Writers

      Anton Chekhov told this story. "You know I recently visited Tolstoy in Gaspra. He was bed ridden due to illness . . . When I was about to say goodbye he took my hand and said 'Kiss me goodbye'. While I bent over him and he was kissing me, he whispered in my ear in a still energetic old man's voice 'You know I hate your plays. Shakespeare was a bad writer and I consider your plays even worse than his.' " *
     I imagined becoming a great writer from fourth grade on - remnants of the desire remain locked in a closet of my mind. At a recent social gathering I chatted over punch and carrots with a woman who had studied years ago at Middlebury College. She mentioned the Bread Loaf Writers Conference and there was a banging on that closet door. Since 1926, BLWC has been a ten day gathering of aspiring writers, led by a few prominent authors and sponsored by Middlebury College. In seminars the aspiring have the opportunity to read a piece of their work and receive comments from the successful. The New Yorker forever blessed the BLWC as "the oldest and most prestigious writer's conference in the country." **  In 1979 I was working on a manuscript - historical fiction set in the Racquette Lake region of the Adirondack Mountains. I applied for admission to the Conference and was accepted. Pleasant and vivid memories of those ten days remain.
     I must note here that BLWC is a very structured affair. Everyone at the Conference had published something but there were distinct classes.  The lowest class, the "contributors" have paid full assessment and may get a chance to read something they have produced. They are analogous to the "struggling masses". The second class consists of the faculty, fellows and "waiterships" - those who critique the work of others, read their own and waited tables - hard scrambling "apparatchiks". Finally there were the "authors" - at this Conference decades ago the stars were John Irving, John Gardner, Tim O'Brien and others. These were the "party elite". I was among the masses and the class distinctions were rigorous and enforced. (There was the occasional lapse - one star accessed the wrong bedroom one night. The woman occupant kindly explained to him his mistake. The star immediately apologized - thought for minute and then added - "Well as long as I am here perhaps ..."
She declined.
     My roommate Patrick, was an attorney from Chicago with a withering sense of humor and a protective nature. He had also published a book. After attending one of the first morning seminars Patrick and I left together. Without saying a word we went to the lunch buffet and filled trays. We proceeded to look for a place to sit. Without communication we went over and sat down across from a young woman sitting alone - "Sara". A few minutes earlier she had read a sample of her writing and the ensuing comments had ranged from simply negative to mean spirited and outright ridicule. We felt like we had witnessed a junior high school pile on. For the next hour and a half Patrick and I engaged in damaged ego relief and refurbishment. The first few minutes were awkward - we knew her not at all. But then I remember laughing - and Sara smiling, the best we could get from her - as Patrick explained the feeding habits of semi literate intellectuals and arrogant, pretentious writers.
     But there were many engaging people to meet - some seemed to be seeking "characters" to utilize in their work. Janice was already a published author of a children's book - creative, intelligent and extremely funny - she would write 20 more. "Jess and the Stinky Cowboys" is her most recent. Bernard was an Olympic class wrestler with a physique that stressed his clothing in every direction. He was a poet with a gentle, lyrical voice. We were sprawled - the five of us - on the grass under a massive oak while he read from his work. Poetry is an area in which I am beyond ignorant. But I was enjoying this reading. Bernard was deeply involved - I remember saying "great!" several times. On occasion we applauded. Even if you didn't understand all his work you had to like Bernard. Certainly the contrast between this powerful man and the intense presentation of his work was one reason. But I was also at ease with people whose primary interest was in the beauty and elegant expression of language. Finally - it was a warm and sunny afternoon in the mountains of Vermont.
     In August 2008, my grandson Tony and I drove up into the Adirondacks and put up a tent at Lake Durant State Park. The following day I went to the Adirondack Museum to do some research. The manuscript in my mental closet was again demanding some attention. I spent the afternoon examining documents and the final guest registers of the Prospect House. Located on Blue Mountain Lake in the 1890s, the Prospect House was a multistory, grand resort hotel - today not a board remains. I took the notes acquired and added them to the research folder. My manuscript is entitled Blue Mountain and it has six rejections - as of this date.

*I have lost the source of this story. ** See BLWC in Wikipedia.

                                                        

 

Jack - Timid, little, junk yard dog. "I'll bite you - yes I will - really! really! - honest!"

Adopted