It seems they liked it, they really liked it. The day dawned drizzly, everything was wet as usual during this exceptionally wet summer, hard to imagine spending the day in the garden. But we sat first on the deck, sheltered, and then it cleared up and there they were, in the garden, nine writers writing. The sound of minds at work, churning, pens scratching – magical.
It’s a lot of work, advertising the event, cleaning the house, getting the garden and garden furniture welcoming and ready, cooking, serving, and clearing away a big lunch, planning the writing prompts, guiding them all through the day. I am spent by the end, and yet exhilarated, because it IS magical, listening to stories that have flowed out just a few minutes before, beautiful work, honest, funny, moving. One said, at the beginning, that she liked the writer inside herself, she just didn’t know how to find her. At the end, she said, “She came out to play.” One wrote, “Thank you so much for giving me a privileged glimpse into your lives, your stories, into your happiness and pain. I came away a better person for having met you, heard you, spoken with you. Beth, I’m so grateful I was able to participate in this wonderful excursion of the mind in your magical garden which brought us all ‘home.'”
Another, “It felt marvellous to use my writing brain again by composing under a time line, and sharing with others on the spot. Felt like a workout! What an interesting, diverse group of women you assembled.”
And another, “I am so inspired and feel like I can now write about anything. I will never forget this very special day we shared. Beth, you rock! We all do!”
And a fourth, “When summer winds down, I am sure this day will count among those rare single perfect days. Thank you Beth. Thank you writers. Magic like that? I’m hoping my lucky streak continues into tomorrow.”
So glad it worked. So glad it’s over. Now what I’d really like to do is nothing. Instead – New York.
P.S. Happy discovery #629: it’s easy to kill slugs in dishes of beer. I finally got around to trying it, as the slimy creatures were munching through the basil. Now I go to the veg garden every morning to count the dead slugs, who died happily slurping Molson’s Canadian.
