Last month my progenitors saw an article about writing programs and conferences
beyond the swamp in the Greater Motownopolis. (Yes, I just made that up.) They encouraged me to contact one.
I had heard of the Meadowbrook Writing Project from a colleague who attended several years ago. I found information about the one-day retreat, but it was last summer.
In hindsight, the university having expired data on its current calendar was a sign. But I took a look at the full-length invitational summer institute writing class, since I would earn three credits towards my continuing education requirement.
Sure, it’s a little pricey, I told myself, but it’s a writer’s workshop! What’s an extra week of rice and beans compared to sending the Inner Child to summer camp? A summer camp with writing every day and without mosquitos, sunburn, or cruel taunts like “¿Te tostaste al sol? ¿O eres langosta? ¡Ja ja ja!”
So I began my application and fiddled with my essay while talking to myself as I read the vague-but-insider-handshake descriptors of the potential candidates. “Broad demographic spectrum? Oh, yeah, my demographic is so broad you’ll need special glasses to see the whole spectrum!” Continue reading