In Which I Leave Where the Writers Are.



The week fell together, no schedule needed.

The nights on the steps outside of the dorms became our hippy writer spot. Poetry was a hotbed there, the few boys that were at the workshop making the most of it, and damn were they good. Seriously, the way they spoke words that they put down onto paper was fabulous from the ones that simply wrote to the other with love poetry an extra pocket on his sleeve.

After, well...

"Why are we doing this?" Loren said, "It's not like we are in school and this is getting graded."

Emma and I glanced up at her from the chairs across our room where the only clock we brought on my desk blared past 2 a.m. in bright red numbers. She made a decent point as we stressed, beginning to think no short story we had to write during the week would ever be anything but slightly not totally suck-ish. We had to finish them one way or another even if it had taken us to near exhaustion and literally passing out right as our heads it the pillows on the beds that creaked so loudly whenever you wanted to move. 

"We just really care, okay??"

I'm still not sure how great my story was that I handed in at the end of the week of memories that hold fast in my head with nostalgia that keeps my mind ringing. But I did read it, and write it, hand send it away for the bind up of them all. So I did try with all the passion a writer writing something they didn't really want to write but did want to be proud would. 

Those late late late so late it turned morning nights are proof of that. 

The night before the last morning where we all read and headed home was a private sort of readings where people you may have never seen before in the workshop finally got up and read their stories, trusting in those crazy ideas just like Emma's notebook said. '
I didn't read. Didn't want to exactly in my mind as I listened to the talent, and then the even more talented as the guys read their poetry (from rhyming to love) on the steps our final night until we realized it was over.

No more strummed songs off strings to be heard while watching the Wolf of Wall Street kids jump out windows when they thought that their dorm was on fire...twice. It wasn't.

Words were read on Saturday morning and then it was time to head on out with only thoughts of the fantastic week we had that went to past though they would never do it justice. To pack up for real this time, and go home away from friends and how we somehow started calling our dorms home. Even our rooms that had leaves taped to the wall for decoration (Bethany). :)

The funny group messages that the five of us had lasted all the way until Maddie made it back to Maine...and after. I'm sure if I wanted to I could text them all right now and they would sing you You and I for as long as you want.

From way up there, you and I, you and I...




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