Iron Springs report
Jun. 29th, 2008 05:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nonionayI'm at Iron Springs, where there isn't actually internet. (Iron Springs being the informal name for an informal writing retreat on the Washington coast) San, Chelsea and I just got back from the beach, where we looked at the stars. It's been longer than I can remember since I was able to look at stars free of light pollution in a sky that stretched from horizon to horizon.
I've been to the north coast a lot, which is rocky and craggy and I love it to death. But the beaches aren't nearly as wide as here. Here near Ocean Shores, the beach is really fine, flat sand that feels like powdered silk that still refuses to sink beneath your weight. You can walk and walk in pitch blackness, unafraid of tripping. We walked straight out to where the water soaks the sand, clams and worms bubble in their little burrows, and the stars shine at our feet. San said they were the ghosts of dead stars, I said they were the stars' dreams.
Slightly later, less dreamy, Elizabeth talking:
The second night, the entire group went down just after sunset, hoping to see phosphorescent bacteria. We saw an iridium flare, but no little glowy things. I've had loads of energy on this trip. Not writing energy, but rather, "OMG I can run and dance in the surf" energy, and of course, "eeeeeee!!! Ren and Audrey!! New people!!" energy.
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thecrimsony took lots of pictures, and if you see them, I'm the blurry one, the ghostly wraith closest to the waves.
The actual critiquing part of the workshop went well. All the complaints I've received in the past about my work—shallow pov/inability to connect to characters, too much infodumping/characters up front—were nonexistent. Instead, people actually got what I was trying to do, and picked up on what I wanted them to. In the past, I've gotten in the way of my own storytelling, and here, I'm not.
Of course, they got to read the only coherent part of the story so far. This is the novel I decided to write organically, and after the fifteen pages I workshopped, it turns into a big jumbly soup of stuff I have to clean up.
All in all, a nice, relaxing weekend, even if the drive down was a hot 5 mph hell from Shoreline to Olympia.
I've been to the north coast a lot, which is rocky and craggy and I love it to death. But the beaches aren't nearly as wide as here. Here near Ocean Shores, the beach is really fine, flat sand that feels like powdered silk that still refuses to sink beneath your weight. You can walk and walk in pitch blackness, unafraid of tripping. We walked straight out to where the water soaks the sand, clams and worms bubble in their little burrows, and the stars shine at our feet. San said they were the ghosts of dead stars, I said they were the stars' dreams.
Slightly later, less dreamy, Elizabeth talking:
The second night, the entire group went down just after sunset, hoping to see phosphorescent bacteria. We saw an iridium flare, but no little glowy things. I've had loads of energy on this trip. Not writing energy, but rather, "OMG I can run and dance in the surf" energy, and of course, "eeeeeee!!! Ren and Audrey!! New people!!" energy.
thecrimsony took lots of pictures, and if you see them, I'm the blurry one, the ghostly wraith closest to the waves.The actual critiquing part of the workshop went well. All the complaints I've received in the past about my work—shallow pov/inability to connect to characters, too much infodumping/characters up front—were nonexistent. Instead, people actually got what I was trying to do, and picked up on what I wanted them to. In the past, I've gotten in the way of my own storytelling, and here, I'm not.
Of course, they got to read the only coherent part of the story so far. This is the novel I decided to write organically, and after the fifteen pages I workshopped, it turns into a big jumbly soup of stuff I have to clean up.
All in all, a nice, relaxing weekend, even if the drive down was a hot 5 mph hell from Shoreline to Olympia.
