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HORROR AT WRITER'S CAMP
By George T. Philibin
Do you want to learn how to write? It's easy. Go to the Blue Ridge Writer's Retreat atop one of Pennsylvania's beautiful mountains situated east of Pittsburgh. There, the writing instructor will guarantee that you will leave with a feel for a story.
I took the one week course and have testified in court that you will live your stories.
It all started when I read an ad in Writer's Advances magazine during my summer break. The fee was not too much and my parents wanted me out of the house for a while, so Dad gave me a check for the fee, enough cash for food, and even kicked in some spending money. He drove me up to the retreat the next Monday morning.
We pulled into what looked like an Amish village with log cabins centered around a plank dinning hall that had a large sign hung over the doorway which proclaimed, "To Think! To Write! To Be!"
Great, I thought; I remembered an English teacher in high school who had a knack for making essays and book reports fun.
"Here's a cellphone. Call your mom sometimes. She worries, you know," Dad said.
"In the brochure it says not to bring cellphones because they can hinder concentration. They have phones here, Dad, regular phones in case we need to call," I said.
"Whatever, but call your mom," Dad said.
He waited until I signed in.
When I finished, I walked back down the steps to the car and said, "Thanks, Dad, I really appreciate this. Boy, all you can hear up here is the sounds of writers thinking!"
"Yes, this place is rather isolated ... at least that should keep you out of trouble," Dad said. After a pause, he added, "You know, it isn't easy making a living as a writer. Are you still thinking about law school? Many lawyers are writers on the side."
"Yes, Dad. I'm still contemplating law school," I answered, "but writing is my first love."
*Sighing, Dad said,* "Call us if you need anything. If we're out of town, your sister can come up. Well -- have fun."
As I watched Dad turn around and start down the dirt road, I heard, "Hi, I'm Ruth, this is Jimmy, and this is Eric, and that one with the smirk on her face is Jean."
"I'm Roger," I said, " but my family calls me the Rat all the time."
"Why the Rat?" Ruth flashed back at me which matched her red hair.
"Oh, one day when I was but a lad, I caught a mouse and put it in my older sister's make-up drawer. When she reached in, the mouse stood up on its hind legs and wiggled its nose at her. Her screams are still echoing through the hills to this day!"
"Oh, you brat," Jean said. "If my younger brother ever did that, I would kill him!"
"If a mouse ever looked at you, Jean, he'd be able to write real horror stories!" Jimmy said.
"Why you --" As Jean punched Jimmy on the shoulder, a bell sounded from the dinning hall.
"Well, this is it," Ruth said. "We just graduated for Altrum High and are all going to city college together. What about you?"
"I'll be in my second year at Penn State," I said.
"That is so awesome!" Jean said.
"Well, that happens after your first year," I added.
"Oh you guys ..." Jean said as Jimmy giggled with me over that one.
The dining room smelled of old oak and incense mixed together, and the ceiling fans kept air circulating, but the room was air-conditioned and modern. Portraits of Charles Dickens and other famous authors lined the walls, and mining and railroad artifacts nestled themselves in corners and along the walls under the pictures. Our chairs were made from a heavy, dark oak, and the tables must have weighed a ton by the looks of the thick legs and solid tops.
We sat together at one long dinner table and watched as the room filled. The ages of the people coming in varied, but most were in their early twenties. Some guys had gray in their hair, two women who came together had some gray, and the rest of the attendees balanced between late-teens and mid-thirties
Talking and laughter filled the room but died down as more and more of us saw a tall and slightly-bald man with long arms in the front holding his arms up like a football coach does after a field-goal.
Within a moment or two the room became silent. The man continued to hold his arms up for another few moments then said, "That's what I want to hear! -- silence! Silence, that is the medium of writers as they dance on paper -- or tap, tap, tap, on their computer keyboard -- and silence will be your medium! May the great ..."
"Oh, great! That's all we need! A comedian," Jimmy whispered.
"Give him a chance -- this is serious business," Ruth said.
"....writers in the money look down on us and smile! Well, did that sound good? Then forget everything I said! There is no ritual that will make writers out of you.
"You're here to learn how to release you talents on paper, and I know that everyone here will leave a better writer because they will live their stories. That I promise you! By the way, my name is Professor Joseph Divance and I'm with the English department at Tillton. This is Professor Jane Wallace, and our special guest is -- Donald Kristonson the author of a number one best selling novel -- She is Three Times a Penny! I believe a movie based on Donald's book is in the works."
The introduction speech sounded more like a pep talk as Jane spoke some enlightening words; then Donald, who looked more like a D.A. than a writer, bragged about his novel for fifteen minutes.
"Wait until you guys get to college. Bullshit like this happens all the time; in fact, this reminds me of my freshman indoctrination," I said.
After Donald finished, Professor Divance stood up and said, "Relax! We are here to become free with our thoughts. The world as you know it does not exist. Good writing is good thinking and good thinking comes from your inner struggle with the universe as you perceive it. Your ..."
"Here we go again ..." Jimmy's blue eyes beamed as he whispered.
"Get used to it. You'll hear the same shit over and over again but in different ways once you take a creative writing class in college," I said.
"Jimmy, will you get serious? Huh?" Ruth whispered.
"....and now I'll turn you over to my pretty young blond assistant, Jane--she will guide you in your first exercise."
"Good morning once again," Jane said as she maneuvered up close to the front table.
"Our exercises are different from the ones you're used to in college level courses. And for those of you that just graduated from high school, you’re lucky because you will be far ahead of the other freshmen in college, unless they have taken our course.
"The first thing we are going to do is form into groups of between four or six or eight. Pick whom you want, but try to have an even mixture between the 'hims' and the 'hers!'
"Okay, take a few minutes and form-up," Jane said.
"Well, I guess we have five -- we need one more," Jean said.
"Yes, another girl would fit nicely," Eric added as he looked up at me. "One that is interested in writing."
I would have thought that anyone who came to the retreat must be interested in writing, but said nothing.
"Let's get one soon. I don't want any leftovers staggering over to us after everyone else has rejected them," Jimmy said.
"That's a nice attitude!" Jean said.
"But it's not a bad idea," I said. "Let's find someone who is around my age and in college."
Before we had time to look, we heard, "Do you need somebody else?"
"Yes," I answered.
"May I join your group?" a slender brunette asked. "I teach English -- my first year, and I decided to take this writing course with my husband over there. We don't want to be in the same group because we feel that might conflict. I'm Joyce Alwine and we live just down the road. We'll be commuting every day."
We all agreed, for Joyce seemed nice. However, I would have liked a college girl about my age instead of an 'old married lady', however attractive she might be.
After ten groups formed and stood together, Jane said, "Okay, this is the starting line. I want each group to find a quiet spot, it can be anywhere -- upstairs in the rooms or in the cabins or in the fields, in the woods -- there are plenty of marked trails that lead to quiet areas -- or in your cars, even. But I want each group member to be satisfied with the area chosen.
"When you find an ideal location, sit across from another group member -- we want the 'hims' across from the 'hers' -- and write a story based on them. Do not write their name on your paper. I want you to see everything about them! Study their eyes, the way they sit, how often they move, their expressions -- I think you get the idea, but there is more. See what is behind them -- hear sounds around them -- if an ant or other insect is near them, write that into your story, and don't be afraid to feel them with your sixth sense. You have three hours to write. Let's get started. And don't worry about perfect grammar! This will be a draft. You will get a chance to read it later in the dinning hall."
"I can see why you didn't want your husband in the group, Joyce," I said. "This exercise is a bit personal. Too personal if you ask me."
"That is the way you learn creativity. All prejudice, hatreds and envies must be eliminated. Writers have to be free thinkers, but I never had an exercise like this one in any other class!
"This place was an old church camp once. I know it well. I used to go to camp here during the summers when I was in junior high school. I know a beautiful spot not far, and there should be logs which we can sit on."
"I hope there are no bugs there!" Jean said.
"I have a can of Raid Garden Bug Spray in my purse," Joyce said.
The spot Joyce took us to did not suit Jean, for she kept saying, "I don't like those logs we have to sit on. There might be poison ivy on them and they look rotten. And look at the ants! The sun is too bright here, and ..."
"I know another place where we can sit on stones and it's shaded by some old oak trees," Joyce said.
We walked back down the trail, turned left on Tall Timber Trail (if I read the faded old sign correctly), and found Joyce's spot after a minute or two.
The area was inside the woods and a number of large fieldstones rested around a circle in which campfires had once been set.
"Like this place," Jimmy said.
"It's okay. At least the rocks look clean," Jean said.
"What will you be majoring in, Jean?" Joyce asked.
"French with a minor in German, but I might change my minor to Spanish," Jean said.
"I speak French! I had a double major!" Joyce said.
Within a split second, Joyce and Jean transported us to Paris, and with their long dialogues and quick answers to each other, I concluded that Jean was not the ding-bat little high school girl that I had thought!
They talked for a minute and both of them started using their hands as they spoke. I felt a bit stupid because I had two years of French in high school, yet I could not catch more than a few phrases.
"Well -- are the two lost Parisians done yet?" Jimmy asked.
Jean ignored Jimmy, but the French Club ended.
"Why, you use perfect grammar and your diction is superb," Joyce said.
"Actually, I had some French in grade school, and my grandmother came from France after the Second World War. She married my grandfather who was in the army and landed in France on D-Day. So naturally I fell into French in high school," Jean said.
"I wish we could be partners, but they want -- one of them with one of us!" Jean said as she pointed to Jimmy and Eric. "I think that's so stupid!"
As we settled in on the rocks and got comfortable, Jean picked me as her subject, which made her mine. I had no input in this agreement, but I did not mind.
Joyce got Jimmy -- he had a look of "Boy, I can get even with a teacher now" in his eye -- but Joyce didn't seem disappointed, and Ruth got Eric which in my opinion was a perfect match.
Joyce fell into a teacher's role and said, "I think we should get started now and not speak until the time is up."
I studied Jean and she studied me as a warm breeze drifted between us, not enough to blow my notebook page over, yet enough to push my light brown hair back over my forehead. Jean's dark hair -- almost black -- flirted with the breeze, and I made a note of that as I started my story.
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