The Writer’s Colony in Eureka Springs
February 16:
I traveled from Orange County, California to Las Vegas, to Salt Lake City where I changed planes to finally arrive in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. Why am I here? To gain the experience of writing in a writer’s in residency program located in a rural small town community. Eureka Springs looks more European than American, an area that historically thrived in the Ozarks at the end of the nineteenth century with apparently over 100,000 residents. Today an estimated 20,000 people live here. Businesses cater to both locals and tourists with small boutiques and eateries: bars, cafes, antiques, patisseries, t-shirts, a tarot card reader, and even a spa. So how might this setting inspire the writer? What is the purpose of being here after traveling this distance? It changes the thinking process by seeing the stories that a writer wants to begin, coming from an entirely different perspective. More easily I can address questions in my work such as: Why did this happen to this character? What did I leave out about him or her? Why is the setting in the story so important, and how does its landscape imply a different kind of tale other than what I thought I was telling? A writer, in short, requires a sharp memory and open mindedness in order to write well. Changing one’s environment nurtures that process. Aside from some of the distractions of getting here and settling in, which is worthy of a separate blog, I have to learn to retrain my own mind and perception of my reality in order to write something worth reading.
Evening of February 16, 2025
So, I got to meet some of the writers. Meeting them, I discovered a specific pattern—none of these writers could claim to live in ONE place. We are all from somewhere, but that place of origin never ends up being our permanent home. It’s just like the story. It changes as the plot and characters develop. Once a story’s finished, that’s it. A writer is already thinking about something else, another character, another plot, another setting, before they even finish the first story. The writer is always seeking something new to spark new inspiration. There are some exceptions. Emily Dickinson lived in the same place her whole life, but her mind, according to her poetry, was someplace else, probably beyond this universe at a time when it certainly wasn’t popular for single women to venture out into the world, and definitely not by themselves. Writers seldom write with the idea of a big paycheck in mind. Instead they are passionate about creating new work, and the only people who seem to understand that process is another writer. There is this hidden language, mode of communication that writers understand. Community. Kinship. That’s what writers seek without often knowing it. But when they find it, that discovery begins by meeting someone who speaks their language. So meeting the other writers last night was a unique opportunity, a gift, a love, a tribe, a language, a falling into, a settling down making this retreat so much more special, unforgettable.
Sunday, February 17
At home with Troy
How did I get to my writer’s retreat? That was an adventure in and of itself. I left Orange County at around 3:30am to reach Las Vegas. My family (who live in Las Vegas) graciously agreed to take care of my beloved Siberian Husky who will be in very good hands during the week that I am gone. My dog is my family, my best friend, my conscience. He helps me do the right thing. He calms me down, by making direct eye contact with me when I am out of line. People love their dogs so much, and often times their four legged friend understands them better than most people. My dog still acts like a dog, endlessly hungry, trying to manipulate me into sharing my food with him, pulling on the leash when he sees a squirrel. But in many ways, my guy has greater emotional intelligence than I will ever have. At the start of our trip, my first mistake was thinking: we’re making good time. But driving from the 241 freeway to the 91 heading east towards Riverside County, a squad car stopped all cars driving along the five-lane freeway due to an injury accident that involved a three vehicle pile up collision. More squad cars showed up, a couple fire trucks, EMTs, firemen sprinting across the empty freeway as we sat and watched with the engine still running to keep us warm. According to my dog, this was just part of the trip, as he sat in the backseat without a care in the world. Sensing my mood, he rested his head on my shoulder, a moderate gesture telling me to chill out. After an hour, traffic started moving, and it was as if nothing happened. So onward to Vegas we traveled through Victorville (my least favorite) Barstow, Yermo, Baker, Primm, Jean, and Tah-dah, Vegas in its sleepy glory with the sun coming up strong. The rest was uneventful, even flying to Arkansas from McCarran Airport, everything happy go lucky until I arrived at my destination. Sometimes getting to a new place is about working out the glitches, the heater that doesn’t work, the broken chair where the writer is supposed to sit and write, the lack of Wi-Fi for those of us checking facts online as we continue to shape our stories. Then the moment comes. There are no distractions, no traveling from place to place. Write, write, write, and stop complaining and being a pain in the ass. Just write and let the keys on my laptop show me how this story is going to go. Back into the groove of a writer’s life.
February 19, 2025
Wordsworth declares, "Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, but to be young was very heaven." Since I have been on this writing retreat, I have learned a few things about that ever-precious commodity known as “time,” immediately bringing to mind Wordsworth’s crucial observation about life. One lesson I had to revisit since I’ve been here is to take my time getting from one place to another—to take time—and to take one step—one day at a time. Yesterday, the temperatures were roughly 15 degrees, snowing all day long here in Eureka Springs. While walking to town at my typical brisk pace of “let’s go—let’s get there—NOW,” the conditions of the road had other things in mind, namely, SLOW DOWN. Nature’s rules always prevail over human will. When nature says, SLOW DOWN, I am supposed to listen. But yesterday, I didn’t fare so well, falling twice, the first with a soft landing on fresh snow, and the second with a painful thud on my lower back and whacking my head on the concrete. OUCH! You might want to say, I was bitch slapped by mother nature: SLOW DOWN.
Early morning in Eureka Springs after the snowstorm.
The speed limit in town is 15 miles per hour. Drivers had better listen. After the snowstorm, the narrow roads are icy and slick, and there are no guardrails up here in the Ozarks. The townspeople take heed to these restrictions, and what I discovered is that they generally have a laid back, positive attitude. The irony is that the place where I come from has often been characterized as “chill.” But coming from the west coast region, I am learning a lot from the simplicity of everyday life in Eureka Springs. Nothing here is that big of a deal. The community is more on the side of nature rather than human will. The people here understand the consequences that come with asserting one’s will over the inflexibility of good ‘ole mother nature, who simply smiles, says no, then lets the rest take care of itself, which in my case was crashing hard on the sidewalk, followed by, “Oh F**K!” Life is certainly too short to be rushing through it, and I certainly learned a lot on this matter, hoping I remember it when I return home. My rigid inflexibility needs to change, which yes, falling down motivated me to work on that. Wordsworth’s point about not only being alive, but also being young, is that no matter how old I am today or however old I am when I die, the experiences and lessons that I learn continue to remind me 1) to bee grateful to trudge the road ahead, 2) and enjoy the journey by taking my time.
Evening, Feb. 19, 2025
Coffee at Brews in Eureka Springs, Arkansas
Writers are of a unique tribe. They are all inclusive, welcoming, outgoing, friendly, sometimes quirky but usually authentic. From the first person I met here, Beth, I automatically felt like I was in the right place. All the people here are easy to get to know. While writing that down just now felt a little too saccharine, it’s true. My attitude needed an adjustment before coming here, and well, everything is falling into place. Previously, I’ve been too critical , and while in some cases, that feeling is justifiable (especially in the case of my work), it sure does not help improve my day. This group of writers, the wonderful food our chef Jana Jones carefully plans each night, the quality work that I produced on this retreat, the brutally cold walk into town followed by the thought that “this is so cool”—has inevitably adjusted my attitude. I learned so much from this group of writers. My insecurities aren’t standing obstinately in my way, and I feel grateful. For some of the writers, tonight, this is the last super before they go home tomorrow, Sue, a poet and Beth who is writing a novel. Parting is so bittersweet.
