape where one can write, walk, rest or search far away from the noise of our everyday world.
At our first session last night the 13 of us attending were asked to choose three words that described each of us, and then from those three words to select one to be used in a group writing exercise. We were told we could use as many or as few of the 13 words that we wanted, but we had 15 minutes in which to create our narrative, which had to begin with “I have always loved _____.”
For me, so unused to writing on demand, this sounded pretty intimidating. However, as often happens - well, maybe I should say always happens - the Muse stepped in and the words simply flowed. What came out was rough, and if I’d had my regular, leisurely, untimed approach, I’m sure I’d have done some editing.
As each of the 13 read her work (all women at this retreat) I was fascinated to hear 13 different voices, 13 different writing styles, 13 different perspectives on the use of words and phrases. There was no right or wrong, just individual voices reflected in beautiful, uniquely individual, creation.
So, for fun, I thought I’d share with you my 15 minute, unedited work product. I used 7 of the 13 words (grits, blunder, parallel, bliss, river, heartbeat, blooms). Enjoy.
“I’ve always loved grits. Even if I blundered into a parallel universe I’d seek out the yummy goodness that blooms in my heart whenever I hear mama say “it’s time for breakfast.”
Grits, you say? Those are awful, you’d insist – but, no, I’d protest, grits connect me to my past, to memories of those blissful days before the demands of life interfered, those days when grits, steaming hot, with a river of butter dripping off my chin as the overflowing spoon made its way to my mouth – those are the true childhood days of bliss.
I see your face – you simply can’t comprehend how I can love grits. What can I tell you except this – grits are the heartbeat of the South.”
PS- the picture accompanying this post is of the chapel at Well of Mercy.