“I’m tired. Let’s turn back.”
“I’d like to ride some more.”
“OK, see you at home.”
I turned away from Alan and rode my bike toward the courtyard of Pomona College. As I reached the fountain and chained my bike to a rack, the clock tower chimed twelve noon. I sat on the shady steps facing Sixth Street sipping a blue Gatorade. A limo pulled up, the back window lowered, and a man and woman holding champagne glasses beckoned me to join them. The passenger door opened and, my doubts dissolving like ice cubes in summer sun, I jumped in. As the door closed behind me, I entered a world different from any world I had ever known. The limo was packed with people, all talking and laughing– the party was ON!
My new friends were John and Ann, Michaelsun, Adrienne, Lloyd, Sam, Michael, Dylan, John, Monica, Jo, Ron and Donna– writers and poets all, bringing life to their words. Sipping my glass of champagne, I leaned into the cushy seat, tufted in Spanish red velvet, and relaxed into this adventure. If these were writers, this was the life for me.
* * *
Writing since the age of 11, I had been wanting to “do something” with it for years. Women lead sequential lives, and mine was no different. I was a language lab assistant in a chichi middle school, a West Hollywood boutique owner, the wife of an entertainer, a forensic document examiner, the wife of a hotelier, a mom, a corporate accessory, a mental health practitioner, an artist, and now, finally, a writer. It was the first thing I ever wanted to do, and it’s the last thing I have allowed myself to do.
My portal into the world of writing was Syd Bartman, a woman who lives in my college town and who teaches English in another college town. Through Syd, I met other writers, John Brantingham, Director of the English Department and human petri dish to up-and-coming talent, voice and counselor to aspiring writers and poets, and a multitude of professional writers, scriptwriters, graphic novelists and poets. John introduced me to my publisher, Sunny Frazier, and my first mystery novel will be released by Oak Tree Press later this year.
I’m no good alone, so I write on Tuesday mornings with my Ninth Street Scribblers. I used to meet weekly with the Foothill Nightwriters and now I meet weekly with my Monday night Writers of the Storm. In and between those meetings, I dream, formulate, plan, organize, procrastinate, avoid, and ultimately put new thoughts on paper.
I am writing poetry again, for the first time since my teen years. I am listening to and participating in poetry readings all over Southern California. Last night I attended a book launch for a gifted young poet, Jeremy Radin, who recognized and greeted me as I entered the theater. I met him at Lummis Day in June, featured him in a blog, and he remembered me.
This world of writers is open, inclusive and embracing to anyone who takes the time to mingle, get real and, once in a while, dare to share a snapshot of her or his inner landscape. Joy to me, joy to the world.
I raise my pen and give three cheers.
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