Writings of Stefon Mears

One of the many versions of bad fantasy is the Boring Quest: the protagonist decides to go from Place A to Place B and does so, with no obstacles or events of any significance en route. It’s a terrible way to tell a story, but few of us would choose a trip full of difficult obstacles and life changing events for our daily drive to work.

I confess, I had rather hoped that my trip to Camp Casey on Whidbey Island for the Fall 2010 residency would be more like a drive to work than a trip through the Mines of Moria. While I did not have to face anything so bad as a balrog, or even a cave troll, I did have to overcome a few challenges. The first in this line was the great Threshold Guardian of modern America: airport security. Perhaps I should have seen it coming, but TSA has never given me a problem before.

My backpack is wrenched open in front of me, and a small amount of digging produces a plastic cup of bright red goo the size of a single-serving pudding snack. It is clearly labeled to weigh four ounces, but I don’t understand why that would be at issue, since the goo is not liquid.

“What is this?” asks the Guardian, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. I can feel myself sliding in her mind from ‘traveler’ to ‘potential terrorist.’

“Physical Therapy putty. I need to it do exercises for my hand,” I say, pointing at my recovering left hand. I suddenly realize that the Guardian might see a potential explosive, and I worry that I will spend the next two hours in a small room answering unpleasant questions and submitting to uncomfortable searches.

I dig out of my backpack a piece of shaped plastic, less worried about it being misunderstood because it looks like exactly what it is, a makeshift cast. “This is the splint I have to wear when I’m sleeping, to maintain the hand in a resting position.” I indicate the Velcro straps that hold it in place. I start to put it on, to demonstrate, but she takes it from me.

She looks at the splint for a moment, then holds up the PT putty and says, “I’ll just run this through chemical analysis.” I barely notice what she actually does, because running through my head are news stories of false positive results on drug tests and concerns that my backpack might have transported fireworks, or something equally innocent whose residue might look guilty. What I do see looks as though she puts the open container of putty into an ice machine, takes it out a moment later, caps it again, and hands it back to me. Apparently it passed the test, confirming that I have no untoward intentions on my trip up the West Coast, but she doesn’t leave me with wishes for a pleasant trip or thank me for being cooperative. Instead she dismisses me by saying something like, “Your backpack is too heavy.”

The flight itself was far friendlier, and I arrived at Sea-Tac in good time. Getting my small suitcase from baggage claim took some time, but no hassle. I noted later that I was pleased to find that it had not been treated to special inspection like my backpack.

This time I would forego the shuttle to Whidbey Island in favor of getting a ride from a kindhearted friend and fellow student. Before leaving the area we would pick up another friend and fellow student, and the drive to her house brought me my first clue that getting to Camp Casey might not be as simple as I’d assumed.

The driver told me along the way from the airport that she didn’t really use directions or maps or a GPS. She told me that she drove much the way she had wandered the woods as a child, by landmarks. She knew basically where our other passenger lived and she was going to head that direction and we’d find it.

Now I live in the Bay Area, where people give directions by linking to Mapquest or Google Maps, or simply provide an address and expect people to use a GPS, often the one that came with their phones. Still, I drive as much by what I know of an area as I do by street names and addresses. I often remember what street a friend lives on because I know I turn right at the Starbucks – not the one by the grocery store, the other one. So I’m not terribly worried about her approach, and she brings us to the right house in short order, despite some seeming hesitancy along the way.

After the third member of our traveling fellowship kissed her husband and children goodbye, we were on our way. Well, following some discussion of ways to get to the freeway. Some small debate between the two Seattle locals later, we had settled on a route and were making decent time on the first leg of our journey.

We missed a freeway interchange, but I almost overlooked that fact when a semi tried to kill us. All right, that’s not quite fair. It wasn’t really the semi’s fault anyway.

The semi is in front of us and has been keeping a proper following distance from the car in front of it. We are just realizing that we missed the interchange, and traffic is slowing to a halt when some jackass in a tiny car slips in front of the semi. That safe following distance is cut by two-thirds and the only question is, can the semi’s brakes prevent said jackass from being scraped off of the pavement with a shovel?

For that matter, can we stop in time to avoid the same fate ourselves?

The semi does its best, brakes squealing and tires spewing smoke, while our driver stands on her brake pedal and we all brace for impact, drawing inexorably closer to the huge vehicle. Our brakes hold. The semi’s brakes hold. No one dies, and scant inches separate us from all that truck. We start breathing again and take the next exit.

We fought the great beast to a standstill, and were allowed to pass.

Rather than backtrack, our driver displayed either marvelous instincts or an excellent knowledge of the area, because she felt her way through a few city streets and back onto the freeway we had missed without much lost time.

The next major obstacle was a known variable of unknown value: the ferry. Techie that I am, I had checked the ferry’s website, and learned that no slowdowns in service had been a problem for at least three hours. Apparently I was more industrious about checking their status online than they were about updating it. We joined the line for the ferry and saw a more recent posting: ferry backup, two hours.

We were already running late. A two hour wait would delay us past orientation and perhaps into the dinner hour. The denizens of our SUV may have had mixed feelings about missing orientation, but none of us wanted to miss dinner.

The lone Californian of the group, I didn’t see how we had any options. We were going from the mainland to an island, and the ferry was delayed. I should have known better – dramatically speaking, some obstacles are to be overcome and others are to be circumvented. There was a bridge.

For me, at least, this obstacle concealed treasure: a dramatic view. The bridge to Whidbey Island is high above the waters of Deception Pass, a cavalcade of crossed-currents and whirlpools that churn and shift as though taking up arms against those who would cross them by boat.

We finally arrived at Camp Casey, having missed orientation, but in time to participate in the discussion of possible future expansion projects for the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts. Like all intrepid explorers at the end of a quest, I grabbed a drink, collapsed into a chair, and realized I had to go to the bathroom. If only I knew where that was. . . .

I’m all ready to leave, but for the packing.  The awful, horrible packing.  Well, not really – packing for the residency is actually pretty easy.  I just had a sudden desire to write this whole post in a pulp, semi-Lovecraftian style, but I think I’ll refrain.

I may be getting a bit punchy from the anticipation.  In January I had no real idea of what to expect, but this time I already have a notion of how much fun I will have and how heavy the workload will be.  What’s more, this time I will not only get to meet new people, but re-connect with many of the students from the past semester.

Back to the preparations, though.  I’ve done all my required reading, and I’ve enjoyed it, which is a good sign for the upcoming classes.  I’ve finished the pieces I need to have ready for my workshop, or at least I have them as close to presentable as they’re going to get right now.  I’ve refreshed my expended school supplies.  Only a few small details remain, such as checking the batteries for my mp3 player’s mobile speakers and setting up the printer driver on my laptop.  The school brings a printer for us to use as needed, and I’d rather have the drivers set up (or at least downloaded) before I go.  I should also choose a piece for reading aloud, in case we have student readings one night.

Oh, and shoes.  I really ought to pick up some new shoes.  My right sneaker seems to have installed an after-market ventilation system rather without consulting me.  Obviously, such cheek is not to be tolerated, and both it and its partner should be sacked at once.

What was that about me getting punchy?

Anyway, I discovered at the last residency that bringing comfortable footwear is very important.  I had concerns about the weather and local conditions, so I only brought a pair of hiking boots.  After ten days of wearing those boots for fourteen to sixteen hours a day I have concluded that I would have been better off in my sneakers.  I hope that holds true for Camp Casey, which is our summer site.

This is probably my last post until I return from Washington.  Much as I like the idea of updating from there, I don’t want to count on having the time, energy, and wireless connection necessary.  When I get back, though, I fully expect to have a few anecdotes ready to post.

On the seventh day I rested.  Oh, wait, that wasn’t me.  That was from some other story.  Anyway, on Day Seven were student readings.  I’ve never really read any of my own work aloud before, so, in keeping with my throw-myself-in-the-fire approach to the residency, I volunteered.

Naturally, they asked me to go first.  Gee, no pressure or anything.

I was not expecting student readings, so I hadn’t brought anything specific to read.  What’s more, I only had five minutes, which sounds like a lot, but only really comes down to six to eight hundred words or so.  Well, this assumes that one wishes to speak clearly and slowly enough to be understood.  With a voice as deep as mine clarity should never be taken for granted, so I wanted to err on the six hundred side.  I quickly decided that the opening of my novel-in-progress would be my best option, and began practicing in my room when I could find a few minutes.

Fortunately on Day Six some of us gathered for a practice session, which seemed to go pretty well.  I read a different piece for the practice, although I didn’t know why I wasn’t practicing the piece I would be reading.

I figured that out at noon on Day Seven, some seven hours before the reading itself, when most of my afternoon would be spent in classes.  You see, there is a drawback to studying craft while preparing for a public reading – you find yourself seeing problems in your writing that you hadn’t been aware of.

It wasn’t bad enough that I had three different characters speaking in the scene, which would be tricky enough for my first effort aloud.  It was worse than that.  I was practicing in the mirror when it suddenly struck me that my opening scene was flat – it began following action instead of during action and thus had no sense of urgency or anything compelling the reader’s attention.  This felt intolerable, and I was scheduled to expose these flaws to a room full of people in a few hours.  Because of afternoon classes I wouldn’t have time to re-write it either.  I madly scrawled notes toward a fix to this problem and cast about for something more suitable to read.

Nothing speeds editing like urgency.  I found a suitable moment from chapter two, trimmed it to about six hundred fifty words, read it over twice and hoped for the best.  It went over quite well, all things considered.

How do you compress a typhoon?  I knew the residency would be intensive, but I had no real idea of what I was in for:  ten days of classes, study, readings, writing, socializing and the occasional collapse into sleep.  I loved every minute of it, not that I had any sense of time at all.  If it weren’t for the regular meal breaks I would have had a hell of a time knowing where I was supposed to be and when.  The food was pretty good too, although the staff was challenged a bit by some varied special needs among the diners.

The classes themselves would be too much to talk about except to say that both craft class and the workshop covered a lot of good ground for me and left me chomping at the bit to see what I could do over the semester.  I think it says something that I was already seeing improvement in my writing and my approach to writing before the residency was over.

The afternoon classes in the profession of writing were similarly productive for me.  We had a variety of speakers from working writers to agents to editors and more, all of whom had so very much to say.  Just to give a small idea: I am now expanding my view to include nonfiction articles and books (I had already considered essays), children’s books, literary magazines and more.

Whidbey Island is a beautiful place, and the staff of the Captain Whidbey Inn was friendly and helpful.  Although, I must admit I didn’t see much of the island because I was too busy with classes and homework.  I’m not sure that’ll change at future residencies either.