 A log cabin in the woods of Sutton Island is an apt site for my second-to-last Friday writing workshop. This workshop has been the perfect bridge between the world of “first book” and the uncertain world of “keep writing.” Eleven cumulative hours of writing on paper tapped into long-neglected brain paths. My hand aches; my scribbles scrunch and twist into the margins as I scratch inky marks onto clean seas of white. Not just the product, but the process becomes visible, tangible, informative. I have found my circuitous way towards…something that excites me. Birds flutter in my chest, summoning me down creative paths I hadn’t considered. Where will I go? What do I want to say? Who am I on paper? Where is the heat? The heat is not in this frigid cabin (see me wrapped in a wool blanket?). I will walk out the door with my dogs, turn right, and head towards the sea, to my house, where maybe another kind of fire has been lit. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 262: 168 words, TOTAL = 44,513; 15,487 remaining |
AuthorRobin Clifford Wood is a writer and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband and dogs, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her grown children and their multi-species families. Archives
January 2021
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