 I got lost driving to O’Hanlon for the April Write In. Not too lost. But I relaxed into the wrong lane coming from the East Bay and before I knew it, I was headed to Sacramento instead of toward the Golden Gate Bridge. Still stuck in the 20th century, driving with neither a car equipped with GPS nor a cell phone equipped with smartness, I backtracked the way I’d come and when I finally got on the right highway, I was a full half an hour later than I’d planned.
Why do I travel all this way from Oakland just to go write? I fumed, as I gunned the car across the Richmond Bridge. I could have just stayed home and trekked up the street to the library. Just before the Mill Valley exit, I saw plumes of smoke high in the sky, like a little gray cloud that lost its way. Oh, great. An accident. Now I’ll really be late. The smoke wafted off the blackened shell of a car on the shoulder near East Blithedale, flanked by three fire trucks and a police car. Turning away from the accident site, I felt the familiar squeeze in the pit of my stomach. If I hadn’t been late, would I have seen the car when it was on fire? Or worse, been witness to the crash? I really should have stayed home. As I turned toward downtown, impatient cars weaved around me, no doubt looking at their GPS and smart phones for ways to circumvent the blockade set up by the police. I bet no one else is even going come. But somewhere down the windy road past the theatre, past the shortcut I never remembered to take, the bookstore, the library, the air changed. It was the crisp clean smell of redwoods, like the cold foggy San Francisco summers before the drought. The smell of writing. My stomach jumped and I smiled without even realizing it. This is the place where my writing isn’t just about me writing. It’s about the inspiration I get from my WoMas. Lorrie is just finishing the A-Z blog challenge. Vicki is getting ready for Listen To Your Mother. Jilanne is getting ready for the a Kid’s Lit conference in L.A. And even though Jilanne is the only other person who makes it to the Write In, I can still hear the echoes of the rest of the group. Reverberations of enthusiasm and laughter from the three years we’ve spent here at this table. In these chairs. Watching those deer and those squirrels. Making time for writing. Together. This is why I make the trip. Janine Kovac works for Litquake, San Francisco's literary festival. She lives in Oakland with her husband and three small children. She spends her free time wondering if it's really free time or if she's just forgotten to do something. |
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