The Chautauqua Writer's Conference

                                                                A Dream Come True

                                                                                 June 2016

My husband Cliff was sitting on the porch waiting to welcome me home when I pulled into the driveway from the 13^th Annual Chautauqua Writer’s four-day conference at about 2:00 pm on a Sunday afternoon. I was tired and fulfilled after being with writers of all ages and genres.  No, there are no missing letters.  I didn’t forget to include the letters d and e. I intentionally meant genres; fiction, non-fiction, prose, creative non-fiction, song writing, and poetry.  I was honored to be in the company of over sixty writers, including some who had their poems, short stories, novels, songs and memoirs published.   The writers ranged from having  Ph.D.’s in writing to those, who like myself, have no degree, but a calling and desire to write.

Back in April, I made reservations to stay at the Athenaeum Hotel that was constructed in the 1880’s.  I’ve been visiting Chautauqua annually since the 1980’s when I attended a Mary Chapin Carpenter concert at the amphitheater.  I immediately fell in love with the quaint houses, brick streets, the bell tower and the lake.  Staying at the hotel was a dream come true.   I admiringly looked at the Hotel, only from a distance and wondered who had enough money to stay here.  The Chautauqua Institute in upstate New York was founded in 1874 by a Methodist minister. It began as an educational experiment for summer learning of religion, culture and the arts.  The idea swept across the country and in the 1920’s there were over two hundred Chautauquas across the United States.  The “Mother” Institute is the only one that remains.  Each year I try to attend at least one of the free Sunday concerts, so I can enjoy a day of culture that includes, music, theater and dance.   Last year my friend Marilyn and I even ate at the affordable Tally-Ho Restaurant before attending a concert.

This year, I felt like royalty as I pulled my 2006 Subaru Forester--in my mind it was a Volvo wagon-- into the front of the hotel to check in.  The patterned carpet, elegant chandeliers and sweeping staircases in the lobby took away my breath.  As I was picking up my packet of information that included my name tag, a schedule and bound book about Chautauqua, a  tall, slender man, dressed in casual attire of unpressed slacks and an unbuttoned cream colored shirt-I was relieved this wasn’t a suit and tie event- and black plastic framed eyeglasses approached me and said:

“Welcome, Jeanette. Have you been here before?” 

“No, this is my first time.”

“Well, I hope you enjoy yourself.” 

I was surprised to hear a woman behind me address Phil as “Dr. Thurman.”  Phil has a Ph.D. in poetry. 

I checked in at the main desk and retrieved the key to my room; that was on the fourth floor of an annex.  When I looked in the direction of  the stately wood staircase but didn’t see any elevators,  the attendant said: “If you drive around to the side of the building there are elevators that will take you closer to your room that is in the annex.”   I pulled my car around to side as instructed and unloaded my luggage into the utilitarian elevator that was added onto the building as an afterthought.  I wondered how people in the 1940 and 50’s, before handicapped accessibility was mandatory,  managed their luggage.  Perhaps they traveled lighter than I did.   When I found my room at the end of the hall, the door opened with a real key, rather than a credit card device, like most hotels.  As I was arriving with my baggage, my roommate was just leaving the room. We exchanged names and shook hands.

Our room was less elegant than the lobby of the hotel, but it had two comfortable single beds and fan folded towels and washcloths.  I plopped my suitcases by the bed next to the window with a view of the scenic Chautauqua Lake.  After getting unpacked and settle in, I headed back down to the dining room for a lunch of artisan bread, soup, and salad.

After lunch, I found  Nancy McCabe’s class on non-fiction writing, in the back of the hotel lobby.    Nancy authored four published memoirs and is the Director of Writing at the University of Pitt-Bradford campus.    The six writers, including my roommate,  lingered in and found seats around a dining room table with a white covered table cloth.  I had already met one of the writers in person the week before at an Author’s Forum, in DuBois.  It was comforting to see a familiar face.   The other classmates I had met online through required writing submissions before the conference began.  I put names to faces as if I was playing the childhood game Guess Who.   After introductions, Nancy briefly gave us an overview of different writing styles, including narrative essay and descriptive essay. I was the first in line to have my writing reviewed the next morning.

After the workshop I walked over to Seaver’s Gym, just across from the Girl’s Gym, admiring the stately houses lined with magenta pansies, fire-red geraniums, and amethyst shaded azaleas, to attend an open mic session. On my previous visits to Chautauqua, I had never ventured past the hotel.   The outbuildings, still in good repair, but without modern accommodations felt as if I was in the 1950’s  setting of Dirty Dancing.   A wood walkway led into the gym with no air conditioning, wood framed windows that were opened widely to cool off the building from the summer heat.  We sat in wood folding chairs listening to writers and poets from the age of twenty years old to eighty-five years old read their work.  It was pure pleasure to listen to the lyrical readings of seasoned poets and writers.

With enough time in between the readings and supper, I walked down to the lake to slip off my sandals and dip my toes into the cool water.  Supper out did the lunch with a spread of salads, vegetarian main dishes and meat dishes. The desserts, cheesecake, fruit tart, brownies, carrot cake, cookies, parfaits, were more than enough to satisfy my sweet tooth.  I sat at a table with writers from as far away as Vermont and as close by as Bemus Point. 

Each evening, after supper, when the sun was setting, we gathered in the parlor of the hotel, or at another outbuilding to hear  an instructor  read their published works of poetry, memoir and stories.  The most memorable for me was hearing  Stephen Dunn, poet and distinguished professor of creative writing,  in his raspy aged voice read his poem,

The Imagined

By Stephen Dunn

If the imagined woman makes the real woman seem bare-boned, hardly existent, lacking in gracefulness and intellect and pulchritude,and if you come to realize the imagined woman can only satisfy your imagination, whereas the real woman with all her limitations can often make you feel good, how, in spite of knowing this, does the imagined woman keep getting into your bedroom, and joining you at dinner, why is it that you always bring her along on vacations when the real woman is shopping, or figuring the best way to the museum?

 And if the real woman

has an imagined man, as she must, someone probably with her at this very moment, in fact doing and saying everything she’s ever wanted, would you want to know that he slips into her life every day from a secret doorway she’s made for him, that he’s present even when you’re eating your omelette at breakfast,or do you prefer how she goes about the house as she does, as if there were just the two of you? Isn’t her silence, finally, loving? And yours not entirely self-serving? Hasn’t the time come, once again, not to talk about it?

After the readings, we walked along the lake to the Pier building where an event called “The Hoot” was scheduled.   Writers strummed guitars and ukuleles and sang along to favorite folk songs from the sixties and seventies.  Young college students with a penchant for singing courageously got up and sang their favorite songs, following lyrics on their smartphones.  The audience sipped on glasses of merlot and clapped to the beat of familiar and some unfamiliar tunes until the bell tower struck midnight.  

At the next morning’s workshop, we dove right into evaluating our previously submitted writings.  I was hoping for rave reviews but instead was challenged to improve my style of writing.  I have over 40,000 words of my memoir wrote and was overwhelmed when Nancy suggested I write in the descriptive scene.   I came to the conference hoping to get suggestions on how to organize what I already had written and wasn’t expecting to hear this. Being highly sensitive to criticism,  I  felt as is a big gust of the wind came and blew over the house I had just built.  Thankfully, the writing framework is sturdily in place, and the house just took a little pummeling. The structure is now needs windows,  siding, wallboard, paint, wallpaper and some trim.    I failed to say that I received more than enough compliments on the strengths of my writing.

At our next class, Nancy instructed: “Choose a scene and write everything you can see in that scene.”  After writing a few minutes, she interrupted our writing and said: “Now, write about everything you can hear in the scene.”  We then changed to textures and feelings.  By the time, it was over I had two pages of descriptions.  My scene was I of Muncie hall at Mooseheart.  Our homework for the next day was to write a paragraph or two from the scene. 

In between the workshops, each of the students had an opportunity to meet with Nancy one on one, and she encouraged me to keep writing in a narrative style -- I think she sensed that I felt overwhelmed by the descriptive style of writing--and that the chapters would fall in place. That night after tossing and turning in bed, I opened my laptop and completed the homework assignment. When two other classmates and I read our homework to class the next day, Nancy said: “You have exceeded my expectations.” I felt like I had accomplished something.  Throughout the conference, I met some new friends and hoped to keep in touch with them.

 Just like Cinderella, my carriage turned into a pumpkin, and I drove home--not in a Volvo, but my scratched up Subaru-- feeling tired and thinking I never wanted to write or read another word again in my life.  After a warm hug and unloading my luggage, Cliff asked: “How did was the conference?”  I didn’t want to disappoint him by saying what I was thinking.  After getting caught up on my rest, I sat down and edited the piece I wrote and explained what I learned.   At breakfast the next morning,  I read him my descriptive essay of Muncie Hall. After listening intently without any interruptions, he  said:  “If your whole book reads as good as that it will be a best-seller.”