Rivendell Writers’ Colony, established in 2013, is closing its doors at the end of March. I’m still in shock at the news because Rivendell was flourishing, on course to be a nationally known residency program, but its benefactor has now made other plans for the property.
My mother has dementia, but her old friends in no way shunned or ignored her. She was clearly happy to be there among them, and she said over and over again what wonderful people they are. There was no talk of politics, race, or religion within my hearing.
Worrying for years about a question with no answer is more than a little neurotic. It can also provide fertile soil for plot development.
Solo climbing in the Rockies violates every rule of mountain safety, particularly on a route I picked myself. But that’s the way I liked to do it, and had done it all my life. What happened on Mt. Yale should have been a cautionary tale, but some things are too good to give up.
Every year, I’m reminded of how refreshing it is to be among folks who love the sorcery of the written word. The Southern Festival of Books draws a diverse crowd, a vast spectrum of ages and ethnicities. Some gobble up mysteries; some nip at the syllables of poetry. Some are there to share their work, some are there to support those who share their work, and all of us are there because we have fallen under the spell of what can be done with words on a page.
Every Fourth of July, my buddies and I camped in the woods behind Anderson’s house. We called it Boston Hill because you could see the lights of the city thirty miles away. You could watch fireworks from all directions, all at once.
